With stage 4 ovarian cancer, you get tumors. Little lumps. Lots of them. Too many for surgery, unless your surgeon is a pac-man.
I have low-grade ovarian cancer, kind of rare: it grows slowly. The cancer cells are so very much like my normal cells. So my immune system cannot recognize them, and chemo isn't really geared up to differentiate them from my normal self (so most chemos don't work). The sole benefit is that my low-grade ovarian cancer cells grow slowly, almost as slow my other cells.
But not quite.
I have hundreds of mini tumors in my abdomen. The big ones are starting to hurt. I finally got to
address this at the hospital, in for my colon, but they had to hook me up to IV painkillers.
Hmmm. . . Just Click? OK. Wow, it works! Oh, check out the clock on the wall--another 10 minutes has passed! CLICK! Cool!
It was New Years Eve.
I was a little bored, I admit. click! and midnight was approaching click! click!
And at this point I had no idea that, unlike most people, narcotics act like amphetamines for me. click click click!
So I was up all night, clicking the button every 10 minutes, flipping through ideas and walking a lot, click click, bringing my IV pole with me to walk great hallway lengths, to keep my colon going. Click clicking all the while.
At midnight I took all the New Years Eve group photos for the nurses on their flurry of phones. Click click!
Finally crashed about 6am, doctors arrived at 7am. Yup, woke up a little blurry. . .
My medical team (doctor, nurses, interns) arrived having obviously already reviewed my painkiller "click record." (Gotta love those interns!)
I didn't know that there would be a Pop Quiz.
"Did you use the available painkillers?" they asked sweetly. What was that about? They know I did, they know I clicked my way all through the night and quite happily into dawn!. "YES!" I said. "And it was the first time in months that I spent with absolutely NO pain! It was REALLY NICE!"
Then my oncologist stepped in. She knows I have unused bottles of low-dosage narcotic painkillers from years ago. I explained my extreme fear of narcotic addiction, which is why I haven't used them in the 3 years that I've owned them. But she wants me to live life with no pain.
Her response to my fear of addiction was, "It doesn't matter." And advised me to use my oxycodone to continue my pain-free fun.
"It doesn't matter?"
Getting hooked on narcotics "doesn't matter?"
Bull. I have kids. Every single move I make, every mood change, matters. A LOT.
So for now, I think I'll start with an ibuprofen or a naproxin or a glass of wine and take it from there. I think I can mask pain to a certain point. Accept the new normal, use narcotics only infrequently.
When I think of all the other pain out there--a deceased spouse, missing front teeth, an unpaid mortgage, a brother lost to drugs, a country and culture sent to the winds with so few members left that the language and history might not survive. For me, right now, I have a bellyache.
I think I can live through cancer, for now at least, without major narcotics.
But I think I will take viticulture a little more seriously. . . and often!
But deep down I know it's just a question of time before I'm pressured enough to join a click.
I have low-grade ovarian cancer, kind of rare: it grows slowly. The cancer cells are so very much like my normal cells. So my immune system cannot recognize them, and chemo isn't really geared up to differentiate them from my normal self (so most chemos don't work). The sole benefit is that my low-grade ovarian cancer cells grow slowly, almost as slow my other cells.
But not quite.
 |
| just arrived. . . |
"So, what's the timer on this?" I asked, as an obviously veteran patient. "10 minutes" the nurse responded. Essentially, then, I could lie in my bed and every 10 minutes I could click the button and more IV pain meds would flow into me.
Hmmm. . . Just Click? OK. Wow, it works! Oh, check out the clock on the wall--another 10 minutes has passed! CLICK! Cool!
It was New Years Eve.
I was a little bored, I admit. click! and midnight was approaching click! click!
And at this point I had no idea that, unlike most people, narcotics act like amphetamines for me. click click click!
So I was up all night, clicking the button every 10 minutes, flipping through ideas and walking a lot, click click, bringing my IV pole with me to walk great hallway lengths, to keep my colon going. Click clicking all the while.
At midnight I took all the New Years Eve group photos for the nurses on their flurry of phones. Click click!
Finally crashed about 6am, doctors arrived at 7am. Yup, woke up a little blurry. . .
My medical team (doctor, nurses, interns) arrived having obviously already reviewed my painkiller "click record." (Gotta love those interns!)
I didn't know that there would be a Pop Quiz.
"Did you use the available painkillers?" they asked sweetly. What was that about? They know I did, they know I clicked my way all through the night and quite happily into dawn!. "YES!" I said. "And it was the first time in months that I spent with absolutely NO pain! It was REALLY NICE!"
 | |
| My bed is the messy one. |
Her response to my fear of addiction was, "It doesn't matter." And advised me to use my oxycodone to continue my pain-free fun.
"It doesn't matter?"
Getting hooked on narcotics "doesn't matter?"
Bull. I have kids. Every single move I make, every mood change, matters. A LOT.
When I think of all the other pain out there--a deceased spouse, missing front teeth, an unpaid mortgage, a brother lost to drugs, a country and culture sent to the winds with so few members left that the language and history might not survive. For me, right now, I have a bellyache.
I think I can live through cancer, for now at least, without major narcotics.
But I think I will take viticulture a little more seriously. . . and often!
 | |
| Thomas Jefferson's 18th century historic vineyard is only 10 minutes from University of Virginia Hospital, and en route to my clinical trial in North Carolina. . .Mmmm! |
But deep down I know it's just a question of time before I'm pressured enough to join a click.
