Well. That Was Unexpected.
This is one of those posts written in snippets across several days as I've gotten time. So, forgive the length.
Let's start on Thursday morning.
I woke around 5:30 to Mums calling for a Zofran. Well, Wednesday had been HAIRY, so I fully expected things to be, like, better today. BECAUSE HOW COULD THEY BE WORSE? So, okey doke. I was able to get the Zofran to her without even waking Dad, who was slumbering in the living room. I am super nurse, I thought.
I'm skipping stuff here. But I got dad up about a half hour later.
And crash, Mums passed out, tumbling out of bed. She hit her head on the night stand and no amount of shouting in her face could get a coherent word out of her. Then she sort of came to.
Skipping some more.
I fretted.
Skipping some more.
I got on the phone with the 24-hour nurse. And during this time, Mom passed out again, but this time Dad caught her (he tossed a full glass of water to catch her, but he prevented a second crash and head bump).
The nurse was so sweet (we've dealt with great, great nurses). We were instructed to get her to the hospital, whether by car or ambulance. Dad and I hustled to get dressed (we had to stagger slightly, unable to leave Mom alone) and during my 1-minute shift, it became clear that we had to call 911. So I bounded down the hall and pounded on my folks' bathroom door, yelling at Dad: "We're calling 911. I can do it or you can, but somebody with actual medical know-how is taking over." We couldn't move her, Mom was drifting in and out of consciousness, and my parents' house has about a thousand stairs. Dad didn't hesitate, grabbed the phone, and boom--paramedics and fire dept were there.
So, the flashing lights lit up the whole mountain (or so it seemed). The EMTs were extremely friendly and the fire guys seemed happy to have something to do. As Mom drifted in and out of consciousness, she gave her two cents to the paramedics as to the right route to the hospital. Because, you know. She's Mom.
As Mom got loaded up, Dad went over to fill in our neighbor on what was happening, and I started to head over too--frankly, I needed a hug, and I knew she could deliver--but then the dang EMT needed me, and up I went into the ambulance. And off we went to Bellevue.
Mom was in a ton of pain, plus her back was spasming, plus she was nauseous. Fact: Ambulances are like riding in a covered wagon. Fact: This is like the worst possible thing when it hurts to even breathe.
At the hospital, the nurses took over. Dad had followed in the car, so I hung out in the ER with Mom, correcting her wrong statements. If you've met my mom, you know she's rather opinionated. It turns out she has opinions on what did or didn't happen when she was unconscious. So, yeah, it was a good thing someone was there.
IV, blood work, serious narcotics, and anti-nausea medications came next. Then the ER doctor examined the "wound." I was facing the wall for 99% of this, but . . . . . holy shit. The sucker was massively swollen.
Very fortunately, Mom's surgeon happened to be in the ER. "What do you mean Nancy Opp is here?" was the question, followed another exam and the declaration that she needed a second operation to free an enormous hematoma and insert a drain. This gave Dad and me enough time to go back home, shower, dress, and grab a beer and a late lunch before Operation #2.
Dad and I were pretty optimistic at this point, especially considering that we're two of the most negative people ever. We had a plan and qualified people were making the decisions and monitoring the situation. We got a chance to breathe.
And so we camped out for the next round. By the time Mom was actually in surgery it was evening. Although it wasn't THAT late, it felt very late. The hospital--which is enormous--was practically closed down. I paced dark, abandoned hallways, trying to get rid of a nauseating anxiety that had taken hold. It was surreal. I felt like I was watching myself pace, and . . . I don't know. I think I just hit the wall or something. Chris texted me a photo of the girls and ..... cue public crying.
Mom came through the surgery great. The surgeon removed a hematoma "the size of a watermelon" (personal sized or normal sized we wanted to know) and this is very little exaggeration. I saw the sucker. He cleared everything out, put in the drain, and gave her a couple units of blood.
So, what the eff had happened? Well, the surgeon explained that he had cleared out a very, very large cavity in the first surgery. To boot, Mums was on a bridging therapy for blood thinners (she's a big fat DVT risk after the pulmonary embolism a couple years ago). This surely contributed. So, huge amounts of blood were pooling and the area was swelling and swelling and swelling. This explained the intense pain. (The fact she couldn't keep down pain killers notwithstanding.) The surgeon guessed that sheer lack of circulating blood led to the dizziness, passing out, and other weirdness. The pain also was possibly a contributing factor to the nausea. Who knows. But geez, what a cluster.
I was dreading another horrible post-op experience, and I think Dad was too, but eventually we made our way to Mom's hospital room, steeling ourselves. But when we got into the room? Oh, happy day! Mom had sooooooooo much more color, she was coherent, she was COMFORTABLE, she wasn't pukey, and she declared that she felt SO MUCH BETTER.
So, Dad and I were really glad we had stuck around to see her settled. It was a really gratifying way to end a sucky day. We were so relieved.
We went home. I went directly to bed (around 10:00) and promptly slept for 10 hours straight.
On Friday morning, we returned to the hospital. Mom looked so much better, it was unbelievable. Mom's friends started arriving and we retold the saga, made calls to relatives and Mom's boss ("Um, Nancy will not be at work on Monday" Dad told her, the understatement of the freaking year), and had lunch with and got Tyler and Christine caught up on The Real Story (mostly unedited) at which point I think my brother realized why I was, um, shrill with him on the phone the previous night (he had been tied up at an important work event). He also stole my pickle. Little brothers. I swear, even in their thirties.
The surgeon checked in on the pathology. He was able to tell us that the lymph nodes were clear, which was the crucial thing. The cancer is non-invasive. Alas, the rest of the results were not yet in and he acknowledged that he "shouldn't be telling" us this yet, but preliminary results indicated that the cancer was not as neatly contained as we had hoped. Assuming this is proven true, the oncologist can either do extra, super-strength radiation; another surgery to scrape away more tissue; or mastectomy. Mom took this news well. Me? My jaw hit the floor. After all we'd (okay, SHE'd) gone through this week, we'd possibly start over with another surgery or mastectomy? Seriously? But again, we don't know for sure yet.
Eventually we bid adieu to Mums and headed to my brother's new house in Kirkland to hang out a bit and let him show off his homemade UW kegorator as my dad swelled with pride.
Then, off to Issaquah. Being Dad and me, we stopped at a bar for a buzz and pub grub. We'd earned it.
Saturday: Pretty much a repeat of Friday. More of my mom's friends came and Tyler and Christine visited again. The doctors are struggling to figure out why my mom's blood pressure is so low, and the bleeding (the drain lets them measure) hasn't permitted the medical folk to do the blood thinners yet. So, that's a problem. It will possibly just take time. So, they said she's not going anywhere until Monday at the earliest.
Well, here's the thing. This girl was scheduled to return home tomorrow (Sunday). Not happening. I need to stay. So, I cancelled tomorrow's flight reservation and re-booked for Tuesday afternoon. Apparently it's Thanksgiving week (did you know? I totally forgot), which made it a bit tricky, but whatever. Done.
It has been a really tough week. Dad and I knew things weren't right. My gut told me that a lumpectomy shouldn't be this awful. I mean, these are done on an outpatient basis ALL THE TIME, right? So why did things go so badly? Obviously, Dad and I were utterly unqualified to monitor the situation, and on one level, I'm really pissed. On another level, water under the bridge---at least she's now being monitored and taken care of by people who know what the heck they're doing.
So, here we are. Ready for this to be done. The nurses, especially my mom's main one that she has had the most these past couple of days (Krista is her name), have been amazing and so good to her. Nurses are the best. They're just the freaking best.
And as I re-read this (long!) post for a quick proofread, I'm a tad annoyed at myself. I can see how I'm skirting what I'd really rather write about but can't . . . and well, blogging has its limits, I suppose. But for those who adore my mom, hopefully this post fills in the gaps of how things sort of fell apart this week and provides the necessary optimism for a full recovery, though it's gonna take a bit. Folks have been amazingly sweet to Mums (and the rest of our family) in so many ways. Thank you.
Let's start on Thursday morning.
I woke around 5:30 to Mums calling for a Zofran. Well, Wednesday had been HAIRY, so I fully expected things to be, like, better today. BECAUSE HOW COULD THEY BE WORSE? So, okey doke. I was able to get the Zofran to her without even waking Dad, who was slumbering in the living room. I am super nurse, I thought.
I'm skipping stuff here. But I got dad up about a half hour later.
And crash, Mums passed out, tumbling out of bed. She hit her head on the night stand and no amount of shouting in her face could get a coherent word out of her. Then she sort of came to.
Skipping some more.
I fretted.
Skipping some more.
I got on the phone with the 24-hour nurse. And during this time, Mom passed out again, but this time Dad caught her (he tossed a full glass of water to catch her, but he prevented a second crash and head bump).
The nurse was so sweet (we've dealt with great, great nurses). We were instructed to get her to the hospital, whether by car or ambulance. Dad and I hustled to get dressed (we had to stagger slightly, unable to leave Mom alone) and during my 1-minute shift, it became clear that we had to call 911. So I bounded down the hall and pounded on my folks' bathroom door, yelling at Dad: "We're calling 911. I can do it or you can, but somebody with actual medical know-how is taking over." We couldn't move her, Mom was drifting in and out of consciousness, and my parents' house has about a thousand stairs. Dad didn't hesitate, grabbed the phone, and boom--paramedics and fire dept were there.
So, the flashing lights lit up the whole mountain (or so it seemed). The EMTs were extremely friendly and the fire guys seemed happy to have something to do. As Mom drifted in and out of consciousness, she gave her two cents to the paramedics as to the right route to the hospital. Because, you know. She's Mom.
As Mom got loaded up, Dad went over to fill in our neighbor on what was happening, and I started to head over too--frankly, I needed a hug, and I knew she could deliver--but then the dang EMT needed me, and up I went into the ambulance. And off we went to Bellevue.
Mom was in a ton of pain, plus her back was spasming, plus she was nauseous. Fact: Ambulances are like riding in a covered wagon. Fact: This is like the worst possible thing when it hurts to even breathe.
At the hospital, the nurses took over. Dad had followed in the car, so I hung out in the ER with Mom, correcting her wrong statements. If you've met my mom, you know she's rather opinionated. It turns out she has opinions on what did or didn't happen when she was unconscious. So, yeah, it was a good thing someone was there.
IV, blood work, serious narcotics, and anti-nausea medications came next. Then the ER doctor examined the "wound." I was facing the wall for 99% of this, but . . . . . holy shit. The sucker was massively swollen.
Very fortunately, Mom's surgeon happened to be in the ER. "What do you mean Nancy Opp is here?" was the question, followed another exam and the declaration that she needed a second operation to free an enormous hematoma and insert a drain. This gave Dad and me enough time to go back home, shower, dress, and grab a beer and a late lunch before Operation #2.
Dad and I were pretty optimistic at this point, especially considering that we're two of the most negative people ever. We had a plan and qualified people were making the decisions and monitoring the situation. We got a chance to breathe.
And so we camped out for the next round. By the time Mom was actually in surgery it was evening. Although it wasn't THAT late, it felt very late. The hospital--which is enormous--was practically closed down. I paced dark, abandoned hallways, trying to get rid of a nauseating anxiety that had taken hold. It was surreal. I felt like I was watching myself pace, and . . . I don't know. I think I just hit the wall or something. Chris texted me a photo of the girls and ..... cue public crying.
Mom came through the surgery great. The surgeon removed a hematoma "the size of a watermelon" (personal sized or normal sized we wanted to know) and this is very little exaggeration. I saw the sucker. He cleared everything out, put in the drain, and gave her a couple units of blood.
So, what the eff had happened? Well, the surgeon explained that he had cleared out a very, very large cavity in the first surgery. To boot, Mums was on a bridging therapy for blood thinners (she's a big fat DVT risk after the pulmonary embolism a couple years ago). This surely contributed. So, huge amounts of blood were pooling and the area was swelling and swelling and swelling. This explained the intense pain. (The fact she couldn't keep down pain killers notwithstanding.) The surgeon guessed that sheer lack of circulating blood led to the dizziness, passing out, and other weirdness. The pain also was possibly a contributing factor to the nausea. Who knows. But geez, what a cluster.
I was dreading another horrible post-op experience, and I think Dad was too, but eventually we made our way to Mom's hospital room, steeling ourselves. But when we got into the room? Oh, happy day! Mom had sooooooooo much more color, she was coherent, she was COMFORTABLE, she wasn't pukey, and she declared that she felt SO MUCH BETTER.
So, Dad and I were really glad we had stuck around to see her settled. It was a really gratifying way to end a sucky day. We were so relieved.
We went home. I went directly to bed (around 10:00) and promptly slept for 10 hours straight.
On Friday morning, we returned to the hospital. Mom looked so much better, it was unbelievable. Mom's friends started arriving and we retold the saga, made calls to relatives and Mom's boss ("Um, Nancy will not be at work on Monday" Dad told her, the understatement of the freaking year), and had lunch with and got Tyler and Christine caught up on The Real Story (mostly unedited) at which point I think my brother realized why I was, um, shrill with him on the phone the previous night (he had been tied up at an important work event). He also stole my pickle. Little brothers. I swear, even in their thirties.
The surgeon checked in on the pathology. He was able to tell us that the lymph nodes were clear, which was the crucial thing. The cancer is non-invasive. Alas, the rest of the results were not yet in and he acknowledged that he "shouldn't be telling" us this yet, but preliminary results indicated that the cancer was not as neatly contained as we had hoped. Assuming this is proven true, the oncologist can either do extra, super-strength radiation; another surgery to scrape away more tissue; or mastectomy. Mom took this news well. Me? My jaw hit the floor. After all we'd (okay, SHE'd) gone through this week, we'd possibly start over with another surgery or mastectomy? Seriously? But again, we don't know for sure yet.
Eventually we bid adieu to Mums and headed to my brother's new house in Kirkland to hang out a bit and let him show off his homemade UW kegorator as my dad swelled with pride.
Then, off to Issaquah. Being Dad and me, we stopped at a bar for a buzz and pub grub. We'd earned it.
Saturday: Pretty much a repeat of Friday. More of my mom's friends came and Tyler and Christine visited again. The doctors are struggling to figure out why my mom's blood pressure is so low, and the bleeding (the drain lets them measure) hasn't permitted the medical folk to do the blood thinners yet. So, that's a problem. It will possibly just take time. So, they said she's not going anywhere until Monday at the earliest.
Well, here's the thing. This girl was scheduled to return home tomorrow (Sunday). Not happening. I need to stay. So, I cancelled tomorrow's flight reservation and re-booked for Tuesday afternoon. Apparently it's Thanksgiving week (did you know? I totally forgot), which made it a bit tricky, but whatever. Done.
It has been a really tough week. Dad and I knew things weren't right. My gut told me that a lumpectomy shouldn't be this awful. I mean, these are done on an outpatient basis ALL THE TIME, right? So why did things go so badly? Obviously, Dad and I were utterly unqualified to monitor the situation, and on one level, I'm really pissed. On another level, water under the bridge---at least she's now being monitored and taken care of by people who know what the heck they're doing.
So, here we are. Ready for this to be done. The nurses, especially my mom's main one that she has had the most these past couple of days (Krista is her name), have been amazing and so good to her. Nurses are the best. They're just the freaking best.
And as I re-read this (long!) post for a quick proofread, I'm a tad annoyed at myself. I can see how I'm skirting what I'd really rather write about but can't . . . and well, blogging has its limits, I suppose. But for those who adore my mom, hopefully this post fills in the gaps of how things sort of fell apart this week and provides the necessary optimism for a full recovery, though it's gonna take a bit. Folks have been amazingly sweet to Mums (and the rest of our family) in so many ways. Thank you.
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