Alligator Food

Surgery is complete and I live to tell the tale.

And the tale goes as thus:

Surgery is bonkers.  I think we'll call this a one and done gig.  In my true air-headed fashion, I didn't give my surgery much thought.  The momentum and excitement Mayo's treatment options offered, namely this surgery, grasped  ahold of my energy.  I didn't stop to consider where they'd cut me open, I didn't think about what would happen while they were in there, I didn't take into account how other parts of my body would be effected, and there were very little thoughts of recovery..... the list goes on.  Following surgery, I heard this phrase from my surgeons about 73 times, "You've had a major surgery."  To which I'd weakly smile, raise my eyebrows (one action I could perform without any pain) and reply, "Oh."  I guess it's kind of a big deal when the best of the best are telling you so.

So what happened?  One moment I'm in the daze of a 4:00 am wake up time, slipping into a stylish hospital gown and refusing the Tylenol part of the antibiotic/drug bundle you're given in anticipation of surgery.  The nurses are bit frazzled by my dissent but Tylenol, which is acetaminophen, metabolizes in the liver and several studies document it's harsh effects on the organ.  Another part of the pre-operation preparations is the removal of all jewelry.  I complied.  And then I was asked by everyone I ran into from this point on to remove my necklace.  To which I politely replied,  "It doesn't come off."  The pendant in question was found by Trent, who also purchased one, at a museum in Turkey this summer and tied around my neck shortly there after.  Where it remains to this day.  A few days into my hospital stay, during one of his daily visits, the chief resident informed me the entire surgical team wanted to know the story behind my necklace.  You can read my necklace's story at havenecklacewillnotremove.blogspot.com*

I hopped aboard my chariot and was wheeled to the prep room.  While I unsuccessfully scanned the ceiling for something to entertain me, entertainment arrived in the form of a very attractive anesthesiologist.  Naturally, I stumbled over my words and gave him good cause to wonder if I have brain damage (I do).  I looked liked I'd been plucked off the set of the Walking Dead and all I could think of was, I can't wait to tell Dad about this!  Why the anticipation of discussing dapper anesthesiologists with my father???  Back in May 2013 when Dad accompanied me to my biopsy, the anesthesiologist for this procedure was also ridiculously handsome.  So much so, he even amazed my father.  "Wow.  He was good-looking," Dad professed following his exit from my room upon the completion of our pre-procedure meeting.  I had to wipe the drool from my mouth and regain my composure in order to adamentaly agree.

A short time later, someone manifested behind my bed and propelled me towards my impending fate.  We rounded a corner to enter the operating room and suddenly, I was among a horde of doctors/surgeons/residents/students.  They descended upon me like a swarm of bees.  Medical things and stuffs were hooked up, several IVs were inserted and I was moved onto my side so the anesthesia could be administered into my spine.  A disembodied voice asked, "Are you ready to get drunk?"  I assumed he was questioning my readiness to go under and I guess I was.  The very next moment, it was 8 o'clock at night.  I was uncontrollably heaving while my belly ripped open, blow-torch igniting my insides and my eyes desperately sought help from anyone in the room who could make ANY of it stop.  My dear friend "little button" came to the rescue.  I could push it as much as I wanted but the goods were only released every 10 minutes.  I finally expelled a small amount of brown liquid into a plastic container, squelching the heaving.  I would not consume solid food for several subsequent days.

So what happened between the time I was put under until I was awoken?  They sliced me open from my ribs to my belly button:  a full 6 inches.  The surgery lasted about 5 hours during which Dr. Nagorney cut out the primary tumor in my pancreas, half of my liver, all of my gallbladder and spleen.  He was able to leave about 40/50% of my pancreas.  The tumor grew into the pancreatic bile duct, but they were able to extract it and suture the duct.  Dr. Nagorney said this is very unusual and compared it to firework snakes I watched growing from tiny little hockey puck-shaped cylinders each July during my childhood.  My pancreas will continue to function keeping me from becoming diabetic and eventually releasing me from enzymes.

Dr. Nagorney aptly took care of about 90% of the liver tumors.  This was done by knife or fire.... the medical terms are resection and ablation.  A few small spots remain.  They either didn't show up on on the scan and/or Dr. Nagorney felt the liver had been stressed enough.  Some lymph nodes were biopsied but returned with a clean bill of health, no cancer there!  

I remained in the hospital for 6 days.  The day after surgery I was visited by Handsome Anesthesiologist.  He inquired about how I was feeling and how everything went.  In my drugged and unshowered state I again responded with words that aren't actually English and still looked like a zombie, just one that had been undead a lot longer.  Dad was there and again confirmed the attractiveness of the person who keeps me in dreamland during all my fun procedures. Other activities that day included the removal of my bandages.  Holy unending incision, Batman!  I immediately fell in love with it.  It was asked of me to get out of bed and walk.  I was okay with this idea until the actual movement began.  When your stomach muscles are cleaved in order to reach your internal organs, a few ordinary tasks become mighty difficult.  Take sitting up for example, this was no longer an action I could perform.  Instead, on this day and for the foreseeable future, I had to roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position.  This usually took awhile and resembled a freshly caught fish flailing about on the prow of a boat.  Laying back down was even worse.  Things continued along these lines for several days.  I slept all the time and found solace in my little button friend.  

Upon my discharge from the hospital, we stayed in Rochester another night in case of any emergencies (there were none).  The next morning my body rebelled against the imminent car ride made longer by the fact we must stop every hour so I could walk in the continued effort to avoid blood clots.  Blood clots = Bad news.  I awoke with dreadful nausea and laid in bed while Mom and Dad packed my stuff and wheelchaired me to the car.  From there I consumed morphine and slept for the duration of the journey to my parents' house in Nebraska, just waking up long enough to poorly perform my required walking....  in my pj's.  Blah, blah, blah, pain and recovery.  MORE IMPORTANTLY, I will have a rad scar.  I always look forward to summer but this year more than ever.  I can't wait to don my bikini and introduce my latest body art to the world.

At the 5-week post-surgery mark, I return to Mayo.  We will discuss the next steps for treatment at my appointment with the oncologist.  In other words, he will propose ideas and I'll decide if I accept or decline.

If I'm to be "jet-setting" to and fro for doctors visits and the like, I'm compiling a wish list.  I live in a fantasy world.  First on the list: a private jet.  Second on the list:  Mayo moves to a warm, tropical place.  Third on the list: it's all free!  Fourth on the list: I don't actually have to do any of this because my cancer is gone!


Return trip to Mayo is complete and I live to tell the tale.

And the tale goes as thus:

One month and some change post-surgery, I found myself airborne.  Destination:  the frigid, flat lands of Minnesota.  Saving grace:  Sherp in tow.  Attitude:  favorable.

In true Mayo fashion they run a tight ship, so we powered through five appointments in one day like rock stars.  Sherp aided our spirits throughout the day with laughing fits (ouch- tummy muscles are still sore.... but it was SO worth it), food/water deliveries, and hair stroking when I just couldn't hold the tears back any longer.  First up was blood tests, then a chest x-ray since I've been having trouble breathing, followed by an MRI, a meeting with my surgical team and finally the oncologist.   Dr. Nagourney and Dr. Paul, the chief resident, confirmed my liver has grown and regenerated as expected.  It's basically back to the size it was before surgery.  When a liver regenerates, it's not an exact replica of the liver before operating.  The analogy Dr. Paul used was this:  it's not like a tree growing a new leaf, it's more like the tree is bushier.  I'm not sure I get this because I'm not sure there is a difference between those two things.  But I'll go with it because he has a medical degree and I do not.  

Things were running as smoothly as a bobsled shooting down an Olympic track until the very last appointment.  I like to compare it to the first play of this year's Super Bowl.  Something good must come from that ludicrous debacle so I redeem my Broncos by allowing them to provide me with yet another analogy.

It's the big game.  The game of my life, if you will.  I've got my gear and #18 jersey on; the back reads Drahota-Manning.  I've just won numerous awards like the "I Can Sit up by Myself," "Showering Doesn't Hurt and Completely Drain All my Energy Anymore," and "Walking Upright" to name a few.  As I step onto the field I'm feeling better than I have in weeks.  All pre-game tests are done efficiently and on or even before (!) their scheduled times.  I step up to take the first snap.  In my mind I see how it all ends:  I slow-motion lift the immaculately polished trophy over my head as the raining confetti sticks to my face and I don't care because I just won the freaking Super Bowl!!!  In reality, the ball is hiked over my head while I'm looking the other way and I bumble like a fool in an attempt to catch it.... but alas, I do not.

Again, in true Lindsey-blonde-cancerbrain fashion, I completely put the lingering tumors out of my head.  Apparently I'm very good at this.  If you have any radical secrets you need to get off your chest, I'm your gal.  Tell me anything!  I'll have it forgotten in no time flat.  Well these little _(insert word of choice)_ are not going to be forgotten.  They're growing like the Seahawks' defense: aggressively.  In an effort to halt this growth, Dr. Rubin's recommends I begin using Sandostatin in the form of a monthly shot.  I do not like this idea.  The sole purpose of this medication is to block the gastrin (secreted from my tumors as they're neuroendocrine carcinomas) and possibly (a good possibility but still just a possibility - as is everything in the cancer world) stop the growth of these tumors.  This medication will NOT shrink or eliminate the tumors.  Now the disease has been surgically debulked and the half dozen surviving tumors can be addressed with this drug.  We'll see if it blocks their progress.  I guess I will oblige and give it shot (pun intended) for a few months.  Sigh.... sigh.

My gallant return to Mayo ended up not being so gallant....  Sigh (again).  For me, surgery was the cure and I was done and the future was sapphire skies full of lemon sunshine.  Negative, Ghostrider.

Time to rework my view of reality... once again.






*This is not a real website.  It is an attempt at humor.