It's been a memorable Memorial Day but one completely different from those of my youth. When I was younger, we would watch the parade down Main Street as Dad marched w/ the veterans (Dad was in WW II). Then when I was in high school I marched w/ the band down this same street, the street that Mom also marched on Memorial Days, first as a trumpet player and later as a baton twirler. She taught me how to twirl a baton, a little silver metal one w/ white tips that had multi-colored tinsel-like streamers coming out of the ends. I think I got it for a birthday present when I was about eight. Mom would get out her baton that she twirled in the high school marching band to demonstrate how to hold it and do simple, one-handed twists and then spinning it like a propeller, one hand over the other. Standing on our front lawn, she always made it look so easy. Dropping the little silver baton on my toe never really hurt, but when I tried to twirl Mom's larger one, it would inevitably find my feet. Hers had a large ball on one end that was hard but w/ age had worn-through so that the metal end shown through. I'm lucky I still have all 10 toes as many times as I dropped that baton. That's probably why I was on the pom pon squad instead of a twirler!
She told me once about the first marching band contest that she went to w/ the band. She was so worried about missing the bus to get back home that she left her baton sitting on the sidewalk. Her parents were not very pleased in having to buy another one. Her telling me that story was probably why I became concerned about getting forgotten when being driven to the Presbyterian Church Camp on West Lake Okoboji, three hours from home. The night before I was to leave for camp, I had a nightmare that the woman who was driving me stopped at a restaurant and then left w/o me in the car. This was before cell phones, and I didn't even know how to make a long distance call at that point in my life. I know Mom comforted me after that nightmare saying Dotta, the woman driving me, wouldn't do that. I didn't really believer her, but I went anyway. It's rather ironic that I live near Lake Okoboji now, and today while we were in our boat on West Okoboji, we drove by the church camp. I went there two years as a camper and one year as a counselor. All three times had good and bad memories, one of these days I'm going to go back on-site to relive them.
Summer won't officially be here for about three more weeks, but Memorial Day always marks the beginning of the summer season of softball, mowing lawn, church camp, swimming, and carefree days. This was a memorable Memorial Day that evoked lots of memories.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, 30 May 2010 -- Day 161 (174)
(I'm continuing the story I started w/ yesterday's post. I did make some more changes to the Saturday, 29 May 2010, post if you'd like to go back and re-read it.)
On Friday, June 21st, I returned to have the tumor on my left kidney removed. The tumor was 5cm, but b/c it was mostly on the kidney, only two percent of my kidney had to be removed. The Mayo brothers were the first to introduce the biopsy procedures in the operating room to allow the surgeon to slice until acceptable margins were reached. Having my kidney sliced and diced repeatedly, however, made it feel like I'd gone 40 rounds w/ Mike Tyson. There's a reason why kidney punches are illegal. In the recovery room, I recall being in excruciating pain and it seemed like no one was listening to me. If you've ever seen a movie w/ patients moaning after a cataclysmic event, that was me. I always considered myself to have a high tolerance for pain, but apparently I hadn't prepared myself enough mentally. Finally a male nurse or doctor or angel, came to me and offered some calming words. It was enough to get my mind to take over the pain. I still wanted as many pain killers as they'd give me, but I knew I could endure the rest. It was at that time that I learned for the first time that the tumor was malignant.
When they finally brought me to my room, which was incredibly small and was shared w/ another cancer patient, they moved me from the gurney to the bed. Doug had to wait outside the room during this transfer, and said he'd never heard any such scream of pain by human or animal. The only way I made it through those first hours was through pain meds and Doug reading to me. On the morning of the 22nd, I tried to eat some oatmeal and wanted to try walking. Again, I felt that the sooner I took nourishment and walked, the sooner I could go home. Well, this time that attitude backfired. While walking w/ Doug at my side, I became incoherent, collapsed, and had, what the neurologists later labeled, an episode. This episode won me another trip to ICU where my head was wired w/ electrodes. At least I had a big room all to myself!
Twenty-fours later, they determined I had a brain, and it was functioning normally. The coil was still in place and all was well...........well, except for needing to now recover from the kidney surgery. My next room was on the oncology floor w/ a new roommate and more space. My roommate had undergone a much longer surgery for ovarian cancer. This was rather ironic since this was the first type of surgery that my mom had when I was four. And it was the thought of my mom surviving two different cancers that helped me know I could do this. I also recalled shortly after the diagnoses, what I can only describe as, a presence that told me I was being given a second chance. This feeling pervaded every appointment, every test, every procedure, every surgery and helped me know I would be okay. I think the only time I cried during this time was when my urologist yelled at me for trying to get out of the hospital earlier than he was ready to release me. He pointed his finger at me and sternly said, "You don't seem to realize that you're a very sick young woman." I got the message. Some may think his bedside manner was atrocious, but I figured if he's yelling at me then there's hope. Being sweet and overly sensitive would've been a sign to me that I was beyond hope.
On Friday, June 21st, I returned to have the tumor on my left kidney removed. The tumor was 5cm, but b/c it was mostly on the kidney, only two percent of my kidney had to be removed. The Mayo brothers were the first to introduce the biopsy procedures in the operating room to allow the surgeon to slice until acceptable margins were reached. Having my kidney sliced and diced repeatedly, however, made it feel like I'd gone 40 rounds w/ Mike Tyson. There's a reason why kidney punches are illegal. In the recovery room, I recall being in excruciating pain and it seemed like no one was listening to me. If you've ever seen a movie w/ patients moaning after a cataclysmic event, that was me. I always considered myself to have a high tolerance for pain, but apparently I hadn't prepared myself enough mentally. Finally a male nurse or doctor or angel, came to me and offered some calming words. It was enough to get my mind to take over the pain. I still wanted as many pain killers as they'd give me, but I knew I could endure the rest. It was at that time that I learned for the first time that the tumor was malignant.
When they finally brought me to my room, which was incredibly small and was shared w/ another cancer patient, they moved me from the gurney to the bed. Doug had to wait outside the room during this transfer, and said he'd never heard any such scream of pain by human or animal. The only way I made it through those first hours was through pain meds and Doug reading to me. On the morning of the 22nd, I tried to eat some oatmeal and wanted to try walking. Again, I felt that the sooner I took nourishment and walked, the sooner I could go home. Well, this time that attitude backfired. While walking w/ Doug at my side, I became incoherent, collapsed, and had, what the neurologists later labeled, an episode. This episode won me another trip to ICU where my head was wired w/ electrodes. At least I had a big room all to myself!
Twenty-fours later, they determined I had a brain, and it was functioning normally. The coil was still in place and all was well...........well, except for needing to now recover from the kidney surgery. My next room was on the oncology floor w/ a new roommate and more space. My roommate had undergone a much longer surgery for ovarian cancer. This was rather ironic since this was the first type of surgery that my mom had when I was four. And it was the thought of my mom surviving two different cancers that helped me know I could do this. I also recalled shortly after the diagnoses, what I can only describe as, a presence that told me I was being given a second chance. This feeling pervaded every appointment, every test, every procedure, every surgery and helped me know I would be okay. I think the only time I cried during this time was when my urologist yelled at me for trying to get out of the hospital earlier than he was ready to release me. He pointed his finger at me and sternly said, "You don't seem to realize that you're a very sick young woman." I got the message. Some may think his bedside manner was atrocious, but I figured if he's yelling at me then there's hope. Being sweet and overly sensitive would've been a sign to me that I was beyond hope.
Saturday, 29 May 2010 -- Day 160 (173)
Six years ago today, I woke up w/ double vision. Quite frankly, it's a miracle that I awoke at all. But on that Saturday morning of Memorial Day Weekend 2004, I had no idea what was happening to me. After about 45 minutes my vision returned to normal, and later in the day the girls and I went to a nearby flea market where Doug's parents had a booth. I told them about it, and we all agreed it was odd, but I was scheduled to see my doctor in a few days anyway b/c of severe headaches and inordinately high blood pressure. I was already on hypertension meds so I figured the doctor would get to the bottom of it when I saw him. The next couple of days continued w/ the same pattern in that I awoke w/ double vision, but it would dissipate within an hour. I saw my regular doctor here in town who wanted to keep me in the hospital overnight, but I told him I would rest and we would proceed w/ some urine tests to see if I had kidney problems that were impacting my elevated blood pressure. I also promised to return the next day for x-rays and a head CT. I also went to our local eye doctor, who took my blood pressure but didn't seem at all concerned about my vision problem and then proceeded to spend more time talking about sporting events than about my double vision. Yea, I found a different eye doctor the next day. The new eye doctor sent me to an eye specialist in Spencer, who was the first person to use the word stroke.
By about the third day, I decided to carry on w/ my plans of scraping one of our sheds in preparation for painting it. By this time, however, the double vision wasn't leaving. I was constantly seeing ghost images of everything........one behind the other. I was also teaching two online classes and conducting chat rooms w/ one eye closed so I could read students' responses and my own typing. Back to the shed.....I was literally outside in 90+ temps scraping paint. I had to wedge a piece of folded, black construction paper behind protective eye gear to cover my left eye. Doug came running out to tell me he'd been talking w/ a cardiologist friend of his from Des Moines who, after hearing all my symptoms, told him to get me to Mason City (it's closer than Des Moines) to see a cardiologist colleague of his there.
In Mason City I underwent a barrage of tests. The locker I had been given to store my personal belongings was #3, my lucky number. At this point I was looking for any sign of good fortune, but for the most part I was numb. I went from one test and doctor to another relaying my condition and waiting for what I had to do next. I had a complete body MRI for which I had to have an IV for contrast to be administered, and I had to drink some type of barium, I believe, over the course of several hours. Since I was beginning to suffer from White Coat Syndrome, I asked if I could have a reprieve and release from the hospital. Doug and I went to my favorite store.........Goodwill. While we were in the parking lot, I contacted the eye specialist I had seen in Spencer to ask if he could make a special lens that would override my double vision. Back at the hospital w/ the MRI completed, I was in the holding area waiting for an endoscopy to examine my heart and lungs. The cardiologist came in to tell me, however, that we wouldn't be doing the procedure b/c they'd found a lesion on my brain stem and a mass on my left kidney. At that point she said I needed to go to Mayo Clinics in Rochester, MN.
My first impressions of Mayo were of efficiency while maintaining warmth. I saw a cacophony of ologists: neurologist, oncologist, nephrologist, urologist, and optometrist. I had more and more and more tests over several days until they decided that the lesion on my brain stem must be dealt w/ first otherwise it was unlikely I would survive any surgery on my kidney. I was functioning on auto-pilot at this point. Thank God for my husband who became my ears and my consciousness. They said the lesion could be a tumor, which would mean brain cancer or it could be an aneurysm. On Friday, 18 June 2004, the surgeon went in through my groin and, similar to how an angiogram is performed, ran a camera up to the brain stem to have a look around. On the operating table my head had to stay in a helmet-like device to prevent any movement, obviously. Discovering that it was an aneurysm was really the best-case scenario. I returned on Monday, the 21st, for the surgeon to place a stainless steel coil to essentially block off the aneurysm and relieve the pressure it was putting on the fifth optic nerve of my left eye. The coiling procedure went well, but I had to spend the night in ICU for observation. The next morning I wanted to get up and move around b/c I knew the doctors wouldn't even consider sending me home unless I was ambulatory. To my request for a walkabout, the ICU nurse responded, "I don't know. No one ever walks around in ICU." Later that day, once the doctors knew the surgery was successful, I asked the same nurse if I could go home now. Again she responded, "I don't know. I've never discharged anyone from ICU before." She did, and I left.
By about the third day, I decided to carry on w/ my plans of scraping one of our sheds in preparation for painting it. By this time, however, the double vision wasn't leaving. I was constantly seeing ghost images of everything........one behind the other. I was also teaching two online classes and conducting chat rooms w/ one eye closed so I could read students' responses and my own typing. Back to the shed.....I was literally outside in 90+ temps scraping paint. I had to wedge a piece of folded, black construction paper behind protective eye gear to cover my left eye. Doug came running out to tell me he'd been talking w/ a cardiologist friend of his from Des Moines who, after hearing all my symptoms, told him to get me to Mason City (it's closer than Des Moines) to see a cardiologist colleague of his there.
In Mason City I underwent a barrage of tests. The locker I had been given to store my personal belongings was #3, my lucky number. At this point I was looking for any sign of good fortune, but for the most part I was numb. I went from one test and doctor to another relaying my condition and waiting for what I had to do next. I had a complete body MRI for which I had to have an IV for contrast to be administered, and I had to drink some type of barium, I believe, over the course of several hours. Since I was beginning to suffer from White Coat Syndrome, I asked if I could have a reprieve and release from the hospital. Doug and I went to my favorite store.........Goodwill. While we were in the parking lot, I contacted the eye specialist I had seen in Spencer to ask if he could make a special lens that would override my double vision. Back at the hospital w/ the MRI completed, I was in the holding area waiting for an endoscopy to examine my heart and lungs. The cardiologist came in to tell me, however, that we wouldn't be doing the procedure b/c they'd found a lesion on my brain stem and a mass on my left kidney. At that point she said I needed to go to Mayo Clinics in Rochester, MN.
My first impressions of Mayo were of efficiency while maintaining warmth. I saw a cacophony of ologists: neurologist, oncologist, nephrologist, urologist, and optometrist. I had more and more and more tests over several days until they decided that the lesion on my brain stem must be dealt w/ first otherwise it was unlikely I would survive any surgery on my kidney. I was functioning on auto-pilot at this point. Thank God for my husband who became my ears and my consciousness. They said the lesion could be a tumor, which would mean brain cancer or it could be an aneurysm. On Friday, 18 June 2004, the surgeon went in through my groin and, similar to how an angiogram is performed, ran a camera up to the brain stem to have a look around. On the operating table my head had to stay in a helmet-like device to prevent any movement, obviously. Discovering that it was an aneurysm was really the best-case scenario. I returned on Monday, the 21st, for the surgeon to place a stainless steel coil to essentially block off the aneurysm and relieve the pressure it was putting on the fifth optic nerve of my left eye. The coiling procedure went well, but I had to spend the night in ICU for observation. The next morning I wanted to get up and move around b/c I knew the doctors wouldn't even consider sending me home unless I was ambulatory. To my request for a walkabout, the ICU nurse responded, "I don't know. No one ever walks around in ICU." Later that day, once the doctors knew the surgery was successful, I asked the same nurse if I could go home now. Again she responded, "I don't know. I've never discharged anyone from ICU before." She did, and I left.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, 28 May 2010 -- Day 159 (172)
In an email from my cousin, Elaine, from Colorado, she mentioned how she and our grandfather used to go out to the cemetery every Memorial Day to plant flowers on Grandma's grave. Grandma died in 1933, and Grandpa died in 1973. He tended her grave for 40 years, and now Elaine continues the care. The measure of a life can be weighed by those left behind to account for it.
I only remember Grandpa Koop as an image in my life for about five years so I never really thought about him as anyone other than an old man that I saw once a year at Christmas. I never thought of him as a man who had lost his wife. That's why it's so important to learn the songs of our ancestors to appreciate them as more than a one dimensional character who makes a brief appearance in Act III.
Dad will go to Mom's grave this Memorial Day and care for it just as my grandfather did for my grandmother.
I only remember Grandpa Koop as an image in my life for about five years so I never really thought about him as anyone other than an old man that I saw once a year at Christmas. I never thought of him as a man who had lost his wife. That's why it's so important to learn the songs of our ancestors to appreciate them as more than a one dimensional character who makes a brief appearance in Act III.
Dad will go to Mom's grave this Memorial Day and care for it just as my grandfather did for my grandmother.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, 27 May 2010 -- Day 158 (171)
I watched the movie, Australia, today. Several times throughout the movie the little aborigine boy says to Mrs. Boss (Nicole Kidman) whenever they're about to be parted, "I will sing you to me," to which she responds, "And I will listen." This little boy's walkabout is an important sub-plot. In the movie they explain a walkabout as an Aboriginal boy's rite-of-passage for him to learn the song of his ancestors. It's a time for him to remember where he comes from so he has his own story to tell when he's a man. I'd like to think that Mom's just on a walkabout, that this is her "spiritual journey" to commune w/ her ancestors and learn their songs. Then sometime in the future, she'll call me to her so she can teach them to me. I'll be listening.
It occurs to me, however, that what would happen to someone who has gone on his walkabout but has lost all those memories and songs due to a stroke or Alzheimer's, for examples. Merle is an octogenarian man who walks his two dogs past my house every day, and has for almost 11 years. The other day he asked me if I'd met Jack, the younger dog that he got a few years ago. I told him I had, and my surprised tone must have been enough for Merle to inform me that he had a brain aneurysm last winter that resulted in a great deal of memory loss. My first thought was quite selfish as I again thanked God that my brain aneurysm six years ago didn't have any lasting effects. Then I thought, I hope Merle shared all his memories w/ someone so his song isn't lost.
It also occurs to me that this blog has become my virtual walkabout. I'm on a spiritual journey toward understanding death and mourning. This blog is a platform for me to recall memories that I hope will be helpful to my daughters in learning their songs someday.
It occurs to me, however, that what would happen to someone who has gone on his walkabout but has lost all those memories and songs due to a stroke or Alzheimer's, for examples. Merle is an octogenarian man who walks his two dogs past my house every day, and has for almost 11 years. The other day he asked me if I'd met Jack, the younger dog that he got a few years ago. I told him I had, and my surprised tone must have been enough for Merle to inform me that he had a brain aneurysm last winter that resulted in a great deal of memory loss. My first thought was quite selfish as I again thanked God that my brain aneurysm six years ago didn't have any lasting effects. Then I thought, I hope Merle shared all his memories w/ someone so his song isn't lost.
It also occurs to me that this blog has become my virtual walkabout. I'm on a spiritual journey toward understanding death and mourning. This blog is a platform for me to recall memories that I hope will be helpful to my daughters in learning their songs someday.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, 26 May 2010 -- Day 157 (170)
I'm gonna do a little braggin' about my Maddy May. But first I need to provide some background information. Her 8th grade science teacher is retiring, but he has already left before the end of the school year due to health issues. Apparently his doctor recommended that he do so b/c the students were elevating his already-high blood pressure. Maddy had told me throughout the year some of the shenanigans her classmates had pulled on this teacher, plus his daughter died in a car accident earlier this year.
This is where my bragging comes in. Out of the blue this afternoon Maddy asked me if we had any stamps. Now, I can't remember the last time she used snail mail for anything so I was a little curious as to why she wanted a stamp. When I asked her, she said she was mailing a letter to this teacher, apologizing for what she and her classmates put him through this school year, thanking him for teaching her about science, and wishing him well in his retirement. This letter was completely unsolicited and unprovoked. She felt compassion for this man and needed to let him know how she felt. What an awesome kid I have!! There have been numerous times in my life when I wanted to thank someone or congratulate someone through a card or note, but most times I never took the time to do so. Maddy did. I'm so proud of her compassion as well as take-charge attitude to express that compassion.
My mom used to brag about me too, especially about my writing. I remember a poem that I had written when I was about 12 or 13. I don't think it was a school assignment but somehow Mom found it. She was so impressed w/ it that she read it aloud to Dad. That was a big deal; it was like taking it to the President. I can still see her walking w/ it into their bedroom while I stood out in the living room and listened to her not only read it but give it rave reviews. She said I had a wisdom beyond my years. I was so proud and so embarrassed.
There was another time when my parents reading my writing embarrassed me. I was in second grade and had to write a thank you letter to the chief and assistant chief of our town's volunteer fire department. These two men always came with the fire truck during fire safety week to give a talk and demonstration to the second grade classes, there were two. Afterward, the entire grade had to write thank you letters to them. Since my dad was the assistant fire chief, I carted the letters home w/ me after school. Dad didn't get home until 5:00, and I agonized for an hour and a half about him reading my letter. When he finally got home and sat at the kitchen table w/ his after-work Old Milwaukee, reading the letters, I hid in the closet off the kitchen, standing in the toy box behind the coats. When he was done, Mom opened the closet door to tell me he was done and that my letter was very well written. Each subsequent year when Dad got these thank you letters from the second graders, I would correct the spelling and grammar. Yes, even the teacher way back then.
It's important for parents to brag about their children; it gives them a strong self concept. And it's important that the bragging be not just to the child but to others as well, and that the child be aware of this boasting. Mom was very good at "talking-up" her children and singing our praises to anyone who would listen. She did this when we were growing up and even after we were grown. Sometimes after we were grown, however, we didn't always know about the bragging, which sometimes made me think that she would boast to others about us but not to our faces. This was probably my own fault for not calling home more when I was first on my own. Bottom line is, she was always a proud mother and grandmother who loved to brag about her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
This is where my bragging comes in. Out of the blue this afternoon Maddy asked me if we had any stamps. Now, I can't remember the last time she used snail mail for anything so I was a little curious as to why she wanted a stamp. When I asked her, she said she was mailing a letter to this teacher, apologizing for what she and her classmates put him through this school year, thanking him for teaching her about science, and wishing him well in his retirement. This letter was completely unsolicited and unprovoked. She felt compassion for this man and needed to let him know how she felt. What an awesome kid I have!! There have been numerous times in my life when I wanted to thank someone or congratulate someone through a card or note, but most times I never took the time to do so. Maddy did. I'm so proud of her compassion as well as take-charge attitude to express that compassion.
My mom used to brag about me too, especially about my writing. I remember a poem that I had written when I was about 12 or 13. I don't think it was a school assignment but somehow Mom found it. She was so impressed w/ it that she read it aloud to Dad. That was a big deal; it was like taking it to the President. I can still see her walking w/ it into their bedroom while I stood out in the living room and listened to her not only read it but give it rave reviews. She said I had a wisdom beyond my years. I was so proud and so embarrassed.
There was another time when my parents reading my writing embarrassed me. I was in second grade and had to write a thank you letter to the chief and assistant chief of our town's volunteer fire department. These two men always came with the fire truck during fire safety week to give a talk and demonstration to the second grade classes, there were two. Afterward, the entire grade had to write thank you letters to them. Since my dad was the assistant fire chief, I carted the letters home w/ me after school. Dad didn't get home until 5:00, and I agonized for an hour and a half about him reading my letter. When he finally got home and sat at the kitchen table w/ his after-work Old Milwaukee, reading the letters, I hid in the closet off the kitchen, standing in the toy box behind the coats. When he was done, Mom opened the closet door to tell me he was done and that my letter was very well written. Each subsequent year when Dad got these thank you letters from the second graders, I would correct the spelling and grammar. Yes, even the teacher way back then.
It's important for parents to brag about their children; it gives them a strong self concept. And it's important that the bragging be not just to the child but to others as well, and that the child be aware of this boasting. Mom was very good at "talking-up" her children and singing our praises to anyone who would listen. She did this when we were growing up and even after we were grown. Sometimes after we were grown, however, we didn't always know about the bragging, which sometimes made me think that she would boast to others about us but not to our faces. This was probably my own fault for not calling home more when I was first on my own. Bottom line is, she was always a proud mother and grandmother who loved to brag about her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, 25 May 2010 -- Day 156 (169)
Days like today give me hope that I can deal w/ my grief and loss. My fast track students were presenting their informative and impromptu speeches today. One girl's impromptu topic was a quote about not being able to enjoy life w/o death. As she spoke and gave her examples, I was able to listen, smile and nod in acknowledgement of her points w/o fear of tearing up. And I didn't even have to employ my usual tactics of focusing my thoughts on anything other than her words. I didn't have to detach my feelings from my mind. This is progress!
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