And so it’s my turn

I did not intend to write on this blog anymore, but life had other ideas.

It started in the spring when my knee started hurting badly. I went to an orthopedist, who diagnosed a small ter in my left meniscus. We tried physical therapy, and when that didn’t work I scheduled surgery.

The pain got worse, so I went to the ER, where they put me on crutches. Then one night, I fell. I was able to get up, so I didn’t think it was a serious thing. The next day, though, it was so painful I drove myself to the hospital.

 After a while, they told me I had broken my left femur. Then they told me the kind of fracture wasn’t from the impact, but because the bone had been weakened.

By cancer.

The ER doctor said it matter-of-factly. The cancer had come from another part of my body, which meant it had metastasized. It was an advanced case, likely stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

Did I cry? Did I scream? Did I ask why me?

No. My thought was, “It’s my turn.”

I went through this with Deb, of course. And my mother had cancer. Since then, part of me was convinced it would happen to me. This was just confirmation.

I also ignored many health warning signs. I lost a lot of weight, convincing myself it was something I was doing. I also had digestive problems, and I let my diabetes run wild.

But there I was. Suddenly I’m a cancer patient.

They put me in the hospital and put a steel rod in my leg, and that’s where it got even worse. My diabetes turned into a dangerous condition called keto acidosis. Then I got a blood clot on my lung. I barely remember anything from the first week or so of hospitalization. I know I got visitors. My sister turned up, but I can’t tell you when she got there. I vaguely remember calling her and telling her I was in the hospital, but I dont remember her arriving.

The first solid memory I have after going into the hospital was lying flat on my back in the bed, ready unable to move. All I could do is think.

You may have heard of a “Come to Jesus” moment. That was my “Come Back to Jesus” moment. It wasn’t just desperation; it was an awareness I could go either way: to life or to death.

I thanked God for sparing me and rededicated my heart to Him. I committed my soul to Him and vowed anything that followed would be for his glory, not mine.

I really do believe I’m still around for a reason, and God knows what it is.

Back to the narrative. After two weeks flat on my back and developing a pressure sore on my behind, I was transferred to a rehabilitation facility. The difference between that place and the hospital was like that between a first class restaurant and a gas station bathroom. The place was understaffed. Alarms went unanswered for a long time. Considering I was coming out of a diabetic crisis, being served cinnamon buns for breakfast showed what kind of dietary standards were being followed.

The best thing I can say about the place — other than the staff, who were doing the best they could with limited resources— was that the conditions motivated you to leave as soon as possible.

I was in the center for two and a half weeks, but I’m  still not able to walk without a walker, which i had hoped to be able to do.

I’m not getting the time to rehab my leg because ... well, cancer won’t wait.

I had my first round of chemo in the hospital. My second round would be the first I was aware of. The oncologist is very upfront with me: the treatment is meant to slow the progress, not to cure it.

I had my second round, and as expected it’s set me back on walking better. And I’m adjusting to life as an insulin dependent diabetic as well.

Triple whammy. I could cope with one or two of the issues, but I admit three has got me going back to a dark place in my life. If it wasn’t for the promise I made to Deb, I don’t know if I would be holding on as hard as I am.

Well, the promise and the support of my sister and her family. If she hadn’t rushed to my side, I’m sure I wouldn’t be writing this. I was so out of it I’d never been able to make decisions. Without her, I’d be gone.

I still haven’t had a big emotional breakdown. It would only be natural if I did. But I don’t tend to do that. When my parents died, I had one big breakdown, then I go on with things. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do now.

Things are very up in the air. I’ve got more chemo. I still need lots of therapy on my leg, and I’m learning how to live without my favorite foods.

But like I said, I believe there’s a reason I’m still here. And I’ll try to find it.

And I must point out that when my mom was diagnosed, she was given only weeks to live and managed to add 16 years to her life. So you never know.

I’m hoping to at least match her.