final countdown

As a good friend pointed out to me, I am just about 36 hours away from my own personal D-Day. Having this induction scheduled since early LAST week has caused me difficulty. Why is that? you ponder. It's like having that awesome vacation planned a year in advance. You're constantly thinking, "I can't WAIT until that freakin' vacation!" I wake up in the middle of the night contemplating uterine tightenings and radiating pains. In the middle of working or watching TV or having a conversation, I think about it. Every time I have a low back pain, I think, THIS IS IT! Only to be devastated. I suppose the positive is that no matter what at 7:30 am on Saturday, January 31, 2009, I will be checking in to the hospital to finally have this baby.

diarrhea

• Stomach cramps
• Loud bubbling noises emanating from my mid-section
• 300 trips to the toilet
• Prayers to the heavens to make it stop
• Adobe mud huts
• Ring of fire

hayden watch 2009

We are currently on official Hayden Watch. Since Sunday, I've been having fairly regularly (although painless) contractions for the majority of each day and night. If history can tell us anything, this will go on for a while longer until my body finally realizes that it needs to get with the program and begin labor for realsies. If my uterus has aged to the point where it will no longer get busy on its own, we have already scheduled an induction for Jan. 31st. Woo hoo!

beginnings

Mitchell's treatment journey officially began on Thursday. He experienced the first of what I'm sure will seem like millions of blood draws. Incidentally, the gentleman drawing Mitchell's blood had the shortest legs I'd ever seen on an adult. You can't really tell from the pic, but they were remarkably brief, his legs.

We then proceeded to a Chemo Meeting with one of the chemo nurses at the AZ Cancer Center. After the powerpoint we were able to tour the Infusion Pods where patients receive treatment. Strangely it was extremely reminiscent of that Freshman Orientation meeting and tour you attend right before you start college. Same nervous feeling. Same quiet conversation with the person you came with about the idiotic question/comment the person over there just made. Same anticipation about seeing just where you'll be spending so much of your time and how it all works. As we drove home turning over the myriad of mild to horrific side effects of chemo drugs, we made small talk. Effectively avoiding the giant treatment elephant riding in the car with us.

Friday was ridiculously busy. 8 am brought ambulatory surgery at UMC for the implantation of Mitchell's Power Port. Standing in the over bright, cramped pre-op room with the business-as-usual prep nurse, Mitchell's nervousness was palpable. The resident performing the procedure looked like she would be more comfortable hanging out in the quad on campus then tunneling into my husband's vascular tissue surrounding his heart. The procedure was over fairly quickly; it only took about 50 minutes. Mitchell was deliberately donning his clothes when I entered his curtained post-op space. He looked dazed but well. The nurse reviewed the discharge notes, directing most of his spiel to me as I was the only one of us who would recall his words.

By the time we finally reached the Cancer Center, we were over 45 minutes late for our appointment with Mitchell's oncologist. We waited briefly before our Olive Garden style pager lit up and began to vibrate, instructing us to "Please proceed to the Pitt Pavilion." Dr. Brown went over Mitchell's PET scan with us. Looking at the 11x14 glossy photo of Mitchell's insides, the dark spots cover his liver were instantly obvious. We were able to count 7 lesions riddling his liver, in addition to two smallish spots on his right lung and left pelvis.

Phrases like "Metastatic Disease", "Stage IV", "still a good chance", "additional treatment protocols" and "radio static surgery" were uttered. People always talk about feeling numb during times like these. I was hoping for numb. Instead I felt hyper sensitized. My eyes turned into big watery saucers. My eyes boring into the doctor's shiny bald forehead. The baby continues to kick and turn. Another doctor barges into the room, unaware that it's occupants are in the midst of receiving earth shattering news. With a loud "OOPS", she exits. Dr. Brown seems to not notice. As I always, I begin asking questions. Taking notes. It helps to make me feel grounded. Mitchell is almost completely silent.

By 1 we are in the infusion pod, the dextrose with the steroid and meds for anxiety and nausea are hung. Later the first chemo drug is administered. The treatment takes the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Mitchell is able to sleep for the majority of it. The stress of that morning's surgery and everything else taking it's toll. People come in and out. Cancer patients of all diagnoses receiving treatment. I'm envious of the 20-something with breast cancer who is in and out in under an hour, talking and laughing loudly the entire time.

another thing I like

My good buddy Naomi hipped me to the Hello Quizzy site. I like it. It has a multitude of random, time-wasting quizzes that are interesting and entertaining. You should go there.

http://www.helloquizzy.com

results

The oncologist informed us that there are "spots on Mitchell's liver and lung". Mitchell received this news late this evening over the phone. I haven't been able to speak with the doctor about it, so I know nothing more than he will be doing the additional Evastin injections.

new ground

While watching this morning's Inauguration Ceremony I think about the fact that only a handful of years prior to my birth, my parents' union would have been considered illegal across much of these United States. I recall a morning in 1980 as I walked to school with my brother wearing my Kelly green "The ERA is for my FUTURE" t-shirt when a grown man sneered at me, "You're future is fucked, girl". I can remember many firsts for Black Americans, mostly having to do with athletics and/or entertainment, and hearing my mother in the background, "See, [S]he's brown like you. That could be you one day."

This morning I watch as an exceptional American is sworn into the United States' Presidency. I watch his wife touch his neck as he takes in the events around him. His children chatter and smile excitedly in front of a nation and I am struck by their similarity to mine. I listen to his words and feel a sense of wonder that my third child will be born into a world that is vastly different from my parents' and mine.

37 weeks

My feet have never looked so teeny tiny. My midsection...Never so ENORMOUS. Thirty seven weeks have flown by and I'm knee deep in 22 trips to the toilet per night, itchy belly skin, nightmares of my water breaking in inopportune locales and people constantly asking me, "Haven't you had that baby yet?" That last one has to be my favorite as clearly I am barely sporting a bump.

treatment update

Mitchell's treatment ball is finally beginning to roll. Next Thursday afternoon, we will attend an "Everything-You-Ever-Wanted-to-Know-About-Cancer-Treatment" informational session. The very next morning, he will have his porta-cath installed (that seems like the wrong word when referring to a human) and his first IV treatment will be that afternoon and will last approximately 4 and a half hours.

We still haven't received the results of the PET scan. I'm not sure what that means, but his blood tests that Dr. Brown (the oncologist) ordered all came back "clean".

stair gymnastics

In the moments before you fall down the stairs, you have this surreal cartoon-character moment...Arms flailing, mouth shaped in an "O" making that "Woo! Woo! Woooooo!" sound. And then you fall, CRASH, THUMP, BANG! To land in a heap on the mid-point landing... Gasping for breath and laughing at yourself. You hear Mitchell running for the first time in a while and look up to see Taylor peek worriedly over the top railing. No one thinks it's funny but you. You can't stop laughing. Even though your butt is already sore. Even though Hayden is now performing some wild acrobatics en utero. But it is funny because you can picture exactly how ridiculous you looked as you tumbled down to land in a big pregnant lump.

update

Mitchell had a CT scan today. Although he had trouble with the barium he had to drink last night and this morning, the scan itself went much better than the one he had in the hospital. The scan is looking for any abscesses or abnormal fluid collections in his abdomen. Hopefully it reads clear; he's not too thrilled about the possibility of having to go back on another antibiotic. We shall see... I'm having lots of pre-labor activity. Hayden should be here any time now. Mitchell got the crib set up last night... Yea! And the girls put the bedding on. They did a great job and were very proud of themselves for their efforts. Thanks to the shower and the generosity of others, we now have various and a sundry baby paraphernalia. Every day now Taylor asks me if it's a possibility that Hayden could come "today". The answer now is YUP!

almost there

Being almost 36 weeks pregnant, I am realizing that I am almost done with this gestating thing. Weird. It doesn't seem like that much time has passed. And then I look down at my burgeoning belly, and I feel as though I'm at least 60 weeks pregnant. I don't feel bad per se, just uncomfortable. It's difficult to sleep as I must get up every 40 minutes to empty my bladder and I can only sleep on my left side otherwise my right arm falls asleep and becomes a dead piece of meat that dangles from my shoulder. I have that distinctive pregnant lady waddle, try as I might to walk like a normal person. None of my shirts will cover that bottom part of my belly...maternity or not, so I'm constantly walking around hiking up my pants. By the end of the day, my feet (when I can see them) slightly resemble marshmallow puffs stuck to the ends of my legs. I haven't seen my crotch in awhile. Putting lotion on my calves and feet has become a near impossible feat. And I often feel as though I have a little Hayden-hand hanging out of my cervix.

things known

We now know that Mitchell has more than likely had cancer for at least the last 3 years. We know that he most definitely has Stage 3 Colorectal Cancer and possibly HNPCC, a hereditary syndrome. We know that he will begin adjuvant chemotherapy in the next 2 to 3 weeks, and his treatment will last for at least 6 months. We know that the tumor perforated his bowel which caused cancerous cells to spill into his abdomen, leading to a microscopic spread of the cancer. We know that his cancer is treatable, and that the next 2 years will be crucial to his survival.

intentions

This year I hope to:

• Continue my quest to live in the moment
• Make dinner 4 nights a week
• Really listen
• Be more active
• Save more
• Find furniture for the living room
• Get to the hospital in time for an epidural
• Stay in touch
• Loosen up
• Watch less reality TV
• Read more
• Make those valences
• Use the pool more
• Beat the cancer