This is how life is rolling these days at the Dumoulin house...
Last week, I went to 7 doctors appointments. One for Ethan, one for Lily and 5, yes, 5 for me.
Ethan's appointment was to confirm no additional complications from a marathon viral infection that lastest 12 days, missing 6 days of school. This week he is finally recovering some of his energy he lost from a constant fever for that long. He has just stopped falling asleep mid-day, yet still has a random cough that produces gags. He is slowly returning to normal.
Lily's appointment was in Greensboro with her pediatric opthamologist. She will have eye surgery sometime in the next month for her accomodating esotropia. Her very strong glasses are not fully correcting her vision issues, so they will cut the muscle to tighten it. This procedure is done at a day surgery center and lasts about 20 minutes. I believe there is some discomfort the first day or two and then a week of a bloody looking eye, reminiscient of the worst pink eye you have seen. Poor Lily.
My situation was a little more complicated, but the results were very positive. I had an MRI and mammogram and an appointment with my OB-GYN all in the same day (3 appointments right there). Talk about being exposed, poked, and prodded. I felt just one step away from porn status, really. As usual with my situation, I am declaring war with my insurance company over the MRI which is recommended by every medical board with my life-time risk of breast cancer being over 20%. It is actually 26%, but when you get over 20% does it really matter? Regardless, they won't cover it, which means $1,400 out of pocket for me each and every time. Aren't they gems?
The remaining two appointments were because they found some area of concern on my MRI. This the third time this has happened. Their recommendation was to biopsy the area assisted by MRI. After the procedure I was sent for another mammogram to note the location of an injected clip. The clip is used to mark where they collected the tissue. All very heavy and all very irritating at the same time. Not too emotional this go around, but more like, why is this happening again? At what point will I not have any tissues left to take? My MRI tech was quite a "McDreamy" making it all very interesting to be sitting there with the front of my gown open, exposing one side. However, my doctor pretty much destroyed that enjoyment by squeezing my boob as if checking to see if the melon were ripe...right in front of him. To be more accurate, I should say squeezing like a peach, as she tried to control the bleeding of the biopsy entry point. Nothing says "hot" like having steri-strips and neosporin gooped on the side of you, while incoherently saying you are fine with a gigantic red mark on your forehead from laying face down on your stomach for 30-45 minutes. The bottom line and fantastic news is that the results were negative for anything cancerous. Now, I just need to decide how much it is worth to continue with these "recommended" tests. I am also reconsidering genetic testing although that isn't fool-proof either.
Ethan is running for student council, thinking about a hip hop dance class and participating in Cotillion. For those not in the south, Cotillion is a class that teaches manners, etiquette, and basic dance skills. Ironically, we were 30 minutes late to the first class as I wrote the time down incorrectly. Who is late for a class on etiquette? The Dumoulins.
The hip hop dance thing is unsettling to me. I know I am being ridiculous, but sometimes I just live in the 19th century, ok? He even said he was ok with taking jazz or tap if he had to as he might "enjoy" that. Gosh, I hope he really wants to do this because he knows he can meet some girls. Either way, as this "interest" sinks in, we will play the waiting game on exploring our options.
We, meaning Ethan, resumed morning swim practices today. I am most thrilled to report that our gracious coach has delayed the start of practice by 15 minutes. Now, I only have to have Ethan at the Sports Center at 5:15 am instead of 5:00 am. Nice. Wake-up time is an easy 4:45...still considered to be the night before, not this morning by me. When I returned home at 8 am, I had taken Ethan to practice, worked-out (translation: walked on a treadmill for 30 minutes at 3.5), made a run to Wal-Mart (NO ONE is at Wal-Mart at 6:15 am), grabbed a cup of coffee at Chik-fil-a, picked Ethan back up and hauled him to school. Of course, he left his gym clothes in the car which meant another trip to the school. However, I thought my productivity prior to 8 am was pretty admirable considering I can easily sleep until 9:30 or 10 am on weekends. Deep down, could I be a morning person? No. It is all because I love my son. It is now 12:30 pm as I type this and I can hardly keep my eyes open. Did I say how much I love my son? By the way, it was a first for me to go into a Wal-Mart while it was dark, only to exit when it was getting light. I thought people only did that when they went to bars in Europe.
Lily has taken to shouting out random math problems throughout the day. Yesterday afternoon, as she lounged on our oversized chair in the kitchen, she announced that 700 plus 600 equals 1300. Cuddling up with me before bed, she did a borrowing subtraction problem with 3-digit numbers out loud, without paper. If you don't know what that is, I think it was something like 318-189=129. She is nutso over math and I do not get it at all.
What other ridiculousness is going on our family, you ask? Well, homeschool, of course. How does one homeschool when at at doctor's office more than her own house? Well, she doesn't. Complete fail last week for the most part. Here's another eye opener...using the instructor's manual is actually a helpful thing when teaching math. Sometimes I wonder how my children know anything. For the first time in our brief homeschooling journey, I have given up on a curriculum choice for one of my girls. The bible course I used with Sadie during 3rd grade is just too difficult for Lily. Words like attributes, polytheism, and atheist are not ones Lily can retain. At. all. Time to do some research. Today we had some success with two little experiments in science. One was throwing marbles in bowls of flour to demonstrate how craters are made and the impact they have on a planet's surface. The other was melting butter to pour over custard bowl which was covered in four. This was to mimic a volcanic eruption. The key part to this was that when the butter cools, it hardens up a bit like the lava does when it cools.
I have found that here is little substitute for the retention of information than hands-on study and/or video enforcement. To compliment our study of Australia, our family watched a great documentary about Australia Saturday morning. The kids squawked a bit through it and I threatened to give them a pop quiz. Afterall, I am the teacher. I can do that sort of thing. In the end though, we all learned a lot and each child could give me 2-3 different facts about Australia. Netflix has become our greatest ally in this type of teaching. Once we complete our notebook section on Australia, they might be ready to go eat some vegemite! Next up...AFRICA in our semester of World Geogrpahy! I have about 6 movies in the queue. That will probably send them over the edge.
As I down my third cup of caffiene today, I wonder how I will get anything else done. The projects just keep piling up and home maintenance keeps getting shoved farther and farther down the list. My view is that if God wanted me to get them done, then He would give me the time. Right?
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Last words.
I wrestled out of my slumber this morning by reliving one of the last days I had with Ansley. It never fails to transform me into a jar of marbles that have been spilled across a hardwood floor. The marbles just keep rolling in all directions, some bouncing little hops tip...tap...tip.tap.tiptaptiptap. Others make a spiraling sound as they move across the hard surface. Scattering.
It was the last day that I had a conversation with her. It was also her worst day with cancer. She was in the hospital, had been for over a week. Her liver functions were down the drain and the doctor was trying to sort through options, choose a new treatment, and give reason for hope. The cancer had invaded so much of her body, but nowhere more so than her bones. Her scans lit up like a Christmas tree and the pain in her hips and weakness in her legs had forced her to a wheelchair. Knowing all of this, however, did not prepare me for what was to happen that day. My sister simply rolled over in the hospital bed and her hip snapped. The bone had been eaten away by cancer leaving little strong bone left. It was as completely awful as it sounds.
I was the one who held her, her face inches from mine, her hands strangling mine like a vice grip while they tried to change her soiled linens. Her broken hip being shuffled while she laid there. Her face contorted in pain, eyes wild, while her voice strained through clinched teeth begging God to make it stop. In only a few more hours, they would put her in traction, stabilizing her bones. The increased pain meds looped her into another orbit with only an occasional passing through our world again.
It was during one of these moments that I realized that it was time for me to get home to my own family. I bent toward her face to say goodbye. I gave her a little peck on her forehead; a little stubble from her hair pricked my lips. I said, "I have to go, Ans. I'll see you soon. I love you." She smiled that little wry smile, her lips not giving a hint of the teeth that were behind. She lifted her arm and pulled me back to her. She looked at me, straight to my soul. "I love you, too, Kels. I really do." I responded, "I know. I love you." We gave each other a long, deeply held hug. And with that, I pulled away, turned, and walked out of the room.
I didn't know that would be our last exchange. I didn't know I wouldn't hear her voice again. I didn't know it was my last chance to say what needed to be said. And yet, I said what needed to be said, simply. Oh how grateful I am.
It was the last day that I had a conversation with her. It was also her worst day with cancer. She was in the hospital, had been for over a week. Her liver functions were down the drain and the doctor was trying to sort through options, choose a new treatment, and give reason for hope. The cancer had invaded so much of her body, but nowhere more so than her bones. Her scans lit up like a Christmas tree and the pain in her hips and weakness in her legs had forced her to a wheelchair. Knowing all of this, however, did not prepare me for what was to happen that day. My sister simply rolled over in the hospital bed and her hip snapped. The bone had been eaten away by cancer leaving little strong bone left. It was as completely awful as it sounds.
I was the one who held her, her face inches from mine, her hands strangling mine like a vice grip while they tried to change her soiled linens. Her broken hip being shuffled while she laid there. Her face contorted in pain, eyes wild, while her voice strained through clinched teeth begging God to make it stop. In only a few more hours, they would put her in traction, stabilizing her bones. The increased pain meds looped her into another orbit with only an occasional passing through our world again.
It was during one of these moments that I realized that it was time for me to get home to my own family. I bent toward her face to say goodbye. I gave her a little peck on her forehead; a little stubble from her hair pricked my lips. I said, "I have to go, Ans. I'll see you soon. I love you." She smiled that little wry smile, her lips not giving a hint of the teeth that were behind. She lifted her arm and pulled me back to her. She looked at me, straight to my soul. "I love you, too, Kels. I really do." I responded, "I know. I love you." We gave each other a long, deeply held hug. And with that, I pulled away, turned, and walked out of the room.
I didn't know that would be our last exchange. I didn't know I wouldn't hear her voice again. I didn't know it was my last chance to say what needed to be said. And yet, I said what needed to be said, simply. Oh how grateful I am.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Rembering the End, Draft 3
Here is why you should care about breast cancer. Here is why you should never tire of hearing "just another" story about its victims. Here is why there is fear in my heart with every mammogram and MRI I have. Today holds such appointments. I will think of her, my sister and best friend, the entire time. This is the story of the her death on this earth, draft 3.
The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?
I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.
It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.
I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.
I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.
I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.
Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.
Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.
I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...
The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.
Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.
The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.
Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.
Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.
I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.
The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?
I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.
It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.
I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.
I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.
I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.
Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.
Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.
I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...
The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.
Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.
The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.
Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.
Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.
I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.
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