I am back in Rockville, MD, with Lisa Costello and Dad, waiting for the call to go back into the hospital. We had a lovely week in Ocean City. At this point, given the extra step of the mutation-driven selection of my TIL cells, I don’t expect to go into the hospital before next week, but anything is possible.
The weather outside is frightful
Not really. Though it’s been mighty cold almost the entire time we’ve been in Maryland, including the December/January trip for study enrollment. Not one, but two polar vortices. Meanwhile, back in Portland, snow accumulation yesterday was about 10 inches. With up to an inch of ice atop that by tonight thanks to freezing rain. This in a metropolitan area with no snow plows, salt or sand trucks, or (except for the winter sports people) much experience in snow driving. the_child has been home from school since midday Thursday, and I’m pretty sure is getting cabin fever.
Restarting my routines
This morning I spent ten minutes on the recumbent bike in the hotel gym. That’s the first time I’ve exercised (other than incidental walking around) since the surgery. My legs and lungs were doing fine, but I was starting to get pain in my right chest, associated with the surgery site, so I stopped. I also resumed my formal meditation practice this morning, albeit at a shorter time than usual. So I’m getting back to what passes for normal these days. Until the hospital interrupts it all again.
The chest pain
No, not in the heart attack sense. Post-operative pain and discomfort in my right chest. The actual surgery wounds vary from inert to uncomfortable to mildly painful, depending on my body posture and activity level. Lying in bed reading Facebook, they don’t bother me at all. However, the knot of pain in my rib (number six, I think) persists with annoying consistency. The pain knot isn’t actually at any point directly affected by the surgery. I believe, based on my prior experience of my left thoracotomy back in 2009, that I’m experiencing referred pain from the surgery site.
To be clear, everything I have now is low-grade pain, falling somewhere between discomfort and two or so on the pain scale. Irritating and distracting, but not debilitating. Given that I’m only seventeen days out of surgery, that’s just fine with me.
The intersection of surgical recovery and terminal decline
All of the above being said, my oncological hypochondria persists. I should be moving along nicely into my terminal decline about now. So I wonder, is this chest pain a symptom of larger issues? Am I not going to heal completely from the surgery due to my body’s depleted ability to respond? Why is my GI doing [whatever it’s doing today]? I’ve been oversleeping, by my standards, but I know that’s perfectly normal for post-operative recovery. I keep wondering if I should be doing better than I am. It’s a lovely place to be, inside my head.
I’ve had a number of occasions to recount my medical history recently, ranging from abbreviated casual conversations to my recent visit to the urgent care center in Ocean City to have my stitches removed. Almost without exception, people compliment me on my attitude. You know what? My attitude sucks. It’s terrible. I’m always torn between rage and grief and fear. But I don’t wear that around. I don’t lead with it, and I rarely follow up with it. Not because I’m suppressing or in denial. Rather, because angry and depressed is no way to live. So I choose otherwise. But the hard, bitter reality is never far from the surface. Whenever someone tells me I have a good attitude, I can feel the monster flashing a fin.
Still looking at death, every day
In the car driving from Ocean City to Rockville yesterday, Lisa Costello talked about what we refer to as “cancer thoughts”. Mine and hers, though mostly mine. It’s not a frequent topic between us. For one thing, most of what needs to be said has been said. For another, it’s a godawful buzzkill. Most of the time you just have to live your life. Even now, when I’m a giant sack of tumors with a punched ticket, we still have to live our lives. But it’s always there. Breathing in my ear. Freezing my heart. Talking to me in the twinges and cramps of my body. There is no escape.
I miss my willful innocence.