…aaaaaaand Scene!

You can probably gather by the fact that not a single post happened in the month of May that everything is back to normal here. I am swamped at work, busy with several creative side-endeavors and actively staying on top of all family activities. This whole pitumor situation is like a very distant memory, even though it’s only been about three and a half months since the surgery.

I had my big follow-up appointment with Dr. Wilson yesterday, where he compared the before and after pictures of cranial innards. I received the best news possible at this point, and that is that there is no trace of the tumor remaining. Sound the all-clear. Raoul didn’t even leave a sock under the bed.

There needs to be some sort of huge celebration! This is a BIG deal! An egg-sized tumor pushing against my optic nerves is completely gone, and I feel absolutely great! Of course, since everything is back to “normal”, that means that I don’t really have time to do any kind of real celebrating on the massive scale it deserves – you know, parade floats, marching bands and significant drinking the likes of which were rarely attained even in my college years… So I guess I be happy with a good wine toast in a back yard hot tub.

I have to admit, I’ve been more than happy to abandon this blog. Not consciously, of course. Or at least not at first. But the lack of writing in it signifies to me that since I’ve dedicated this blog only to pitumor-related subject matter, then the issue itself has been resolved. In that light, why would anyone want to keep coming back and writing more?

Granted, it scared me a bit how my rampant anti-blogging sentiments so easily washed away as I learned to really enjoy writing in this one. But I have been reassured by how easily I dropped that time-consuming activity once I found myself able to again dive in head first to all of the other time-consuming activities with which I usually fill my life.

An interesting tidbit that has not yet made it to this series of observations: insurance is important. In fact, to say that would be like saying a brain is important. That would be the understatement of the millennium. Just as the lack of a brain would make one drop to the ground in no time flat, the lack of insurance would have had a similar effect with the added bonus of nausea and bankruptcy.

I received the final bill from St. Mary’s Hospital, and it was only $600 for the entire procedure and complete stay in the hospital. And, if I paid within 30 days, I could knock off 10%, reducing it to only $540. For brain surgery? That’s a bargain!! Add that together with all of the co-pays to various doctors and for miscellaneous MRI’s and a CT scan, and it totals maybe around $1,100, out of pocket. This is with Blue Cross’ Healthkeepers HMO insurance.

But St. Mary’s hadn’t sent an itemized bill, just a simple bill saying “this is what you owe.” So I requested an itemized bill. Seemed kind of odd, really. What didn’t they want me to know? Was I (or rather Healthkeepers) being charged$3,000 for a Sunday paper? Did that AmBien cost more than a Mercedes? Was Nurse Tactful charging triple time while waiting that half hour to respond to my pathetic cry for help?

When the itemized bill finally showed up, it appeared that all charges were logical, at least in the inflated realm of health care land. Not really any red flags. But the total, had I NOT been insured, came to $36,076.95. And that’s JUST for the hospital bill, not including the FULL price of the several MRI’s etc I mentioned only sentences ago.

There are a million and one things wrong with the state of health care in this country. But when I came to the realization that out of my pocket, I paid only less than 3% of the total charges racked up to accomplish this miracle, I had to draw up a special thank you card with big red hearts and excessive use of the words “really”, “thankful” and “a lot” to hand deliver to Mr. Health Keeper himself. It’s a temporary love affair, I’m sure, but one full of passion.

I’m now looking back on the entire first few months of this year as if it was just a very bizarre dream. A year ago I felt just as I do today. A half a year ago I thought I might need some eye surgery. A few months ago I was very, very scared. And now, once again, I’m planning 50 million different creative endeavors without yet even finishing the ones I’ve already started. Same old Dave.

But not on the inside. For starters, you can take that literally with the fact that my sinuses are a bit more roomy. But you can’t go on a ride like this and come out on the other side unchanged. As reflected in this blog, it’s been an amazing opportunity for reflection that I rarely allow myself to take unless forced. I am aware that I am so blessed, lucky, privileged – however you choose to look at it. There are so many ways this could have gone. The people I love more than life itself could have been in deep mourning at this point. Instead, I’m still watching Lost snuggled with a glass of wine on the couch, or applauding my son for finally jumping off the diving for the first time (today!!), or planning our next camping trip, or running by Mom’s to fix her email.

I choose to consider myself very, very blessed. I can only hope that, as life continues and I get myself into more and more ridiculously busy situations, I don’t forget this journey and all that I’ve had the honor to have learned. It’s easy to slip back into that groove and try to forget all of this. But what good would that do? There had to have been a reason for me to have gone through this. And even though it doesn’t seem that my name is on that privileged list to share in that knowledge of WHY, I know it’s my job to not forget.

That’s why this blog will stay here, at least as long as WordPress’ servers stick around. And who knows – I’m sure I’ll have more to add next year when I do my 1-year follow up MRI. Hopefully, just more of this final post drivel.

Thank you to EVERYONE who read this faithfully. Knowing people were reading really made a world of difference.

[He walks out of the room, everything now picked up and set aside neatly. He turns around and glances back once more at the La-Z-Boy, smiles slightly, and turns off the light.]

…..aaaaand scene.

The blog police and bonus points

The world has a way of constantly reminding you to keep your issues in perspective. The tragedy at VA Tech this week has been so all-encompassing that I really haven’t felt much like chronicling any of the small developments in this saga of the pitumor (ooh – just came up with that. Good term.) And honestly, I’ve got tons to rant about regarding that event and the media and….

But this is not a “Dave’s Random Thoughts” blog. I’m sticking with observations on the whole pitumor process, and that’s it. There are plenty of other venues for that – online forums, water coolers, anywhere involving stiff drinks, etc. I’ll be my own blog police and keep Pituitary Dave on the subject at hand.

Last Tuesday I had my first visit with Dr. Castelucci (the endocrinologist) since the hospital. It was essentially no more than a confirmation chat. He refreshed his memory with my situation, and that although we did have an issue with liquid output (like how sanitize that?) in the hospital right after surgery, it balanced out and I was discharged without any medicines prescribed to regulate anything. And since I had nothing to report as far as anything changing for the worse, I remain un-medicated for anything endocrine-system related. He was the first doctor I’ve ever met who, when he determined that he needed blood work done, actually just did it himself right then and there instead of passing it off onto a nurse or a lab halfway across town. Bonus points for him. And I didn’t even get woozy or light headed. Bonus points for me. And look Ma, no heroin addict bruise on my arm. Major bonus points for him.

I did remember to ask him about the mystery gut bruise, and his only theory was a repeat, that maybe they leaned on me during surgery. No new light shed on it from an endocrinologist’s perspective. And by the way, although it’s mostly gone, it is actually still noticeable. The mystery goes on.

He also reminded me that there is that small chance that it could start to grow again maybe in about 15 years, and that they’d have to go in again to get it. Not likely, but possible. (Dr. Wilson said a 15% chance.) So I need to remind myself that this means there is an 85% chance that Raoul is gone forever and that it is not like some bad horror movie where the creature totally regenerates because the hand was still alive, or where the Terminator completely rebuilds himself just because of that one remaining drop of liquid metal. I think the last thing I want is to go through this whole thing again.

Ever.

I’m done, thanks.

Before that, I went in for the “after” picture of my brain. It was the MRI to confirm that all has been successfully removed. Apparently I need to schedule a time with Dr. Wilson to go in and chat about it so he can show me the difference between the before and after pics and maybe where he carved his initials. But so far, no one has called with an alarmed message that I need to have that chat sooner than later, so once again I’m going with the “no news is good news” approach and am assuming that the images were indeed nothing to write home about.

And hey, everyone, Mesha’s aunt (am I right?) went in for a triple bypass this morning, so blast those thoughts, prayers and chakra bursts out towards her and their whole family as they try not to freak out too hard on the sidelines. My Mom had triple bypass last year at 77 years old, and she is healthier and more active today than she has been in years. Whether it’s tumors being removed through your lip, or opening up your chest to make your heart stronger, it just blows me away doctors and surgeons can accomplish.

And while you’re at it, there are plenty of families and friends in Blacksburg, VA in need of those positive energies as well. Even if you don’t know them, it certainly can’t hurt.

Bully! What! What!

Every now and then, you need to give in to the dark side. I am referring to the grumps, as illustrated in my previous post. Getting all of that out, aside from it’s obvious therapeutic value, sets you up for a rosier outlook on the next not-normally-so-rosy day. By comparison, when you allow yourself to grumble at the world about everything, and when you go through a few days of feeling like Betty Crocker shoved a whisk up your nose and stirred your brain around for fun, the following days of feeling only slightly sinusy are so much better by comparison that these ordinarily average days go down as energetically fulfilling. In keeping with the previous framing (to be used with your best Monty Python-esque stodgy old guy voice), the “Harumphs!” are then followed by a day or two of “Bully! What! What!”

Great news on Terry’s friend. Her 5cm brain tumor was successfully removed last Tuesday (not using the same procedure that I went through), and she went home from the hospital on Friday. They are still awaiting the lab pathology, but all indications are that it was benign.  Incredibly wonderful news – Bully! What! What! Everyone continue your spiritually varied versions of thoughts and prayers, as the recovery is just as important!

I finally, finally got to the gym this past Saturday. Although I only did a pared down regimen of a few ab exercises and about 25 minutes on a treadmill, it felt great. I remained energetic for the entire time, but found the need for a power nap in the La-Z-Boy a bit later that afternoon.

I wish I had gotten back to working out sooner, although there always seemed to be some halfway decent excuse to postpone. That, however, has less to do with surgery and recovery than with the simple human act of gym-avoidance. If I can just get my butt out of bed I might actually get back there a few more times this week.

That seems to be one of my biggest obstacles at the moment – getting out of bed in the morning. I think my body has latched on to that concept of allowing myself the ability to stay in bed a little extra in the morning, and my brain has embraced it as a new lifestyle choice. So now comes a bit of psychological re-training, to start getting up at 6am again so Terry won’t have to do all the getting-Jasper-ready-for-school routine every morning.  Do it for the family, brain.

Easter Eve was a “miracle”, according to my son, as we woke up with an inch of wet snow on the ground and covering all of the trees. That pretty much beats anything else we’ve gotten the entire winter. And it was enough to allow him the chance to run around our huge back yard, making tiny snowmen, knocking snow off of bushes, and having a snowball fight with the kids directly behind us. I particularly enjoyed watching him out the window as he would enthusiastically switch from throwing snowballs for our dog to running and belly flopping on the ground in an attempt to slide clear across the yard. He may have made it about a foot or two, but I’m sure the thrill was about the same. The pure happiness of a child in a brand new snow is a feeling we adults all too easily let fade over time.

And this year’s Easter resurrection story is about the rebirth of my goatee. Having been bearded since the surgery, I finally chopped the facial jungles back down to my standard goatee and mustache. It could be viewed as representing an important phase in my recovery. Now that I am feeling so much closer to normal, I am outwardly expressing it by returning to the physical appearance that is closer to “normal” for me. Or maybe that it represents how Easter is the time for the rebirth. Or maybe I gave up my goatee for Lent, and those days are now over.

Spin can be fun, but no matter how I try to frame it, I think it all boils down to the fact that I just wanted to shave.

Bully for me! What! What!

Six weeks and… harumph.

I’m grumpy. Super grumpy. Last week’s cold/allergies turned into a raging sinus infection over the weekend, giving me the worst migraine since the surgery and making me miss church, work, time with my son & wife, and musical improv practice. At this point, I’m really, really, reeeeeaaaallllly tired of not feeling up to speed, especially since this has been a few steps backwards in that department.

So although I don’t want to write an entire blog entry that is just getting the grumps out, that’s what I’m gonna do. Embrace the grump. I have earned the right to harumph at this point. My advice to any who may be facing the same surgery is to make sure you don’t spend large amounts of time breathing in the air of a record breaking pollen year. If your blue car is now green, stay inside. Lock yourself in a room with a HEPA filter air conditioner blasting on your face.

Sure, it’s beautiful outside, as all of the trees are getting their leaves, and the dogwoods are in bloom, and the tulips are bursting out in time for Easter, and every flowering tree around is filling in the landscape with all sorts of amazing colors. But look at it from a window. A closed, well-insulated, double hung window. While you’re sitting in a bubble. In a climate-controlled sterile room. Harumph.

Otherwise, I’d say the recovery is still slowly progressing fairly well. It’s been six weeks since the surgery, and I still have a bit of numbness in the upper teeth, and my lip is still stretching it’s limits when I smile (not today – harumph harumph). The mystery gut bruise tends to almost go completely away, and then come back a bit here and there. And I think if it wasn’t for this sinus infection from hell (did I mention that?), I’d be doing pretty well on sleep and energy. That whole pretending to be normal thing was going pretty well.

I have not yet returned to Danna’s blog mentioned in my last post. I have fascinated myself in how easy it is to be influenced by such psychological factors. I have to ask myself – Self, did allowing myself to relate so closely to that situation  physically manifest itself in the explosion of green goo from deep within my sinuses? Hmmmmm. Psychoanalyze that.

And finally, Terry just learned a couple days ago of a friend that went in today to have a brain tumor removed, and not from the pituitary gland. But it was pushing against her optic nerve and disrupting vision. So everyone reading this, send out those thoughts/prayers/chakra bursts for her today and in the weeks to come, that all may turn out healthy and that a complete recovery is right around the corner. And as far as her tumor goes (maybe Raoul’s sister, Raoula?), we end with the biggest tumor-booting grump of the day:

HARUMPH! 

Life comes at you fast

I’ve been telling people recently that this whole experience has been like a Nationwide Insurance commercial. Their slogan is “Life comes at you fast”, and the commercials, including the one with K-fed as a fry cook, make up an excellent and very funny campaign. And the analogy here is perfect, because there is no way the average guy who thinks the pituitary gland resides in your underarm is going to have plenty of advance notice that he’ll be getting intimate with a neurosurgeon and his staff any time soon. The news came out of nowhere. Even though I had the warning sign of the deteriorating vision, I still had absolutely no clue what that indicated. “You might have a tumor,” “You’re going to need surgery,” “How’s next Tuesday for you?”  Boom, boom, boom.

It also comes at you fast with less life threatening events. For example, this cold that I’ve managed to fully adopt since the weekend camping trip. Boom – you have a cold, your eye is watering non-stop, your mucous levels are increasing instead of what you’ve been working so hard for the past 5 weeks to have decreased, and you’re sneezing. And sneezing, by the way, although not as torturous as it would have been a few weeks ago, is not currently on my list of favorite activities. To put it eloquently, sneezing even weeks after sinus-invasive surgery sucks.

But things also sneak up on you way out of left field that really slam you. I could have predicted that camping in the spring when you’re allergic to pollen might bring something less than outstanding health. But what happened yesterday really came out of nowhere.

I had the opportunity to browse the ComedySportz (CSz) national forum online for the first time in a few years. For those who don’t know, this is the improv troupe with which I am currently involved and have been since 1996, with the exception of my recent several-year hiatus. It is a national improv troupe, with locations in over 20 cities nationwide and even one in the UK. (See the link on the left of my main page.) This national forum is a private internet bulletin board where players and managers from all the cities can chat about anything from shows to marketing to Grey’s Anatomy.

Before my surgery, a good friend of mine from the Philadelphia CSz asked me if what I had was a Craniopharyngioma, because that was what Mike Young had. Although I did not know Mike well, I have met him at national CSz tournaments several times over the years, and he was a very talented improviser, and was very loved by many in Philly and in the league. Note the use of past tense here. To make a long story short, Mike’s tumor caused significant difficulties that eventually led to his death last July at the way too early age of 38, leaving behind his wife and very young son. Indeed, my deepest fear lurking behind this entire ordeal.
When she asked me this, I put up one of the quickest walls ever erected in the name of psychological blocks, even though her intent was certainly in the name of making sure that if the physical circumstances were the same, then we could move forward with the benefits of the lessons learned through Mike’s ordeal. Regardless, it just wasn’t a path that my mind wanted to let me go down, even one tiny step. And anyway, a craniopharyngioma is NEAR the pituitary gland, not actually ON it. Way different, right? Right.

I thought I had successfully repressed this story. In fact, I hadn’t even given the comparison any thought in weeks. But yesterday, when browsing that CSz forum, I came upon the thread with the simple title: “Mike Young.” I knew exactly what it was, but felt the need to click on the thread any way. It was the announcement from last July of his passing, and the sad reactions from many players nationwide.

The hardest part, however, was what was in that announcement. Apparently, friends of Mike’s had set up a blog early in the process for him to post updates and for friends to post jokes and humorous rants of support. A blog to work through it. Suddenly, my delusion that I was the first genius to come up with THAT idea was shot. Not that I really thought that, as I know that if you do a google search for blogs by people working through illnesses you’ll probably find more than you could ever read. But this was shattering my safety a bit. One more parallel between me and Mike.

And of course, I couldn’t stop there. Included in that post was a link to the blog. Almost as if in a trance, I clicked on it. It’s like passing an accident – you know it didn’t end well, but you just can’t help rubbernecking to see more.

The blog is very current, and kept up to date by Mike’s widow Danna. I read some of the recent posts, about how she is trying to move on not quite a year later. I read a post recapping Mike’s deteriorating memory and mental state, and Danna’s feelings of helplessness as it unfolded. I went to the archives and read the posts by Mike early on that were quite similar to what I do with this blog – recaps of what the doctors have said and how he was feeling. And of course, I had to go to the posts from Danna and their friend during the final moments of Mike’s decline and finally his death. And I followed a link to an explanation of craniopharyngiomas, and found that ordinarily, there is an excellent prognosis for recovery. That was the kicker – it was supposed to be okay.

I can’t even describe how many things I felt at once. I teared up, as the faces of Danna and Baxter in my mind were being played by those of Terry and Jasper. I felt like a voyeur, having absolutely no business reading something this personal about someone that I really didn’t know. I felt like I had absolutely no reason to be working on my own blog, because compared to Mike’s ordeal, things have been going so well. And I felt like the safety net had just been ripped away from under me, because the complications that arose from Mike’s surgery could have just as easily happened with me, and still could, since Mike had even had a period of feeling great post-surgery and nonetheless it still went downhill. Mike had surgery that seemed successful, and yet he still went downhill.

I know everyone is different. I know we had different types of tumors. I know that his story doesn’t change a thing about my recovery. But all of the encouraging words of support in the world can’t change the facts that 1. that still could have been me, and 2. my heart is now completely broken for Danna and Baxter, two people whom I’ve never met. I’m still wrestling with this, and I imagine I will for quite some time. It really drives home that my fear of death is not in wondering what will happen to me, but in the grief it would bring my family. And Jasper is 8, well into the age where he would take it very, very hard.

Danna’s blog is now chronicling her grief and the process of moving forward. I had considered posting a link here, but the more I think about it, the more I feel I would be violating the privacy of her family and close friends. It felt odd enough for me to read it, even though I had permission as a CSz player. It just doesn’t make sense for me to send other people even more removed from their family to see all of the intimate details of their most difficult ordeal. And I can’t even tell if I’ll go back and read more, or if I’ll do my best to put up another wall and pretend like that blog really doesn’t exist. Right now, I’d put money on the latter.

Life comes at you fast. I can only hope the next head-spinner is a multi-million dollar lottery win. Because honestly, the tumors and the reality checks suck.

Especially if you have a cold.

Pretending to be normal

I think a good sign that things are going well is that it’s been almost a week since I’ve written anything in this blog. I’m not a fan of blogging in general, and my goal the entire time has been to keep this focussed on the whole tumor issue. So, now that things are coasting along in the recovery lane, and there aren’t too many new developments or any deep psychological soul searchings, it just hasn’t crossed my mind to write about anything.

I’ve been pretending to be normal, essentially. I’ve been working and interacting with people on a pretty normal level, it seems. I’m going to improv practices and an occasional special event. I’ve been to church. On the surface, I think I’m passing off this normal thing pretty well.

And the fallout hasn’t been too bad. I’m still pretty tired from a normal day, but really not all that much worse than I was pre-surgery. Of course, the improv practices have exhausted me about twice as quickly as I expected. And I went camping this weekend with Jasper and the Cub Scouts (which sounds like an old ’60’s band) and then came home and did a little bit of yard work, so all of that activity has taken a huge toll on the energy supplies. But it didn’t really set me back much, if at all, today. Maybe a little in the morning, but otherwise not too bad.
But my theory is that if I don’t push myself, I’ll never really know exactly how far along I am in this whole recovery thing. As long as I pay attention when my body tells me I’m worn out, then I’m not doing any harm, right? Although some may wish to debate me, my opinion is if you’re not pretending to be normal by 5 weeks after your surgery, then you’re either suffering from pituitary side effects that I have been blessed enough to avoid, or you’ve grown very accustomed to your soap operas and La-Z-Boy.

The only thing I haven’t yet done is gone back to the gym. I hope to start that this week, and there’s really no reason why I couldn’t, as I was given permission to do a reduced regimen at least a couple of weeks ago. All of the wonderful food that was sent our way throughout this ordeal is settling quite naturally right in my middle, and that’s the only way to get it to not take root. I think I’m just fighting the standard human gym-avoidance on this one.

Speaking of guts, I think my bruised gut issue is on the way out. I can still feel it a bit, so I won’t say it’s gone. But it’s not so all encompassing as it was before, which means I’m not bitching about it to Terry every five minutes any more. Maybe another week to go?

There is improvement in the numb lip/teeth/palette area. In fact, my palette almost feels back to normal. My upper teeth still have a ways to go, and laughing and smiling a lot still makes my upper lip scream obscenities. But comparatively, it’s all come a long way. And I still can’t rub my nose without it feeling like there is a prosthetic version of my nose implanted just under the surface. Again, it’s better, but I think that’s going to take at least another month or more to return to the world of normal noses.

Sleep has proven uneven. I’ve had nights on Ambien where I STILL woke up at 4 am, and I’ve had nights without any sleep aid that I made it all the way through the night. Or not. But my intent is to disprove Woody’s theory  that it has nothing to do with surgery and everything to do with simply getting old. I’m holding on to the “thirty-” part of my 39 years as long as it’s there, and that is wayyyyy to young to be “getting old.” Although my 20-something friends laugh at that concept and pat me on the back, my 40- and 50-something friends are sending up some serious “a-men!”s.

So expect these entries to be less frequent in the weeks to come. I’ll post more as I learn or discover new things in the process, like after my follow up with the endocrinologist on April 17, or after the next MRI on April 11. In the meantime, thanks again to all of you who have been reading this blog! It has helped a lot to write it, but it’s been very reassuring to know that some people have actually wanted to READ it!

28 Days Later

It was four weeks ago today that I willingly let a group of people whom I don’t even know (plus one that I’d met only weeks before and hadn’t seen since) stick all sorts of things into my body and scrape an egg-sized growth out from just under my brain. It’s finally starting to seem like a long time ago, but of course my body still likes to remind me every now and then that 28 days is really not that long. For the benefit of those who may be reading this in an effort to find out more about the healing process, here’s a quick snapshot of what those four weeks have accomplished.

On the positive side, and it is indeed mostly positive, I have been back to work almost full-time since last week (and even a couple half days before that); I have caught myself running up the steps a couple of times without even thinking about it; I havn’t had a headache at all in at least the past week, and not really any significant ones since my first week home; and as I’ve mentioned in the previous posts, my eyesight is significantly improved, the lab work confirmed the tumor was benign (as these types of tumors usually are), and I have not experienced any significant trouble with the many pituitary functions that they tell you to watch out for following the surgery.

Of course I can still be grumpy about a few things, because honestly I’m ready to feel 100% and that’s not going to happen for another month or two, apparently. For example, my latest annoyance is that my sleep pattern is a bit disrupted and seems to be stuck there. I am able to easily stay awake until 11 or midnight, and then I have been waking up at about 4am or so and restlessly getting 20 or 30 minute sleep intervals after that. I just asked for a prescription for Ambien, the wonder drug that helped me sleep like a baby in the hospital. Unfortunately, last night’s first attempt with it showed no difference. Hopefully that will change. Apparently this is a relatively common issue post-surgery, but that doesn’t keep me from creatively yet silently cursing the alarm clock when I see it say 4:37am instead of 7:37am.

I went to an improv practice last night, my first evening outing since the main event. It was tons of fun with a lot of laughing and smiling, and therefore a true test of the current flexibility of my upper lip. The lip is indeed still a bit numb, and it feels like it’s going to take a lot more smiling to stretch it back out to it’s previous limits, but I’ll make sure it does.  The accompanying numbness of my palette and upper teeth is getting slowly better, but it’s still bothersome. On track to clear up in the 2-3 months that I was told, I guess.

The mysteriously bruised gut is still the same. It doesn’t feel like it’s getting any better or worse, which is frustrating. I’ll probably bug my family doctor about it again if it hasn’t changed by the end of this week. I haven’t yet seen the endocrinologist for the follow up post-surgical visit. That’s not even scheduled until sometime in early April. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll have the magical answer for the gut stuff, and then ask why I didn’t call him in the first place. At which point I imagine a pie suddenly appearing in my hand, which I then proceed to comically splat right on his face. Wat, wait, wait… piiiiicture it…. goooood.
As far as the big question that everybody asks, “How are you feeling???”, I’d say the honest answer has to be “like a lump.” I haven’t yet started exercising again, and I really think that’s what I need to do. I mean basic stuff, but at least something. Because I am logically a bit drained of energy throughout the day, and although my brain wants to work full speed, my body isn’t really translating that much further than “half speed.” So I end up feeling like a lazy lump, because I know there’s so much I want to do but I’m just not energized enough to do it. It’s not a depressed lump, I don’t think. I think it’s just an honest, body isn’t up to full speed yet lump. So I think I’m ready to get some exercise in and start working those endorphins. Usually, however, my answer to the big question of “How are you feeling???” is “Pretty good, thanks.” That’s a lot easier to explain.

And I think it’s notable that I can’t tell if I’ve covered everything or not in this update. That must mean that I’m not paying as much attention to it any more, which either points to progress or apathy. And I’m fairly sure it’s not apathy. Whatever.

So now, I’m off to bed. For those still offering up prayers and energy and thoughts, focus them all on a solid night’s sleep. Then you’ll really see me testing the limits of my smile.

Not really a Kodak Moment

It just struck me today that we have absolutely no pictures of this entire process. The last picture we took was, of course, of Jasper playing on his Razor scooter some time in early February. The camera has been collecting dust since then.

Part of this makes sense. We usually take pictures of happy events, and moments that we want to remember. The pictures seem to serve not only as physical records, but as stakes for our memories to grasp on to. I am much more likely to remember sitting around the kitchen table playing poker with my sisters, brother-in-law and Terry on our beach vacation last year because I’ll see the pictures we took in my iPhoto library several times over the course of the next few years. The photo serves as a positive reinforcement for that memory.

It works the other way around as well. I have one picture of my father only about a month or two before he passed that stands out. Sure, it was on a good day, but he certainly doesn’t look like the Dad in my memory. That picture was taken optimistically, but every time I glance by it, it brings a rush of memories that I wouldn’t mind letting fade a bit more. I always think to myself that I should delete it, but I never do.

It struck me today, as I am just days away from the four week mark after surgery, that we don’t have pictures of any of the things that have been the most prominent part of my life so far in 2007. There is no picture of me lying in a hospital bed with a huge wad of gauze taped across my comically enormous nose. There is no shot of me with my arm around my surgeon. No record of Jasper’s art taped proudly up on my hospital room wall. No picture of my camp out in the La-Z-Boy with my laptop and my stack of unwatched movies. The flowers all died and the food was all eaten without any image record of the wonderful gifts from our friends. And we never got a photo of me trying to juggle those bottles of barium.

Why not? I can only come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a conscious decision. We just simply don’t take the camera out when we’re in the middle of something scary. And both in my eyes and Terry’s eyes, this has certainly qualified as “something scary.” With the possible exception of the hours just before surgery for me, and the painfully long wait for the surgeon to tell Terry that all was over and well, we’ve been very optimistic that it has been a huge success. Nontheless, I guess that doesn’t qualify enough to push us into saying “Oooh, where’s the camera? This is GREAT!” The outcome has been wonderful, but the memory of the journey is one we’d rather let fade, at least a little.

It seems, then, that this blog is as close to a photo album that I’ll get of the past month. Somehow, I don’t mind the written re-telling of this very different chapter in my life. And maybe it’s because I’ve been chronicling it with humor that I think the pictures would be anywhere near funny. There really is no telling whether that photo of me eating hospital gruel  would bring back memories of the friends who visited and made me smile, or of that half hour when I thought my blood pressure was about to screw me over again and no nurse in the entire complex thought it worth coming into my room personally.

A photo can sneak up on you, and at a glance provide that rush of an emotion. This blog, however, needs to be read deliberately in order to paint the same picture and bring back that same emotional wave. It’s like a photo album with the safety on.

I’d like to think that now that I know the outcome of the surgery, and that even though I’m still recovering I know that I will be fine, that I would enjoy looking back at some actual pictures and using them to pat myself on the back for coming so far. But apparently both my and Terry’s subconscious have approached this with a bit more wisdom, stifling any thought of even the existence of a camera until now. And I’m sure, God forbid we had to do it all over, that the camera would again sit, collecting dust.

Still, though, you really should have seen my nose….

So then I’m crazy. No I’m not.

I finally got the results of the abdominal CT scan back yesterday, and everything is perfectly normal. No tumors or lesions or exploding organs. Absolutely nothing to worry about. The doctor’s office agreed that as long as it doesn’t get worse or I don’t run a fever, there’s no need to be concerned about the mysterious bruise-like pain in my abdomen. No biggie.

So then I must be crazy. No doctor can come up with a solid theory to explain it, and there is physical proof that there really isn’t anything there. Oooh, the Mystery of the Phantom Bruise. Scooby Doo, where are you?

I finally went to the Pituitary Network site and posted my situation on their user forums. In no time at all, I had gotten this response from Christina:

Yes! I had my surgery almost 3 weeks ago and I had a sore spot in my abdomen as well. I felt like I had done way too many sit ups with just one ab muscle. It lasted for a couple of weeks then just went away. I too suffered from gastro problems partially I think from the blood and stuff draining down from my nose into my stomach. That too has gone away. I know my docs put me on a stool softener to help things move a little easier. I drank lots of water and ate dry absorbant foods like rice, bread and crackers. I hope this helps. Feel better soon!
Christina Posts: 38   Extended User Info:	Re: Gut issues afterwards? 3/13/2007 4:43:17 PM
	Oh, one more thing. I failed to mention that my doctors said something to me about being in a somewhat strange sitting position during the surgery where I was sitting up and leaning to one side a bit. I am sure that it would account for the soreness. Think about how bad a neck can cramp if you sleep wrong for just a little while. Take care.

So, AHA! I’m NOT crazy! It seems that issue does arise from the procedure itself, whether it’s a surgeon leaning on me or possibly just how they sit and twist the patient a bit. It makes sense that some poor abdominal muscle might bear the brunt of the experience and then complain about it for a while. I find it odd that this appeared so unusual to my doctors, as you’d think they would have heard complaints from at least several other patients by now. I can only assume that this is a rare side effect from the surgery, or that maybe other people just don’t complain about it. Regardless, it’s comforting to know that I wasn’t alone in this part of the experience.

At this point, Velma pulls the mask off of Dr. Wilson, who turns out to be Old Man Witherspoon, who was intent on keeping me guessing about the origins of this Phantom Bruise. He proceeds to explain that he would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for these meddling kids. We all laugh as Scooby licks the barium milkshake off his face.

I’ve been at work essentially full-time this week. I have the luxury of setting my own hours, so it’s been more like 6 or 7 hour days, but it still feels like a whole day. And so far, the effect has been less exhaustion and more of a tired-because-I-worked-out feeling, even though I’ve just been sitting at a desk. But I definitely see this as significant progress – no complaints.

The final stitch in my lip disappeared sometime this past weekend. Most of the stitches were gone by a couple weeks after the surgery, but that one stubborn one held on for about 3 weeks or so. Just a bit of fascinating recovery trivia, there.

And finally I have this HUGE list of thank you’s to get sent out. As I mentioned before, so many people have supported us in so many ways, I just can’t let them go un-thanked. I’ll figure out a good time to do that soon. Maybe right after I write the ones still unsent from my January birthday…

Dog years got nuthin’ on kid days

It is becoming apparent that I am not the only one who feels that I should be all completely recovered and life should be back to normal. My 8-year-old son, Jasper, is getting a bit tired of Daddy being tired. I mean, sure, I’m still playing with him some, and I’ve done a few bedtimes in the last week. But he gets caught off guard when for some reason I need to take a nap during the day, or if I suddenly decide I can’t go to the big outdoor school festival first thing Saturday morning. These things catch me off guard, too, of course. But I am slowly coming to grips with the whole non-linear recovering concept. A concept, I believe, that can really only be grasped by those at least several years removed from Elementary school.

He drew me the greatest card the other day, as I chose to sleep in all the way up to when he had to leave for school. Across the top is the standard “GET WELL SOON!” The illustration, though, is far from standard. He drew a very unique structure floating in some water, and for clarity’s sake he labeled it the “get well battle ship.” Above it is what at first glance appears to be the sun, but is actually a radiating and smiling heart (also labeled). To the right of the page are some angry little buggers, with mean eyes and sharp teeth, waving their swords at the oncoming ship. And again, in case you couldn’t figure it out, they are labeled the “surgery germs.” Obviously, the battleship is using the power of the heart to battle the surgery germs.

My favorite part is the one surgery germ closest to the ship. He has X’s for eyes and his tongue is sticking out, as obviously the Get Well Battleship has already knocked him out cold. One down, three to go.

In that light, maybe he does have a better idea of how long this whole get well thing is going to take.