A New Dawn Unfolds

So good to be home.  My own shower.  My own bed.  My juicer.  And when Truly isn't sitting directly on my body, I find her purposefully draped over my hospital bag, opening an eye as if to say, "Relax.  You're soooo not going anywhere."  So, ahhhh...HOME.

Not that the hospital stay was prison in any way.  Once I was there, a sense of peace and meaning settled over me as I was forced to do nothing but SIT in my hospital bed and soak up a steady supply of information, care, comfort and support, like a fresh sponge.  I maintained an extremely clear head whilst resting in my hospital bed, and I was able to absorb and retain the wealth of what could have been overwhelming information with ease.

I am continuing to experience a shift in clarity that is making more aware of my wants and needs than I have ever felt.  In my entire lifetime.   Not just that, but my ability to express them is developing at a rapid pace, and I am enveloped in a certainty that I've never known.  I know what I need, and how to ask for it!  I am more comfortable in my own skin than I ever though was possible.  Exhilarating.  

Boyfriend is over the moon at my growing ability to communicate, and our relationship has evolved to a new level entirely.  I turned to him at one point early this week and cried, "I just want to be normal - for US."  He hugged me close and said, "Normal's overrated - you're extraordinary."  It helps to have extraordinary support.  For all the guilt I've felt in the recent past over becoming/being a burden, I have a  renewed clarity that he's by my side for a reason, we're in this together, and now that my ability to express my needs has reached this level, things will continue be so much smoother between us.

A brief timeline on my hospital stay:

Monday: Arrived at the Cottage Hospital ER at nearly 7 in the evening after persistent seizure symptoms wouldn't subside.  Check in, examination, and finding me a room took several hours - it was after 2am before I was settled and able to think about sleep.

Tuesday: I got very little sleep.  I was fatigued and tired most of the day - the tingling and discomfort on my left side rose to seizure-like crescendoes all day, sometimes as often several times an hour.  My Ninja Neurologist was there, providing info, coordinating meetings with other doctors, working with the social worker on Medi-Cal.  Can't say enough about that man.  I was happy to sit back and let everybody work while I struggled with the ongoing fatigue and discomfort.

Wednesday: There was no Pictionary-style pad and easel, laser pointers or slideshow projectors available for my consult with my oncologist, the fabulous Dr. G, but he was kind enough to do some exaggeratively helpful doodling on paper to depict just what he sees on the MRI and explain just what is happening within the limited confines of my skull and why my body is reacting the way she is.  As he explained it, "the tumor appears to be growing from the inside, causing swelling, and an increase in the shift of your brain's midline, which is putting pressure on your brain and causing the increased symptoms."  He also used words like herniation to explain why there's just no more wiggle room for that damn tumor.  And why can't the symptoms continue to be managed with more medication, until we get on with treatment?  "The longer you have the steroid keeping your swelling down, the more room you're actually making for the tumor to possibly get MORE aggressive."  Yikes.  "Nevermind the long-term affects the steroids have on your body anyway, its best to use them only when absolutely necessary.  And you've already been on the steroid almost two weeks."  We wound up our meeting with a discussion on treatment options, Dr. G running down the hallway of the hospital to go print some clinical studies off WebMD for me to look over.  He stressed the effectiveness of a combined chemo-radiation treatment, usually a 42-day series, and made a call to the radiation oncolologist to have him come up and see me the next day.  He was with us from 8pm to past 9 o'clock.  Extraordinary.

Thursday: I met with my new radation oncologist, Dr. S, about radiation treatment.  He also answered all of my questions with the utmost compassion, thoughtfully explaining the differences between stereotactic radiotherapy, conformal radiotherapy, and whole brain radiation.  All terms that have been strewn around, but not fully understood by myself.  Until now.  I have a radation planning session with Dr. S at the Cancer Center of Santa Barbara on Tuesday to discuss details of treatment.  Lots more to learn, and he continually emphasized, "I expect to have to answer many questions twice, explain things many times, so just keep asking.  It's a lot to absorb and take in, don't worry."  I'm not.

Yesterday I spoke with my brother for the first time this week, and his ability to state the obvious always refreshes my perspective.  I cried, "I just didn't think this scary, chemo-radiation route was for me..."
"Well that tumor's not for you, either, so you need to get it out of there!  It's time for you to kick it out!  There's no free rent in Tomlin heads!"
The tears of sadness quickly turned tears of laughter.  I LOVE YOU, Little Brother.

I was discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon.  The numbness and tingling had been to a consistently LOW level all day and any surges that came up would be gone within a minute or so.  I had met with all the doctors I needed, appointments for next week have been made, and I'm comfortable managing the minimal symptoms on my own with rest and my regular medications.  The discharge process was a bit slow, and I was ready to go, so we were actually waiting at the door of my room when the discharge escort came up for me.  She had a wheelchair.  

"I don't need a ride," I smiled at her.  I was thinking I might like the walk.
"Oh, it's SOP."
"What does that mean?"
"Standard Operating Procedure."  She looked at me quizically.
Boyfriend chimed in, "Lisa wouldn't know what that means - she doesn't do anything SOP."
"Please sit down."  I did, and she wheeled me all the way to the hospital's front door. 

The walk to the car was magnificent.