A New Nickname-Part 2

Listen to this reflection by playing the video below or continue down the page to read the full text version.

Her doctor indicated the surgery would take about two hours. They would do a quick instant biopsy and if it was positive for cancer, they would perform additional surgery to remove her appendix and other organs to make sure they got as much of the surrounding tissue as possible.

Then began the wait. A nurse called us after about an hour saying everything was going as planned and the doctor would meet with us after completion of the surgery. After about two and a half hours, her oncologist came out. We were in the middle of the waiting area, but since it was only two days to Christmas, we were sharing the space with only one other family. Her doctor sat down and took a tissue to wipe a tear from her eye before she began her summary. Before she even uttered the first word, we knew it was bad news.

The surgery was a total success she said. They removed seven liters of fluid from the tumor to shrink it enough to fit through the incision. A quick test on the tissue found it abnormal, meaning cancer. A more thorough biopsy would be performed that would take a few days, but this meant they proceeded with the continency plan to clean house so to speak. The oncologist described the procedure in detail and the hopeful conclusion that it was all removed and she saw no evidence of additional cancer. After the official biopsy results came back, she would share with us her treatment plan moving forward. We were devastated.

The doctor told Amy everything after the surgery, but indicated that coming out of anesthesia, most patients will not remember the conversation the next day. Before we left for the night, however, Amy had a task for us. She did not want our friends and family worrying about her. She insisted we record a short video from her hospital bed to send to them to ease their minds.

“Hi everybody, I just wanted to send a quick video out to let you know I am doing so well. I feel so well. I am very excited we are through step 1. I know we have heard that word cancer, but we believe we’ve got it all and we think it’s just a stage 1. Just wanted to send that out. Wanted to also wish you a very Merry Christmas and we’ll know more next week. So, Love you all. Take care. Bye, Bye.” (See this video in the vlog to be posted in a couple of weeks)

We sent that video out to about a dozen friends and family. Her positivity and optimism from her hospital bed brightened everyone’s night. The return messages of love and encouragement absolutely brightened ours. I never asked her if it was her added intent to have her bedside message rebound to us and give us hope and encouragement, but I’ve always suspected it was part of her true intention.

We agreed to meet before the doctor’s rounds at 7:00 AM the next morning to refresh her memory after the anesthesia wore off. Claire and I and Mary and Jerry (sister and brother-in-law) joined us the next morning. Free of her fogginess, we asked if she remembered her conversation with the doctor. She did. Every last word. In that moment, she felt no concern for herself, she gently reached up and touched my cheek and asked me “How are you doing? I’ve been worried about you.” After going through the diagnosis and surgery, her only concern was for how we were doing.

We spent the day with her, but she insisted we return home and spend Christmas Eve with our generous neighbors who had gracefully invited us to dinner with their family.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I was worried that we would be heading down a path for which I was not prepared. Snow had been falling at a slow and steady pace since early in the evening. By 2:00 in the morning, I had to do something to shift my negative thoughts swirling through my head. I put on a coat and grabbed a shovel to clear my driveway and distract my mind. At one point, I stopped shoveling and watched as huge snowflakes slowly drifted down on this most holy of nights. It was then I noticed Claire standing just inside the garage with a worried expression on her face. Dressed in her pajamas, a coat, and some snow boots she came out and hugged me. We stayed there for several minutes in silence and understanding as snow fell on our heads and shoulders.

Following the surgery, Amy was discharged from the hospital. She was unable to go up and down stairs immediately following her surgery, so we setup a hospital bed in our living room. She would rehab by doing laps around the house. One side effect of the surgery and anesthesia was an exuberance of gas. At any moment she would spontaneously let out the loudest and longest belches ever known to mankind. It made for some good levity and the relief it gave her was welcome.

By mid-week, Amy was making progress in her recovery, and we were waiting for the full biopsy results. Claire and I were sitting in the Living Room with her watching television when her phone rang. It was her Oncologist with the biopsy results. We braced ourselves, but the doctor was bubbly and almost giddy. She explained that the biopsy results determined that although the tissue was abnormal, it did not have the ability to metastasize. In other words, it was not technically cancer, but a phenomenon known as a borderline ovarian tumor. In her mind, we would need to continue to monitor her levels for a couple of years, but no chemotherapy or radiation was warranted.

After finishing our call with the doctor, we all did a quick little dance jig around the living room and eagerly started to make phone calls to friends and family to share the fantastic news. Amy’s optimism in the face of this crisis earned her a new nickname from me, Ms. Positive. She had been proven right once again.

Note: This episode had no connection to her cancer diagnosis five years later. The pathologies were very different. It was definitely a question we asked both our care team and our consultant with the Mayo clinic.