I Have Cancer | nanseltar's Blog

I was diagnosed recently with endometrial cancer.  My surgery is scheduled for next Monday, October 18th.

This is something I really want to write about in my journal, but I can't seem to bring myself to do it for some reason.  So may be writing it as a blog will help.  When I write things, circumstances become clearer to me, and answers emerge. 

I can't say even to myself how I feel. I am probably in denial. In one way I feel nothing, and yet in another way, I am anxious.  The stage and extent of my cancer is not yet known, and won't be until the surgery.  The practical side of me says that I needn't worry until I know whether the surgery will "get it all", or if I will have to have chemo, which I do dread.


I cannot help but think of all the family, friends and acquaintances that have been taken from my life (and their own) by this disease.  I have witnessed their journeys to the end, sat with them as they passed their final days.  And yet, like most people, I never thought it would happen to me - even though my father died of it.  How did it get into me?  How did it start?


The first sign was one I did not understand, and just ignored.  A few months ago, I awoke one morning to a dull ache low in the abdomen.  It was a low-grade ache that had been present in the morning for some time, but I remember finally wondering what it was, as it hadn't been there before.  Since it went away when I emptied my bladder, I thought it had something to do with my bladder, and just ignored it.

But then one day I began to bleed vaginally.  I am 64 and postmenopausal for many years.  I knew that it was a symptom of cancer, and if not cancer, whatever it was was not good.  I went online.  A medical site went into minute detail describing post-menopausal bleeds - appearance, colour, texture - about as clinically detailed as it could possibly be.  It described my own symptoms perfectly, but I still for some reason thought it might not be the C-word.  But I made a doctor's appointment.

Everyone who has been through this knows the drill.

Samples were taken and an ultrasound was ordered.  Our local hospital had a long waiting list for ultrasounds - months, even a year, but my doctor's office found me another appointment immediately in another town, and I took the opportunity.  Then waited for the result.  The result was a referral to a gynaecologist/surgeon for a biopsy.  The biopsy seemed to be going along well, when suddenly I felt an unbelievable pain.  I wasn't sure if I was going to faint or lose my lunch or both.  Then I waited for the result. I got it in the surgeon's office on September 15th - the Ides of September, and I could not help but remember that the Ides are supposed to be unlucky.  It was an unlucky day indeed, for the diagnosis was positive.

In the weeks leading to the diagnosis I had time to prepare myself emotionally for the worst news, so I did not cry, there in the surgeon's office.  But I bit my lips together pretty hard.

My surgery was booked for a month from that appointment - October 18th - which is a pretty short time given the state of our Canadian health system.  Life-threatening cases are given priority, and that is a thought I've been trying to push down deep into the well of subconsciousness.  

How I feel:  Physically I feel very weak and without energy, but I've felt that way for awhile.  Is it the disease that causes this?  Or the long-term stress I have been coping with?  The cancer itself has made itself more intrusive - since the biopsy I can feel it now.  It is still a low-grade ache, but sharper now, and it happens all the time, not just in the morning.  I envision it as a serpent coiled in my womb, a serpent which bites me often.

Mentally, I think that finding out I have cancer feels like violently crashing into a brick wall, a tall brick wall that I cannot see over, cannot climb, cannot go under or through or around, and yet somehow I must deal with this wall.  Everything in life seems to be stopped completely until I find out the extent of the disease. 

Then I'll know whether somewhere in the wall there is a gate.

I've decided to make this blog public.  If there is someone else out there who can be helped or warned or informed by my words, let it be so.

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October l4th

I spent yesterday in the city at the hospital getting pre-surgical screening. 

First, a meeting with a nurse who gave me a "scrub brush" in a silver package and instructed me how to shower before coming in on the day of my surgery.  She also gave me a list of things to do and things to bring.  Like take a laxative the day before. Bring my own toiletries and slippers and housecoat.  I'd already been advised by a friend not to take  a housecoat but to take a serape-type shawl.  Since I'll be attached to an IV pole, a serape is easier to manage because it covers you without using sleeves.  How long to fast, pre-op. The fasting will be okay - I can take water in the morning, so that's fine.  Just no coffee (argh). 


Then, had  an EEG (heart's just fine), then height and weight (have lost ten pounds) then back to screening to see the anaesthetist.  Unfortunately the anaesthetist had been called to attend an emergency surgery, so all the screening patients had to wait two hours before he arrived.  He was informative.  I learned I will be in hopsital for two or three days before going home, and that I will be sore, nauseated (oh, nausea, my favourite thing) and sleepy.  No vaccuuming (yay) or lifting.  I learned that I was not to drive for two weeks, but Ladee had already warned me about that.  The reason has nothing to do with meds or level of consciousness or co-ordination, it has to do with the position of steering wheels. If I were driving and in an accident, abdominal contact with the wheel could make me bleed to death.  Nice to know.  I can be a passenger, though. 

I cannot help but imagine what life will be like in the motor home after the surgery.  (We are living in the motor home while we build our house.)  It has a bathroom and shower and is hooked up to city water and electricity and has heat, etc.  But still.  My poor husband. 

I was just leaving the hospital when my husband called to tell me our dog had been injured, and he was bringing him into the city to the vet.  Poor Orrie had a huge gash in his side from running at full speed into an open truck door.  I met my husband at the vet's.  $400 later, Orrie had been stitched up.  The wound looks terrible, with a dreadful bruise along with the actual gash. He has a cone around his head, and needs antibiotics and special care,  So poor R. is going to be faced with looking after two invalids.

While I am maintaining a certain exterior calm, inside I am thinking often of my situation.  I am anxious about my surgery and its aftermath, but at the same time I am eager to get it over with.  It's the next step and it must be taken.  I worry that I may have to have chemo.  I tell no-one among my family and friends about this worry, but here I am telling my feelings, and that worry does exist.  I'm not brave on the inside when it comes to nausea.  And I'm vain about losing my hair.  Then I think about all the people who have endured these things, and I know that actually verbalising this fear and this vanity to anyone is not something I can ever  do.  A question occurs to me:  Last year I finally cut off my long hair and donated my braid to cancer.  If I have to have chemo and get a wig, maybe I'll get my own hair back????   "Sick" humour, but it makes me laugh!

At first I wanted to keep my cancer a secret from the people who care about me so they would ot worry, but then I discovered that R. had told a couple of people, which in this little town means everyone knew.  He also told our children, so they are worried, too.  But now, I am glad everyone knows, because I am so profoundly touched by everyone's caring and support.  And when I say "touched" I mean that in more than the emotional sense I mean it also in the healing sense.  Long distance healing and prayers really work, and have really reached me, and I have been assured that I will not go into that hospital alone - prayers and healing energies will be all around me.  Two friends (one from EP) are sending me reiki, and I am comforted, strengthened and eased by their work.  The caring of others has humbled me.  I am a pretty independent and private person, with the arrogance to think that I can handle everything alone.  But how much better it is to learn how much caring and support is out there in the world for you, and that you do not have to be alone. 


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Sunday, October 17th


R and I are still living in our moto home, as the house we asre building is way behind schedule.  but it is October, and last night we had a freeeze, and when we woke up our water and sewer lines were frozen.  They thawed as the day warmed, however soon it will be cold enough that they will remain frozen all day.  Another little problem on my day-before-surgery list of things to do.  I envisioned myself returning from surgery in a few days to a waterless Moho and thought, "I just can't handle this", and then I thought, "Yes I can".  However, serendipity came to the rescue.

The house next door to our lot is empty - the owners have moved away and the house has still not sold.  They were back for a visit to their parents, and they offered to rent us their house, furnished, for as long or short a time as we needed it.  Thank you thank you thank you.  So today instead of sitting around fretting, we are busy moving our things into the house.  I cannot say how relieved I am.  After a summer in the Moho, which gets smaller every day, I'm going to have room to move.  Not to mention pipes that don't freeze!  And a real kitchen and a washer and drier (no more laundromat, which is what I've been using all summer), and a fenced yard for our dog.  It's a huge, huge thing for me to have received this unexpected gift from the powers that be.

While all this is going on, a young man who has worked for us before showed up loking for work, so R now has some help working on the house.  Two big helps in one day!  I am thinking that the prayers of all our kind and generous friends are being heard! 

Tomorrow is the big day.  One thing about the hospital I am going into - the nursing care is superb.

Spiritually, I have just dumped the whole thing into the hands of Spirit.  Whatever happens, however it goes,  it will be as it is meant to be.


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Monday, October 18

I woke up this morning with that serpent gnawing at my belly worse than ever before, and I realised that I WANT this surgery, I want the serpent out, and I want to go on to the next step.  So today off I go to get it over with.

Here I am, all prepared according to hospital requirements - no makeup, no moisturiser, no deodorant, no perfume, no jewellery - no wedding ring for the first time since my marriage.  I have showered and scrubbed with the surgical sponge that the hospital gave to me.  My body is purged, I have fasted, my overnight bag is packed and waiting in the hall.  

Calls and messages from friends and family and acquaintances are still coming in.  I am both humbled and proud.  If you are reading this and you have a friend or loved one with cancer, I simply cannot stress enough how important it is to well-wish them.  It has meant so much to me.  I was fully prepared to go through this without telling anyone, but once the secret was out, I realised how foolish (and selfish) that would have been.  People are wonderful.

Now I am going to play my harp for a little while - a moment of beauty in a hairy day.

Then it's off to the city.

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October 22, 2010

I was discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon and am now recovering at home. Still very sore and a bit druggy.  I will write more in the next few days.

The surgeon says that visually he did not see that the cancer had spread.  The pathology results will be back in a week and then I will know whether I must have chemo or not.  Now that the surgery is done, chemo has become my next greatest worry.

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October 28,2010

I have been home for just over a week.  I have been very sore and weak, sleeping a lot because of the drugs.

My incision runs completely across my lower belly, but would be hidden by a bikini (if I were still young enough to wear one!)  It looked dreadful, with huge deep purple bruises and then all those staples.  The bruises are at the purple, green and yellow stage now. I am including all  these ugly details for anyone who is reading this wondering what to expect.

My family doctor took the staples out yesterday, and now I am much more comfortable.  He told me that a copy of the pathology report had been emailed to him that morning.  The tumour had penetrated more than halfway through the thickness of my uterus, and therefore I should be prepared  for chemo as it was likely I would have to have it.  But that is up to the surgeon, and I have not heard from him yet.  I dreaded chemo, but now I am emotionally preparing for it (even though it's not yet confirmed).  I didn't want it to happen, but it's good to know the next step and to prepare onesself for it.  Ya gotta do whatcha gotta do.  Something I am learning from this whole experience is just how much we are all able to do when we really must..

I have been reassured by the hospital nurses and by my doctor that chemo is not nearly as horrific a treatment as it once was.  Hope so.  Still wondering if my hair will fall out and I'll get my own hair back in a wig!


I am already learning how difficult it is to discipline myself into looking after myself.  I already want to dust floors. clean toilets, strip the bed, do laundry.  No, correction:  I don't WANT to do these things, I am conditioned to do do them  when I see they need doing, and it's such a conditioned response that I find it hard to deny it.  I have been thinking about the importance of looking after one's body.  I've always been so strong and healthy, so coming up against a life-threatening disease was a case of  running into the brick wall of reality.  Lying in bed unable to do the things I usually do, I realized that care of the physical  body is very much as important as all the other aspects of my life - spiritual, creative, practical, intellectual.  It's past time to give my body the care and attention it deserves.

My husband is cheerfully doing his best to continue building our new house, and look after me, and our dog - who also has staples now in a big gash he got two weeks ago.  I feel sorry for the poor guy (my husband, that is).  I have feelings of guilt for not cooking his meals and doing the laundry.  Isn't that irrational?  And yet I feel that way.

Everyone I've talked with who has experienced a hysterectomy says the same thing:  take the full eight-week recovery time!  They are so emphatic about this, and some of them injured themselves by trying to do housework too soon.  I can understand why they did it, and why they shouldn't have done it, and wonder whether I can control myself not to do it myself!

Friends and family continue to be so wonderfully caring and kind and generous with their support.  My house is full of flowers,which I love.  I cannot play my harp yet, but soon I can start again, and I look forward to enjoying those times of beauty and serenity.

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Tuesday, November 2nd.


I am feeling a lot better now.  I still need to lie down several times during the day.  My incision is healing, but is still really ugly.  Most of the bruising is gone.  It is still sore, and there is an ache in the left side of my abdomen for some reason.  I have had no appeite whatsoever since the surgery and only eat because I know I must.  Yoghurt.  Toast. Porridge.  Some pasta. 

I walk around the house, and have taken very short walks outside.  My belly is still swollen, and when I walk around I feel like I have to support it with my hands.  On Halloween night, my husband took me to see the local fireworks display, which I love.  A nice easy and very welcome outing.

The physical healing process is as one might expect.  Anyone who has had major surgery or a major injury knows the drill. 

I am recovered enough to be bored beyond belief. Daytime TV is unbelievably bad.   Up until now, every day has just been a matter of getting through the day, but today I'm a little depressed.  I woke up feeling really bummed out because of a dream I'd had and I've been unable to shake that feeling.  (I dreamed I went to a very special dinner party, and ended up being asked to serve the champagne, which disappointed me a bit because I was a guest.   There was only one glass per person on the tray, and one person spilled theirs all down my beautiful long green dress, and then took another glass, so there was no champagne for me.  The feeling of sorrow that accompanied this dream was WAY out of proportion to what actually happened.)

I played my harp for awhile, which is usually a source of joy, but I am enough out of practice in the past weeks that I've reverted to Stumblefingers, so that was a downer, too.  Odd how these moods can just descend suddenly without warning.

Tired of waiting to find out if I need chemo or not, I called the surgeon's office yesterday to find out why he hasn't contacted me - I knew the pathology reports were in because my GP had received his copy.  I learned that my surgeon has sent the results off to a special consultant in Vancouver for his opinion.  So hope still exists in my heart that I will not have to undergo chemo - even though I know now that if I have to do it, I can and will.

I am longing to get back to my studio - I have not done any work for almost a year, because of house sale and packing and building  new house and so on - and I am creatively constipated!  So I think I will try to break this mood by getting out my sketchbook and designing some projects for that happy day when I have a studio again!
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November 12th, 2010

Just over three weeks since the surgery.  I feel much more human now, and can get about a bit.  Yesterday i went to the weekly gathering of my fibre arts group, which raised my spirits enormously.   I still have to focus on not overdoing it, though.  If you are reading this just to know what to expect in this situation,, I say this:  DON'T DO HOUSEWORK.  Even though a friend who'd been through all this warned me about sweeping, I decided one day last week just to use the dust mop on the kitchen floor.  A dust mop!  Weightless.  Fluffy stuff.  How strenuous can it be???  Just that tiny amount of exercise caused my incision to open a little.  I had to go to the clinic for another stitch.  So be warned.  My incision is healing well, but my innards are still sore and ache a lot, but the ache is not what I consider pain, and I do not have to take meds.

It has taken almost three weeks to get the drugs out of my system.  When I was in hospital, I was aware of this terrible (to me) smell about me, though no-one else seemed to notice it.  I sponged myself from head to foot every day while in hospital, but the smell remained.  A smell like medicines, dressings, wounds.  After coming home, though I could barely stand upright, I took a shower (following hospital bathing instructions as carefully as I could), but the wretched smell remained.  I asked my husband to change the bed linen - I could still smell it.  One day,lyling with my hand on the pillow next to my face I realised the smell was coming off my hand.  Off my skin on my entire body.  It was on my breath.  It was coming from my pores.  I realised that it must be all the drugs in my system, working their way out of my body.  Thank heaven the smell is gone now.

My brain is returning to normal, also.  For three weeks it was mush.  I found it very difficult to focus on anything.  If I tried to meditate, I would either fall asleep, or else my brain would wander off to ponder other things.  I coud not focus on my music, nor command my fingers to any sort of expertise on the strings of my harp.  I realised my mind was just not focussing on the music and was just wandering off into daydreams.  That has passed, too.  Thank heaven.  I am so much more alert and feeling quite human. 

I am still frustrated by the long healing process, though.  I`ve only done just over three of the eight weeks required.  I cannot stand on my feet very long before my abdomen starts to ache a bit.  So, still some healing to do. 

Something that has been bothering me is this:  since the dreaded disease did somehow find its way into my uterus, who`s to say it isn`t anywhere else in my body?  Is it lurking in my liver?  In my bones?  How would I find out? How is it checked?  I suppose this worry would occur to anyone, but it's new to me. 

My surgeon sent my post surgery pathology report to a consultant in Vancouver, and now my surgeon's office has called me to say the consultant wants to see me.  Damn.  I am told the appointment is to "discuss treatment options".  I am not happy about this.  Must I endure the dreaded chemo?  My appointment is for Tuesday morning at 8:00 am right in downtown Vancouver.  My son's house is about an hour away from the cancer centre, so I am going to have to get up at 5:00 am and face the rush hour traffic to get there - rush hour - make that trip  an hour and a half!

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November 24, 2010

Five weeks since my surgery.  The physical healing is supposed to take six to eight weeks, and I am looking forward to being completely myself again. 

I have been to the B.C. Cancer Centre where I saw the special consultant and two other physicians.  I was examined and pronounced to be healing beautifully.  I was wonderfullly impressed with the Cancer Centre and its staff. The buildings themselves are in my old neighbourhood in Vancouver, which used to be all old Victorian houses.  There are spectacular views from almost every window of the mountains, the ocean and the beautiful cityscape.  Vancouver is one of the ten most beautiful cities in the world.   In these times of budget cutbacks and shortstaffed overworked hospital staff, this place is a sanctuary of humanity.  Everyone is warm, courteous and human, and I never once felt like I was at a cattle call.  Everone seemed to relate to me as a human being.  My treatment options were explained to me and discussed at length, and my questions answered.  To my enormous relief, I do not have to have chemo.  I will have a course of three low-dose treatments of radiotherapy over the course of one week, and then I am done, with a really good prognosis.  Yay!  

I am still sore.  When I touch it, my abdomen feels like it is sunburned.  That's the best way I can describe it.  Like the muscles underlying the skin are burned. And there is still a strip of skin across my abdomen, just above the incision, that has  no sensation at all.  I am told that it can take up to a year for the feeling to come back.   If I stand on my feet for too long my belly begins to ache.  Wearing elasticised panties really helps support my still-swollen belly and ease the aching soreness. The incision is closed now, a long thin red stripe, lined on both sides by dots from the staples.  Since the surgery, I have been very badly constipated.  This is an embarrassing and extremely uncomfortable problem I have never had before in my life.   While still in the hopsital I was warned this might happen, and a laxative was recommended.  That particular brand of laxative caused severe cramps and bloating, so that I went into cold sweats from the pain, and yet it didn't work.  A milder one was recommended which doesn't cause pain but doesn't work very well at all.  For awhile I was bleeding, things were so bad.  Things have improved only a bit this week, but there is no  more bleeding and the pain is less.  Ick.  I would never share these details except that if someone is reading this blog for information on what to expect, well,......apparently post-op constipation is a real problem for many people.

I have been doing my Christmas baking - not a really energetic activity, but it has caused me exhaustion and achy abdominal muscles. So, even though my spirits are good and my mobility much improved, I'm not quite healed yet.

It is still difficult for me to sit at my harp and play for more than ten or 15 minutes, but I discovered that if I raise the harp on a stand high enough for me to play it standing up, it is much more comfortable and I can play for twice as long.  Playing beautiful music is really a joy and lifts my spirits so much.

I think that my attitude toward life will never be the same.  I can no longer take it for granted.  I appreciate every nuance of beauty in my world - nature, music, art, the sun on a child's hair, my dog's big brown eyes - with a heightened intensity and appreciation.  Time lasts longer when you savour it!

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February 13, 2011

I have not written for quite awhile because life has been so very tumultuous and stressful throughout December and January.  Before I was recovered from my surgery, my husband developed a very painful and frightening heart condition, and was in and out of hospital.  My own illness no longer concerned me.  He is home again now and much improved (so far so good). 

I have completed my course of radiation therapy now, and if you have endometrial cancer, you might be interested to read how the process was for me.  I was stressed and anxious because my husband was in hospital in one city, and I was having my treatments in another, and since I feared for his life, my emotions were affected in a way that yours (hopefully) will not be.  I only wanted to be with him and he only wanted to be with me to support each other, and we had to be apart.


I did not have to have chemo, which was a great relief to me, since I dreaded it.  I had my treatments in Kelowna, B.C. at the Cancer Centre there.   I had four treatments - Tuesdays and Fridays over two weeks.

The Cancer Centre is a beautiful place with a lovely atmosphere, despite the seriousness of the illness of all the patients who are treated there, and the emotions they and their families are experiencing.  There are many volunteers, many of whom are cancer survivors who are "giving back" to the facility that saved their lives.  There is a lot of natural light and beautiful art on the walls, and everyone who works or volunteers there is so understanding of the patients.  There is always someone to take you where you need to go (no wandering around unfamiliar corridors) and to bring you coffee or just chat. 

I was taken to the dressing room, where I undressed from the waist down (talk about a feeling of insecurity) and put on two gowns - one open down the back, the other open down the front - no exposed bums wandering the corridors. (I had been told I was allowed to wear socks, and since I dye my own  yarn, design and make my own outrageous socks, I made sure to wear my most colourful ones to each treatment, which drew a lot of admiration from the staff and fellow patients!) I then was taken to a pleasant, sitting-room style waiting room, where I waited with other cancer patients, men and women and their supportive family members or friends.  I struck up an instant friendship with one woman, whose situation was the same as mine 

The first treatment was painful for me.  It was the horrible catheter - the doctor explained that the catheter they had to use is bigger and less flexible than the ones usually used in hospitals.  I did not think I could tolerate the pain for more than a few minutes, never mind the hours that the catheter would be in place.  Not everyone experiences this much pain, although it is uncomfortable for most people.  Eventually I was given morphine, which had no effect whatsoever. 

During this first treatment one is measured and fitted for what I call the "ray gun" - the device which will be used to deliver the radiation to the vagina.  The staff were wonderfully understanding and kind during all this, and very considerate of my feelings (it is, after all, pretty undignified, having all these things inserted into one's most delicate bits!)  The procedure involves a CT scan, and the bladder is filled and emtied by syringe a couple of times (hence the catheter).  Once all this is done, I was to lie on my stretcher and wait for two hours without moving while my personal ray gun was made for me.  I was put into a room to wait.  My catheter still hurt.  I had some sort of attack - probably due to stress, although I was not feeling particularly stressed.  Sweating, unbearably hot, and my lower rib cage full of pain.  I was given Ativan.  After about five minutes the mysterious attack stopped.  At this point, another patient was wheeled in.

While in the waiting room just after my arrival, I met another patient who had the same kind of cancer, the same surgery at the same time, and who was also there for her first radiation treatment.  We are both clay artists and had many things in common.  It was one of those times in life where you meet someone and become instant friends.  We asked that we be put in the same room during the long waiting period, and after she was wheeled in we began talking and we were able to  get our minds off our pain.  She also felt some pain, but not as severe as mine. 

When the ray gun was ready, I was wheeled into the treatment room.  The horrible catheter was at last removed.  The treatment involves the insertion of the device into the vagina.  The patient wears a specially fitted belt, and the device is tied to this belt to keep it in place.  When the nurses have finished placing the device, the doctor comes in to check it.  My doctor is a very witty, chatty fellow who was very pleasant and personable.  Then they all leave the room and the treatment begins.  It only lasts four minutes.  I was then checked for radioactivity ("sheesh", I thought, "Am I radioactive?")  The device is then removed, and then I walked back to the dressing room on my own speed and was done.  I felt fine afterwards.


The rest of the treatments were painless for me.  They did not involve the dreaded catheter and only took about an hour each, with the actual treatment taking only four minutes. 


I had been informed of a variety of possible side effects.  I did not actually feel any until the last treatment - a little tiredness hitting me at times, lasting a short while and the going away.  Radiation treatment is a burning, and the effects are cumulative so by the last treatment I could feel a bit of an ache in my vagina rather like mild period cramps but not requiring even an aspirin.  I do feel a bit tired, but I have been sleeping very badly for two and a half months now, so the tiredness may be due to that and not to the treatment.  I've been told that after effects can develop after the course of treatment is over, so if I have any, I'll keep you posted.

If you are reading this because you are about to undergo this treatment, remember that my experience may be different from yours. 

The last thing I have to tell you is also pretty intimate.  The poor vagina has more to endure.  Apparently, the treatment shrivels the vagina somewhat, so about a month or six weeks after treatment you are given a dilator - it is to be inserted twice a week over a month to stretch the vagina out again (!)  Oh, and yes - I was told that sex immediately after treatment is okay if "comfortable", and can be resumed when you are ready. 


If you are about to undergo all this, I wish you healing, serenity and happiness in your future life.


****  
     
Mach 24th, 2011


I had my post-treatment check-up last Friday, and was given a clean bill of health.  I do not feel any pain or discomfort, but there was some tenderness at the top of the vagina when the doctor was scoping around in there. 


It has been nine months since my surgery, and there is still a band of flesh across my lower abdomen, just above the surgery scar, that has no sensation at all.  I was told that sensation would return in about a year.  So far it's just numb flesh.

Now, if you are going through this process, you may wish to know about the final indignity - the dilator.  As I explained in my last post, the radiation, which is actually a burning, may cause the vagina to shrink somewhat, so the dilator is to be used to stretch it back again.  Sheesh.  The things we have to endure!  My doctor pulled a small rectangular cardboard box out of a drawer, and held it up to show me.  "Now, don't expect too much from this,"  he said.  (This is a medical device, not something you buy in a love shop.)  He explained that if I purchased this from a pharmacy or a medical supply store, it would cost about $70.  The hospital pays $5.00 for them, so the doctor figured it's actually worth about 59 cents.  Free to me, because of medical insurance.  He is a bit of a ham, so he was building the suspense, and we were all giggling.  Then, he opened the box and exracted a rod of white plastic, rounded at one end.  That's it.  That's the dilator, the medieval instrument of torture I had been imagining?  Tears of laughter!


So if you are going through this process and are dreading the dilator, don't!  It is lubricated, and then it is to be inserted two or thre times a week for about ten minutes, but I forgot to ask if this is a life sentence.  Presumably not, because if you are still sexually active there are other ways to keep your private bits in shape!  (Bonus tip:  excellelnt lubricant - Replens. Not just for medical stuff, but for any vaginal dryness.)


So there you have it.  Not everyone's journey with the C-word is the same, but if you are enduring this ordeal, you will find that your resources of strength are greater than you knew.  Your spirituality is as important throughout as all the other aspects of your healing.  Your values, your perspective, and your ways of perceiving the world and the people around you will evolve and change, and you will know yourself as you never did before.   

I hope this blog has been helpful for you, and once again, I wish you serenity, strength and happiness.


This is hopefully my last post in this blog on this experience.

Nanseltar


*****