Funny how it’s been six years since you passed away, and yet the first thing I wanted to do when I got home from the hospital was to phone you. If I could have called today – I would have.
Honestly, you would have marveled at the new machinery that the nurses, doctors, and technicians used today to implant my port-o-cath. Heck, you would have been interested in the port-o- cath too. I know how much you loved the operating room. Personally, I don’t know why.. but I admired you for this passion you had. I think you just always loved learning and doing something different. I also know you loved the people. You would have been very pleased with the way I was treated today. I guess I am now becoming a frequent flyer and RVH, enough that I am recognized.
It was Dr. Morrison who inserted this tube into my jugular. She was very knowledgeable and I was immediately put at ease. I wasn’t sure, while I lay under the ultrasound/x-ray machine if I had even been drugged. For some reason, I was calm. (Unlike last night when I couldn’t sleep – hard to imagine what it would be like having surgery anywhere near the jugular without being a bit anxious). Zan, the nurse who administered my sedative, explained to me that it was a cocktail which contained fentanyl… remember you used the patch to control your arthritis pain? Immediately I was drowsy. Then, the freezing to my chest, followed by pressure being exerted here, there, and everywhere. Really, the only thing that felt uncomfortable with the initial IV – which galvanized my opinion that a port-o- cath was the right answer for future chemos.
Katya took me this morning bright and early. Oh, Mom. I wish you knew her now. I am so proud of her. Remember how you could depend on me to help you whevever you needed help? Well, I felt the same way about her today – as I do so many days. She has worked so hard to get to where she is today – and is so very excited to get into massage therapy. I am thrilled for her. She drove me. She stayed with me. She asked questions. She took care of my things. She brought me home. Sound familiar?
Funnily enough, Rita dropped in too as Grandma has been in hospital for over a week now, so she was between Grandma’s room and imaging. Does that sound familiar too? All in all, I have been well cared for between family and friends, Mom.
I still miss you. I must confess, though, that I’m glad you are not around for all of this nonsense as you would have worried to death. I think you would have loved being back in the nursing environment, but worried that I was okay. You always worried. Thank goodness you did as I was always so bad at taking care of myself. You’ll be happy to know that has changed.
The site where there was surgery is only slightly tender but I was told to take some tylenol. It also looks like I can’t get it wet for 10 days – but after that I can resume my normal life-style. Ten days will, ironically enough, take me to chemo #3. That is mid-way. Hard to believe. Half way seems like it is do-able. And then this new remission drug sounds so hopeful that I am almost thinking I’ll be right as rain. Please, cross your fingers or at least put in a good word for me with the big Guy?
I brought Jazz upstairs to keep me company this afternoon. She and I are both alone today. I am ready to snooze and she… well as is typical… is already asleep. She missed her walk this morning even though David was willing to walk with me.
There’s another fine young man, Mom. Oh, you would be so proud. He is just simply delightful and so well rounded. He remains my baby even though he has soared above me in height. He is kind and caring. And he, like Ben, is so very good looking. All of my children have your beautiful mouth and your kind nature. Katya has Poppa’s sense of adventure. I think she would have done well to fly a plane with Dad.
It’s the kind of day today where it is threatening to rain and windy. I am snuggled in bed and will watch some cooking shows. Kevin comes home tomorrow from a conference that he helped to run for work. It is a struggle for him, I think, to find a balance between work, family, and me. I think scuba has taken time off – but is not forgotten.
Mom – I miss your hugs. I miss your smile. I miss your wisdom. Maybe you’ll come and visit me if I sleep right now? I’d love to meet you for a glass of wine in my dreams. Maybe a rum and coke (Cuba Libre perhaps?).
All the nurses at RVH know about you. I brag. Of course I do.
I just thought maybe writing you this letter today would help me through today. It isn’t tough, but it is different. I have yet another experience to tuck under my belt. I’m getting lots of them. BUT – that is hopeful. There is still so much that can be done to help me manage this disease. And I have to be grateful for that.
I cannot help but wonder if that gene came from you – and if you had ovarian cancer in the end? You had the symptoms. In any case – I’m sending a letter to cousins to tell them about it – in case they want to be screened and avoid all this mess.
For now, though, I’m going to sign off and tell you how much I still love you. I still miss you. How you are always in my thoughts.
Hope to see you in my dreams.