Blessed antibiotics. Verily, if we didn't have them in this day and age, I think it could be said that I might very well have been a goner this past week. But we do have them, so I can keep on bugging you, my devoted Cake Eater readers.

Yes, I am better. I'm still not pumping on all four cylinders, but am doing ok on about two and a half.

It's been such an eventful past week and a half, that I don't really know where to begin, so I shall try and sum things up in bullet format, because, honestly, I don't have the energy to put this thing in essay format. Here's the story:

• Went in to the hospital on Friday, the eleventh, to have another go with the sclerosis. They put the kaibosh on that once it became obvious that I was feeling the 98% pure alcohol they were pumping in---which I shouldn't have been. Down the hall to the X-Ray machine they go, they pump in some contrast, take some pictures, and ascertain that there's a hole in the lymphocele, dear Henry, because the contrast is leaking out of it and into my peritoneal cavity. Furthermore, the radiologist informs me that the fluid that's draining into my neato bag looks more like peritoneal cavity fluid than it does like lymphatic fluid this hole might explain it. I've got some cool photos of this procedure, but as they're not of the digital variety, I won't be posting them. Suffice it to say, they decided to send me home while they consulted with Dr. Academic to see what he wanted to do.
• We trudge home, only to find out four hours later that Dr. Academic is out of town and his main nurse has decided to take the day off in celebration. The question of what to do gets thrown to the nurse practitioner, who is fairly decent but whom I don't know at all, and she punts: she says, "Let's wait and see if the lymphocele doesn't close up so we can have another go with the sclerosis." Greeeeaaaaat.
• The drainage tube gets clogged (yeah, I know, bleech) on Sunday, which involves another trip down to the hospital. The pain is also a lot worse, and I can't really figure out why. There's been pain associated with this thing, but since the installation, it's wheedled its way down. Now it's back at full, nerve rending force. It feels like it's going away after the de-clogging, but it doesn't. It gets worse. By the wee hours of Monday morning, I'm in such pain that I'm telling the husband we need to go back down to the hospital. He's exhausted, however, and is in no mood to coordinate an early hours ER trip---with all that entails for us, who have no car---so I suck it up, take some pain meds, and go to bed, hoping it will be better in the morning.

• It's not better in the morning. In fact, I scream not once, not twice, but three times as I tried to get out of bed. Excruciating, I believe, would be the word to describe it. We call Dr. Academic's off-hours answering service and announce that we're heading to the hospital. We do the same with the interventional radiology department. We get checked into the ER, and after a wait, are introduced to the nice people who will be handling my case. One nice nurse and one nice doctor, who, between the two of them, manage to hook me up to some IV morphine (oh, the lovely morphine) and get me set up for another CT scan. I'm wheeled down to the CT scanner, they run me through, shoot me up with some contrast, and they declare all looks fine, and they can't understand why I'd be in such pain. I even get a new radiologist, who wants me to actually keep the thing in so I can undergo more sclerosis procedures in a few weeks. Bite me. I tell him the thing's coming out.
• I actually felt sorry for the ER doctor, who really was a very nice guy, trying to coordinate everything. Seems as if Dr. Academic decided this would be a good week to take a vacation, so he's not around. My original radiologist isn't around either. I'm getting second-stringers all the way around. Distinguished second-stringers, but second-stringers nonetheless. Yet, we all agree on the plan to remove the catheter, and, after a few hours of waiting, which went fine for me, because I was high as a kite, but was somewhat more trying for the husband, the very nice nurse who'd been handling my drain all along came down and removed the thing, and I was finally released. I felt better and had hopes everything would get better entirely in time.
• It didn't. The pain was still there that night, and when I awoke at about four in the morning, completely drenched, I was tempted to put it off as a night sweat, but took my temperature anyway. Good thing I did, too, because it was 102. The good times just keep coming!
• Next morning, we call into Dr. Academic's office first thing, and the husband, who has HAD IT with being shunted around, stays on-hold and when the main nurse finally picks up the line, shoots so much information about what's happened over the past couple of days that I think the poor woman's ears must be smoking. When he's done with his laundry list, he hands the phone over to me. She asks, "What's going on?" "I think it's infected. I'm running a fever and I'm in pain. It's red in a few spots." "Chills?" "Yep." "Ok, let me talk to the other nurse and we'll get a prescription for some antibiotics called in for you." A half hour later, I've got the actual prescription in my hot little hands and am ingesting a Levanquin tablet. It helps. Immediately. The pain isn't a whole lot better, but it's easing. The fevers haven't gone away, but I feel as if we're getting a handle on things. This is when it becomes clear that my bedroom is going to be the extent of my world for the next few days.
• I sleep a lot. I manage to lose my appetite entirely, but somehow manage to subsist on lifesavers and sprite alone (and I'm thinking the fact I've got a couple of good sized hamhocks on my ass had something to do with it.). The husband is caregiver extraordinaire. He takes temperatures, tries to get me to eat, keeps the drugs at hand, helps me up and down, and is just in general a good egg. By Friday, which is when the main nurse told me I would be feeling better, I am actually feeling a bit better. I'm very fond of drugs which do precisely what they say they're going to do. Alexander Fleming: I am your bitch. Whatever you might need from the hereafter, I'm your girl. Just say the word.
• Yesterday, I was able to walk around the neighborhood a bit, which was nice because it was GORGEOUS outside yesterday. Woohoo. Spring has finally arrived, it seems. Only question is, will Kathy get to enjoy it this year? The verdict's still out on that one. The problem of the infection may have been solved, but the lymphocele's still there, throbbing away, and I haven't the foggiest on what we're going to do about it. I suspect surgery. We'll just have to see, though.
• And, now, my devoted Cake Eater readers, I'm off to take a nap, because this recapping business is tiring. Particularly when you're on percocet.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:20 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 1299 words, total size 7 kb.

So, there was a reason why Dr. Academic opted for moi to have a simple drainage instead of the booze-inserting procedure...and that reason is, ahem, it effin' hurts. The original radiologist wasn't kidding when she said the drainage was "more comfortable" than the sclerosis procedure. Sheesh. If someone would have explained this, yea, verily, I would have understood.

Everything leading up to the procedure was pretty much the same. The ugly gown, the nasty texturized socks, the struggling to start an IV, the wheeling of my fat ass to the CT scanner. You know, the regular. It became apparent, however, when I entered the room that things were a wee bit different this time around. This time there was a lot more equipment in the room---surgical looking equipment. There were also pads lining the CT Scanner, you know, in case I leaked. They got me set up, and I was introduced to a new radiologist. He was a nice guy, and while I've forgotten his name, he explained that he'd chatted with Dr. Academic, and they'd jointly decided that the best bet for me would be to insert a catheter into the lymphocele, for improved drainage. He said that the alcohol probably wasn't going to do the trick the first time around, that they'd probably have to take two or three whacks at it, and that having a catheter installed would a. make it easier the next time around, it would b. help us determine the amount of drainage to see just how efficacious the process had been in the first place. With that explained, they went to town, doing much the same thing as they had last time, but obviously there were more drugs involved this time because all I really remember about the whole process was that a. it hurt and b. we had an interesting conversation whilst all this was going down about the kidney guy over at Methodist. I expressed my opinion that the mistake had to have been in the chart long enough that everyone thought they were removing the correct kidney, and the radiologist agreed with me. He even added that he'd just looked over some images that morning where left and right had been mixmatched, and said it was hardly uncommon for that to happen. (Take that for what it's worth.) He said he doubted if the surgeon would ever perform surgery again, even if the guy was cleared in the investigation. Interesting conversations aside, soon thereafter I'd had another 50cc of fluid drained, a wire had been inserted via the needle, I'd had a big ol' blue catheter stuck to my belly with adhesive tape, and about 10cc of pure alcohol had been inserted into the lymphocele. Attached to the big blue catheter (it's not really that big. It's a little bit bigger than a fifty-cent piece), is a foot long bit of tubing attached to what looks like IV bag. In the midst of this is a locking mechanism that can turn the flow on or off, or can reverse it entirely. If it wasn't attached to me, it would be interesting, but it is attached to me, so it falls strictly into the "YEEEEUUUCH" category.

They wheeled me back down to my room and then it was time for the ceremonial "Rolling Around of the Patient." They have to make sure that the alcohol hits the entire inside of the lymphocele so I had to spend fifteen minutes on my back, another fifteen on my left side, my right side, and, of course, my belly. This was, to put it mildly, excruciating. Of course, I was starving by this point in time, so I ate lunch while this was going on and was called "Ernie" by the husband because of all the crumbs I left in the bed. {insert "whatever" shrug of shoulders here} Not only was I extremely sore from the catheter insertion, the alcohol stung like a mo'fo. When the nurse pulled the booze out, I was relieved. Until I realized that the pain of having the catheter inserted still hadn't let up. Another nurse, who deals specifically with drains, came in and explained all the various equipment that was now attached to my body, how to keep it clean, how to drain the bag and measure the contents. It's important, we were told, to keep it clean (lest it get infected) and to keep accurate records, because this would be crucial in deciding how many more times I needed to have the alcohol inserted. The more drainage I had, the worse it was, and the more I would have to undergo this procedure. (The radiologist suspected that, even though we were going to give this a good whack, it wouldn't close up at all. He said he thought that the lymph nodes were draining into this thing entirely and that would keep it from doing so, but he was going to give it his best shot, so we wouldn't have to resort to surgery.) The less drainage I had, well, you probably get the picture. After that, they handed me a prescription for some vicodin, all the various equipment we needed to keep the drain up and running, and we were on our way out of there.

So, that's where we're at. I'm very sore right now. Getting up and down, in and out of bed, is trying. Vicodin, again, is my friend. The husband is, poor guy, having to deal with taking care of me. Nevertheless, the pain is better today than it was yesterday, when I was seriously trying to judge just which procedure---my hysterectomy or this---had been more painful. (I've come to the conclusion that I think I just had better drugs after the hysterectomy.) Moving around isn't fun, particularly when you add in that I have to carry around this bag every time I want to go someplace. It's sort of like having an IV, and it's interesting how quickly your mind reverts to having to take that thing with you everywhere, but it's still a pain. I have to cover the stupid thing up with saran wrap when I want to take a shower, and I'm told I can lock the mechanism and disconnect the bag from the tubing when I shower, but I'm scared of doing so, lest I futz the whole thing up because we know Kathy isn't one of the mechanically inclined few. I can't remember whether I'm supposed to call them or if they're going to call me to see where we're at regarding the drainage; I just know I could be back in the radiology department by Friday to have another tete-a-tete with the booze. It's all just a big mess.

But, I suspect, I shall live. Now, if you don't mind, I shall leave you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, because I've got an appointment with my bed and some vicodin and I intend to keep it.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:41 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 1169 words, total size 7 kb.

It didn't work.

I suspected as much, a few days after the procedure, when the pain came back. There was the "getting over the soreness the procedure caused" pain, and then there was the regular pain, yet it was fairly simple to realize that latter shouldn't have been there. Then there was the fact that when I palpated the lymphocele itself, it was hard again, whereas it had been all soft and mushy---the way it's supposed to be normally---right after the procedure. I called into Dr. Academic's main nurse, talked to her about it, and, since I already had a CT scan scheduled for the 25th, we decided it would be best to keep that appointment, to confirm or deny my diagnosis.

So, last Tuesday, after my volunteer shift, I checked in for yet another CT scan---this time with the added joy of contrast! If you've ever had a regular CT scan, you'll know that it's like having an X-ray taken, but instead of holding still while they shoot a still picture, you have to hold your breath while they run you in and out of a donut a few times. In other words, it's fairly painless, and leaves you with you an odd craving for Krispy Kremes. The contrast, however, adds the sprinkles to the donut. You have to take oral contrast at three specific times before your appointment, but then when you go in for the actual appointment, they insert yet another IV, and then, while you're being scanned, they shoot you up with more contrast, which, I have to tell you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, isn't a whole lot of fun, even if it is over with quickly. You feel three things when they inject the contrast: a full body flush; a nasty copper-ish taste in your mouth, that reminded me of having a mouthful of blood; and, finally, the urge to pee REALLY BADLY, like when you're on a road trip, you've drank a soda and there are no restrooms for a hundred miles and you're really tempted, despite being a lady, to pull over and relieve yourself in the weeds. Fortunately, these lovely side effects were over in few moments, and once I stopped bleeding from having the IV removed (more advil is the culprit) I was out the door a little over an hour after I'd checked in for the procedure. After it was over and done with, I was happy, but I wasn't anxious about the results: the thing had either filled up again, or it hadn't, and, either way, I'd find out in a week, which was my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Academic.

Yesterday, again after my volunteer shift (I prefer the one-stop-shop), I humped it over to Dr. Academic's office, only to find out, after I'd filled out the required check-in slip that Dr. Academic had moved his practice. What? If I'd bothered to look at the sign listing out all the occupants outside the main door, I would have noticed his name was no longer on that list. But I hadn't, so it was news to me that he'd moved. Fortunately for me, however, he hadn't gone very far: just down one floor, into a larger office, that he now shares with a thoracic surgeon. It's their first day in the new office, so, obviously, they're still working the kinks out. I schlep myself down to that office, then schlep myself back up to the main office, to the lab, where I had blood drawn, then it's back down the stairs we go, for the endless wait that usually accompanies visits to Dr. Academic. By the time he enters the exam room, a little over an hour later, he closes the doors, wearily leans back against it, lets out a long sigh, and says, "It's filled up again."

Somehow, I resist the urge to reply, "No shit, Sherlock."

He quizzed me about some numbness in my left thigh I'd felt after my surgery until about December, which, magically, reappeared after the first draining. We chat about the pain it's causing. (He suspects the lymphocele appeared right after the surgery and this was causing the numbness all along.) And then we decide that the best thing to do in this circumstance is to have the procedure I thought I was to have originally---where they drain the lymphocele, much like last time, only after that the radiologist will insert the caustic agent of her choice (it'll either be alcohol, or talc, or perhaps something else), shift me around a few times to make sure it hits all the high points within, and then, supposedly, the lymphocele will fill up with scar tissue, but should also shrink considerably. This is supposedly the silver bullet that will solve the problem. The procedure is technically called "CT guided drainage with sclerosis." There was some bit about "on the left iliac chain" in there, too, but I didn't write that down, so it's lost to the shifting sands of my memory. I'm scheduled to have this done on Monday, April 7th, and hopefully it will work, because I really don't know where we go from there if it doesn't, and as I'm fearful that it would probably include surgery, it had better work. Fortunately, this procedure is, like the last one, outpatient. Second verse, same as the first.

This, my devoted Cake Eater readers, is why there's been a dearth of decent posts around here for the past couple of weeks. I'm in pain. Is it as bad as the pain that caused me to go running to the hospital in the first place? No. It's not anywhere remotely near that level, thank God, but pain is pain. It distracts you and, no matter how many drugs you take to deal with it, it wipes you out. It sucks your energy away, like a runaway Dyson. Life becomes a slog, instead of this joyful, better smelling and looking experience it was supposed to be after I was declared to be as close to cured as I'm likely to get. It not only represents a big mental shift (I was supposed to be DONE WITH THIS SORT OF THING, HELLO!), it just takes you right back to where you don't want to be: being physically incapacitated. You'd think I'd know by now that's it's a baaaad thing to write when I feel like this, that I just drive people away with my weirdness, but, alas, I just want things to continue apace, so I write, because that's what I do. I've spent enough time being sick, in pain, and not being productive, and I just want. it. to. be. over. with. Hence, you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, get screedy posts that make no sense, and I'm sorry for that. I should just keep to the one liner posts in circumstances such as this. I suspect I won't be posting too much over the next few days, just because my drug of choice, Advil, is now off the list of things I can take to deal with this, and you shouldn't have to suffer the consequences.

And now? I'm off to take a vicodin, of course, because that's one of the few things I can take now. Good times, no?

Posted by: Kathy at 12:52 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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