An ancient philosopher once said: "You can't always get what you want"
You know how the rest goes. Three weeks ago I had reached an awkward stage of cancer I hadn't quite seen coming. I was feeling stronger, I went on walks- each day longer, and held my head higher. I had lost that hollow look that goes with extreme sickness and visitors expecting to see me sallow and wheel chair bound exclaimed "you look so…good!" maybe almost a little disappointed in general lack of myopia. My doctor visits tended towards the positive and boring and I looked forward with glowing eyes to the rolling, rosemary scented hills of Tuscany that beckoned around the corner, complete with my very own air conditioned villa. Heaven. I would be surrounded by my best friends in the middle of the world's greatest cheese and salumi tradition, renting a house up the street from a pasticceria; steps up the road from the medieval walls of the home of opera's greatest composer Giaccamo Puccini. There I would leave behind the evil dust of this sickness and live la dolce vita in the Italian sunshine. Down a few pounds from my sickness i'd wear my favorite sundresses, stroll the piazzas, eat gelato without a care in the world. It was getting hard to be depressed with life, with this dream so near my worries and problems were little ones, I could almost see the turn up ahead, the right turn back towards normal.
Then one day, breakfast didn't agree with me. I threw up violently all morning. I lay around exhausted all afternoon sore and somehow still vaguely sick. It happened the next day too. And the next. I couldn't keep food down the entire week. I was weak and sharp cramps wracked my left side, under my ribs while my traitorous cancerous liver ached on the other side. I'd clutch my sides in a crazy bear hug when I threw up but it didn't stop the convulsions.
Meanwhile, the deadline for my social security and medicare applications was two days away. I had let it sit, dealing with the sickness all weekend and had almost learned to live with it, blocking off my mornings for violent illness and trying to fit it what little activity I had energy for in the evenings. On the last day, my aunt took me to the copy shop with my piles of documents identifying who I was 5 ways from sunday, explanations of transactions on my bank statements, pages upon pages proving I was certified broke, unemployed, sick as a dog, on my last legs, and desperately in need of the good charity of good old uncle sam, please and thank you all in triplicates for the three different offices that would then allow themselves a full 90 days to review my eligibility for aid. We mailed it all off in manila envelopes and headed home. I was exhausted and sore, I hugged myself around the waist, holding my innards close as we drove home.
When we arrived i took my folder of originals and headed inside. I had made it 5 or so steps inside the house when a searing yellow bolt of pain hit me out of the blue underneath the left ribs. It took my breath away and it didn't come back. I gasped shallowly through a pain that refused to quit; it had taken up residence on my left side and intended to stay. I panted in panic and whimpered, my aunt and my parents conferred worriedly, they decided it was gas bubbles, trapped from the immovable dry tract that was my lower GI, immobilized by days, weeks, months of pills and not enough laxatives. They told me to breathe, that it would soon pass and I closed my eyes and tried to squeeze the air in past the pain, to breathe past the pain. Anna had promised to make the long trek out to visit and loyally insisted on keeping our date even though I called and offered her a rain check in light of how badly I was feeling. I waited for her with that same shallow breath, wondering when the pain would pass.
She arrived and we tried various distractions, watched some TV, talked and laughed but nothing could detract from that fire under my ribs. It seemed to be getting worse; no pressure would relieve the stabbing pain and I could only get my words out 2 or 3 at a time. I breathily called over my mother and told her it was time: I was giving up and going to the ER. The drive was excruciating. Every bump and turn rocked my world, I couldn't remember having been in so much pain and remaining conscious before. Stars danced in front of my working eye and even through the blur of my ruined right eye from the oxygen deprivation- I couldn't get enough air past that pain. By the time we arrived I thought I just might die. They asked me my name and birthdate and it took me three breaths to get the words out. The sent me straight into triage. The nurse asked me my symptoms calmly and I begged for an IV and pain meds. She was a little prim in her response as she hooked me up to the blood pressure cuff but she trailed off when she clipped the oxygen counter to my finger, I was down in the 74 range unable to bring in enough oxygen to breath properly. They sank an IV line in me quickly then a second in the other arm. As afraid as I am of those large gauge needles with their sharp "clicks" I offered up my elbows readily and within the next five minutes the nurse had returned and flushed my IV before injecting a shot of dellotid (and then a few more of the same) bringing a blessed relief at long last.
They sent me through x-rays and ct scans before bringing me back to tell me I had a large pulmonary embolism, a blood clot, in my left lung which had caused all the pain and trouble breathing. They checked me in for in-patient care that night and turned me into a bed a few floors up where I lay propped up in bed full of tubes and beeping machines. My nurse, a tall blonde lady, came and gave me my pills for the evening before another hit of pain killers through the IV. The medicine shot through my veins in a warm whoosh and brought with it a welcome creeping fatigue that sank into a deep desperate sleep.
to be continued
Monday, June 22, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015
and life goes on
I cannot resist finishing the long and probably unnecessary narrative of the cake decorating class:
As per usual I procrastinated in investigating details on my class until 48 hours prior to its actual start. I could blame it on the pain pills and a general lack of awareness regarding the days of the week and dates, but even without the mind-addling doses of painkillers I most likely would've left it off until the last minute. When I did conduct my investigation I found a long list of supplies required on the JoAnne fabrics website advertising my Wilton: Buttercream Basics class (I know, everyone's dream activity). This was both exciting and daunting, namely because in my inability to drive under the influence of medication I have regressed to a needy 15 year old needing rides everywhere.
My dad was generous enough to take me the afternoon of the first class down to the kent JoAnne fabrics where we would be returning later that evening in the pursuit of all things frosting. We strolled through the cakery aisles and I blanched at a few of the prices. $13 for a spatula was a little cost prohibitive in my book, particularly considering that I am a proud possessor of amazon prime- and who doesn't love 99 cent pricing and free shipping? Thinking I might perhaps put off my complete purchase in favor of the online marketplace I inquired whether or not I would need 100% of my supply list on the eve of the first class (which I fully expected to be half introduction, name games, and review of the class). This inspired a flurried chain of questions from stocking peon to stationary lady to a harried shift lead who informed me that I would need each and every supply in my first dip into cake decorating. Her eyes darted around in a way that didn't inspire much confidence but her frown made me think I better pony up and buy the $13 spatula. We ended up finding everything, down to the pearl dust and $40 later I was ready for my class. Back home, I dumped out the carefully organized contents of the perfect sized tote bag and carefully repacked it with all the supplies for what I was sure would be the best class ever.
Luckily I also happen to be on the edge of obsessive compulsive in these things because I went back to check to ensure I wasn't missing any supplies. As I didn't have the site saved I googled it up and happened upon an entirely different supplies list for the same class, this one from the wilton website itself. My stomach quickly dropped down to my knees. This list included things like baked unfrosted cupcakes. I had just enough time to back a batch but I quickly called up the Joanne Fabrics folks to confirm before i got into the business of throwing around flour and butter. Again my inquiry set up a flurry among the ladies of the green apron. They reminded me of little birds on a line, all taking flight in a panic whenever anyone passed below or at the first hint of breeze. My little birds left me on hold for a very long time before the eldest sounding of the pigeons picked up the line to inform me that the cake class had been cancelled due to lack of registration. They had nobody signed up at all, she informed me, and furthermore no one there had even HEARD of registering online for a class in her store. I immediately went through the roof. I icily recounted to her the tale of my adventures searching for answers in her store no more than two hours prior. I asked her why her employee had lied to me earlier and insisted I buy her expensive spatulas. She put me back on hold. At that point I could've lost my temper entirely but managed to keep it together as she apologized and managed to let out a breath when she promised to refund all the unnecessary supplies.
Once the anger had passed, disappointment took its place. I had mentally invested quite a bit of meaning and impetus in the silly class. It had become my symbol for moving forward, my re-introduction to the world and I had built it up as such so I felt silly. Like so many other things in life it hadn't worked out as I planned, leaving me to wonder "what now?". It made me want to sigh and ask "why me?". Unfortunately I've learned that there aren't very good answers to this question and no one much likes hearing it. So I returned my expensive spatulas and turned my eye to a new inspiration for impetus.
I have been walking daily and perhaps this is my new inspiration. I am training, walking a little farther or perhaps a little faster, in hopes that I won't be left too far behind in Italy. Lucca, our primary destination only allows so many cars within its walls and its inhabitants predominantly walk or bicycle about their days. I know in our time there we will be exploring hither and thither within its walls and out where our beautiful little rented house sits, 300 metres from the old medieval walls sheltering a historical center dating back hundreds and hundreds of years ago. I hope that by pounding the pavement on this side of the atlantic when we reach our little sunlit tuscan paradise I will be able to keep up with the group as we wander the city. I am lucky enough to have my beautiful cousin Marisa coming along with me to help keep an eye on me. She will be my company for those days that my aches and pains catch up with me (I hope they will be very few) and keep me close to home. The good news is our lovely house has an equally lovely kitchen and is right across the street from a good market and various specialty shops including a butcher and pasticcieria (pastry shop) meaning even my resting days can be spent in the vigorous pursuit of all things good and beautiful and Italian- and therefore delicious. I still mourn the loss of my pastry practice, and on tuesday nights I feel a little urge to throw a pinch of flour over my shoulder in memory of the buttercream basics class. But just like my larger "what nows" I have found a way to move on; to adapt and move on to something new. Because at the end of the day the sun still rises on your what nows and life goes on- its only a question of whether you jump on and go along for the ride regardless.
As per usual I procrastinated in investigating details on my class until 48 hours prior to its actual start. I could blame it on the pain pills and a general lack of awareness regarding the days of the week and dates, but even without the mind-addling doses of painkillers I most likely would've left it off until the last minute. When I did conduct my investigation I found a long list of supplies required on the JoAnne fabrics website advertising my Wilton: Buttercream Basics class (I know, everyone's dream activity). This was both exciting and daunting, namely because in my inability to drive under the influence of medication I have regressed to a needy 15 year old needing rides everywhere.
My dad was generous enough to take me the afternoon of the first class down to the kent JoAnne fabrics where we would be returning later that evening in the pursuit of all things frosting. We strolled through the cakery aisles and I blanched at a few of the prices. $13 for a spatula was a little cost prohibitive in my book, particularly considering that I am a proud possessor of amazon prime- and who doesn't love 99 cent pricing and free shipping? Thinking I might perhaps put off my complete purchase in favor of the online marketplace I inquired whether or not I would need 100% of my supply list on the eve of the first class (which I fully expected to be half introduction, name games, and review of the class). This inspired a flurried chain of questions from stocking peon to stationary lady to a harried shift lead who informed me that I would need each and every supply in my first dip into cake decorating. Her eyes darted around in a way that didn't inspire much confidence but her frown made me think I better pony up and buy the $13 spatula. We ended up finding everything, down to the pearl dust and $40 later I was ready for my class. Back home, I dumped out the carefully organized contents of the perfect sized tote bag and carefully repacked it with all the supplies for what I was sure would be the best class ever.
Luckily I also happen to be on the edge of obsessive compulsive in these things because I went back to check to ensure I wasn't missing any supplies. As I didn't have the site saved I googled it up and happened upon an entirely different supplies list for the same class, this one from the wilton website itself. My stomach quickly dropped down to my knees. This list included things like baked unfrosted cupcakes. I had just enough time to back a batch but I quickly called up the Joanne Fabrics folks to confirm before i got into the business of throwing around flour and butter. Again my inquiry set up a flurry among the ladies of the green apron. They reminded me of little birds on a line, all taking flight in a panic whenever anyone passed below or at the first hint of breeze. My little birds left me on hold for a very long time before the eldest sounding of the pigeons picked up the line to inform me that the cake class had been cancelled due to lack of registration. They had nobody signed up at all, she informed me, and furthermore no one there had even HEARD of registering online for a class in her store. I immediately went through the roof. I icily recounted to her the tale of my adventures searching for answers in her store no more than two hours prior. I asked her why her employee had lied to me earlier and insisted I buy her expensive spatulas. She put me back on hold. At that point I could've lost my temper entirely but managed to keep it together as she apologized and managed to let out a breath when she promised to refund all the unnecessary supplies.
Once the anger had passed, disappointment took its place. I had mentally invested quite a bit of meaning and impetus in the silly class. It had become my symbol for moving forward, my re-introduction to the world and I had built it up as such so I felt silly. Like so many other things in life it hadn't worked out as I planned, leaving me to wonder "what now?". It made me want to sigh and ask "why me?". Unfortunately I've learned that there aren't very good answers to this question and no one much likes hearing it. So I returned my expensive spatulas and turned my eye to a new inspiration for impetus.
I have been walking daily and perhaps this is my new inspiration. I am training, walking a little farther or perhaps a little faster, in hopes that I won't be left too far behind in Italy. Lucca, our primary destination only allows so many cars within its walls and its inhabitants predominantly walk or bicycle about their days. I know in our time there we will be exploring hither and thither within its walls and out where our beautiful little rented house sits, 300 metres from the old medieval walls sheltering a historical center dating back hundreds and hundreds of years ago. I hope that by pounding the pavement on this side of the atlantic when we reach our little sunlit tuscan paradise I will be able to keep up with the group as we wander the city. I am lucky enough to have my beautiful cousin Marisa coming along with me to help keep an eye on me. She will be my company for those days that my aches and pains catch up with me (I hope they will be very few) and keep me close to home. The good news is our lovely house has an equally lovely kitchen and is right across the street from a good market and various specialty shops including a butcher and pasticcieria (pastry shop) meaning even my resting days can be spent in the vigorous pursuit of all things good and beautiful and Italian- and therefore delicious. I still mourn the loss of my pastry practice, and on tuesday nights I feel a little urge to throw a pinch of flour over my shoulder in memory of the buttercream basics class. But just like my larger "what nows" I have found a way to move on; to adapt and move on to something new. Because at the end of the day the sun still rises on your what nows and life goes on- its only a question of whether you jump on and go along for the ride regardless.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Roses and baby steps
The time has come to try to rebuild a life. I am more and more determined to be stronger each day and while I am greatly limited I want very badly some feeling of normalcy and routine past my oxycodone every 4 hours. My version of building this new life is admittedly scaled down to an event or so a day. There's no getting crazy up in this house. I've signed up for a cake decorating class "buttercream basics" and am excited to perfect my 45 and 90 degree wrist angle when piping a buttercream buttercup. You all think this is the comedic relief piece but frosting flowers are deadly serious stuff. It begins on Tuesday and I've already found reason to complain about it due to the extensive list of "supplies" required for the class. This makes me want to whine for two reasons: 1) extensive=expensive, especially at JoAnne Fabrics. and 2) it makes me feel like a 4th grader with a class supplies list which brings up painfully repressed awkward childhood memories.
Regardless however, Tuesday my buttercream dreams begin. I love to bake, cakes being my particular favorite and working to hone a skill doing something I love I hope will make me feel a little more like the person I had come to believe I had created. This sickness has taken my independence in many ways; I depend almost exclusively on my family to transport me anywhere I need to go and provide me with anything I need. The chronic pain and the drugs have dulled my wits and sucked the joy from my soul, like a tiny dementor has taken up residence in my chest. It may be a small thing, but piping the best scallop in the class or accomplishing a perfectly smooth finish on my cake feels like waving my spatula like a wand and banishing that darkness, allowing me to see me in the mirror again.
My second project has been turning my attention towards my Italy trip which grows ever nearer. We have made the decision to amend our original itinerary due to its ambition: we had planned to see Rome, Tuscany, and Naples, before returning to Rome to enjoy a last few days. Since I am exceedingly less mobile now than I was when we came up with this plan we have decided to scale down our ambitions dramatically and instead spend an extended period of time in beautiful Tuscany, first in the countryside outside of Florence and then enjoying the comforts of our own rented house in Lucca, birthplace of Italy's greatest opera composer, author of the music that runs through my blood, Giacomo Puccini. Lucca is hosting an italian music festival to which we have tickets. John Legend is playing and as we are all rabid fans it seemed a most sublime setting for a fantastic musician playing in the hallowed halls of the musical greats who came before him. It also doesn't hurt that Lucca is also known for its fantastic local cheese and salumi!
Meanwhile, while I try to keep my head spinning around on its axis, I am still far from the recovery I had hoped for. My energy comes and goes and just when I'm sure I'm quit of one painful side effect or another, it comes roaring back and knocks me back down again. My days go smoother when I take naps, which I detest as they are horrid wastes of time. I don't quite have the activities to fill up that time anyway but regardless, I resent the loss of daylight per force of habit. I hope with my little steps and frosted roses to inch my way back to needing and using all of my daylight.
Regardless however, Tuesday my buttercream dreams begin. I love to bake, cakes being my particular favorite and working to hone a skill doing something I love I hope will make me feel a little more like the person I had come to believe I had created. This sickness has taken my independence in many ways; I depend almost exclusively on my family to transport me anywhere I need to go and provide me with anything I need. The chronic pain and the drugs have dulled my wits and sucked the joy from my soul, like a tiny dementor has taken up residence in my chest. It may be a small thing, but piping the best scallop in the class or accomplishing a perfectly smooth finish on my cake feels like waving my spatula like a wand and banishing that darkness, allowing me to see me in the mirror again.
My second project has been turning my attention towards my Italy trip which grows ever nearer. We have made the decision to amend our original itinerary due to its ambition: we had planned to see Rome, Tuscany, and Naples, before returning to Rome to enjoy a last few days. Since I am exceedingly less mobile now than I was when we came up with this plan we have decided to scale down our ambitions dramatically and instead spend an extended period of time in beautiful Tuscany, first in the countryside outside of Florence and then enjoying the comforts of our own rented house in Lucca, birthplace of Italy's greatest opera composer, author of the music that runs through my blood, Giacomo Puccini. Lucca is hosting an italian music festival to which we have tickets. John Legend is playing and as we are all rabid fans it seemed a most sublime setting for a fantastic musician playing in the hallowed halls of the musical greats who came before him. It also doesn't hurt that Lucca is also known for its fantastic local cheese and salumi!
Meanwhile, while I try to keep my head spinning around on its axis, I am still far from the recovery I had hoped for. My energy comes and goes and just when I'm sure I'm quit of one painful side effect or another, it comes roaring back and knocks me back down again. My days go smoother when I take naps, which I detest as they are horrid wastes of time. I don't quite have the activities to fill up that time anyway but regardless, I resent the loss of daylight per force of habit. I hope with my little steps and frosted roses to inch my way back to needing and using all of my daylight.
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