When An Allergy is a Good Thing

When last I left you, I was hopped up on narcotics, trying to ignore my post (2nd) surgery pain by writing.  Something about cleaning out infection and then washing my innards with saline and antibiotic wash left my body feeling a bit ... oh ... bitchy. 

Bitchy as in "just breathe and sit, no, stand, no walk, no sit" bitchy.  I kept focusing on just getting through the next hour and, roughly 24 hours after surgery, I finally felt relief.  That's the beauty of the phrase "nothing lasts forever."  For as many times as it signals the end of something that gave us happiness, it also signals the end or a change in something that makes our life painful.

As I explained before, my doctor sent off my "lots of stuff" to the lab to be cultured.  Rather than picturing Julie Roberts being taught which fork to use, picture your favorite hero smacking the shit out of a bad guy while yelling, "Tell me where she is!" or "Give me the antidote!" or "Where's the bomb!" I spoke with Dr. App on Friday long enough to be assured that the preliminary results of the lab interrogation meant at least that I wasn't infected with MRSA - a particularly nasty form of staph infection that is resistant to commonly used antibiotics. 

[It's the bugs that'll get us in the end, people!]

*insert heavy sigh of relief*

So when I received a call from Dr. App the next day - on Saturday - I ... well, honestly, I immediately wondered what the hell my doctor was calling me for on a Saturday.  I didn't expect good news.  And I certainly didn't get great news.

The good news was I had an infection of a type of bacteria that really does live all around us: Pseudomonas aeruginosa is a very common type of bacteria that can be found in the soil, in water, on our skin - really generally in our environment.  In healthy people, it might cause an ear infection or skin rash (think of that nasty rash you got in a sketchy hot tub).  Great, right!  Common is good.  Oh, but, see, when you get this bacteria in the setting of a hospital, it can be particularly nasty.  1) You're immune system is already under attack from either an illness or wound, i.e., surgery and 2) the strains of this bacteria found in medical settings are - you guessed it - becoming increasingly resistant to antibiotics. 

Dr. App was letting me know that while the culture showed this to be the culprit of my infection, she was having the lab perform sensitivity testing on my particular strain to see if the antibiotic (Levaquin) she'd put me on back on February 12th - five days before my surgery - would be effective against it.  Obviously, if not, I'd need to switch to something else and any leftover bacteria would likely be recuperating after the surgery battle of February 17th.  I still had five pills left and I continued to take the rest of them.

Now, normally, she would have given me a drug related more to Amoxicillin to battle this infection.  But, see, this one time in Law School, during finals, I got struck with Strep.  Yep.  Because Tax Law isn't nasty enough.  [I can't actually remember which year, which final, or which stress-inducing subject I was studying at the time but it totally could have been tax.]  I also had a skin rash at the time (law school is completely bad for your health) and noticed that it was getting much worse after the Amoxicillin doses began.  My doctor switched my antibiotic, the rash went away, and I now have to list Amoxicillin as an allergy every time I encounter a new doctor.

Cue the nurses in Dr. App's office trying to decide what to prescribe me on February 12th when it was apparent that the hole in Frankenboob had become a condominium to millions of bacterial foreigners.  "What about ______."  No, she's allergic.  "How about ______?"  I think that's related to Amoxicillin.  "Let's call Dr. App."

Levaquin shouldn't trigger my allergy to Amoxicillin and it is good for skin infections, i.e., wound infections.   And thus my antibiotic selection was made and my single-handed monetary support of the yogurt business was born. 

------------------------------------

FYI:  Yasso makes a kick ASS frozen yogurt bar with live cultures to replace that good bacteria that your antibiotic is mass murdering.  Try the Sea Salt Caramel.  And you're welcome.

---------------------------------------

I saw Dr. App for my 1st post op appointment this Tuesday and *knock on wood* everything seems to be healing well again.  Granted, my 1st post op after my 1st surgery seemed okay, too, so I'm being overly careful this time around.  Plus, the sensitivity testing was complete and my infection is "sensitive" to my current antibiotic, i.e., Levaquin is kicking ass. 

I see Dr. App again next Tuesday and, barring any setbacks, she'll give her approval for my chemotherapy to begin March 4th.  That's just one of the crazy things about cancer:  It has me hoping for something that will cause me pain and the loss of all of my hair because of the further hope that it will kill every cancer cell and I'll not have to do this over again later in life.

So, again, the odd part?  I asked and, had I not been allergic to Amoxicillin, Dr. App would have put me on a different antibiotic ... and it would not have worked on my version of pseudomonas.  Who knows if the infection would have taken hold again, if I'd be looking at another clean-up procedure, and another delay from chemotherapy.  But now I have a better chance that such a delay won't happen again.

All because of an allergy.

I Preferred "A Bit"

As I've mentioned, I have "a bit" of cancer.  In the world of cancer, I'm a Stage 1 - a "relatively" small amount, in one location, and immensely treatable (knock on wood with me).  And I went into my 2nd surgery late yesterday afternoon believing I had a bit of an infection.

Hmm.

My dynamo doc explained after my surgery that there was "a lot" of "stuff" in there.  A lot as in more than certainly could be seen in my Frankenboob hole.  And stuff as in ... infection of some unknown bacteria.  But my dynamo doc cleared all of that out of me, washed the area first with saline and then washed it again with an antibiotic wash. 

DIE, GERMS, DIE!!

Now, knowing how tough my little doc is, I envision a lot of tough love going on between she and Frankenboob before she stitched me back up.  And I'm certainly feeling the aftermath today.  Let me set the scene ...

***

My surgery took place at Blodgett Hospital this time rather than the surgical center I was at for my initial lumpectomy on January 29, 2016.  Again, kudos to the Spectrum team of nurses and doctors; everyone was wonderful for my time there. 

I started out in a hospital room where I first had to pee in a cup because I've never had a hysterectomy and, well, am probably carrying the second coming of Christ, don't you know. Yes, they have to give me a pregnancy test.  Yes, even though they just did that on January 29.  Yes, yes, even though it would mean an immaculate conception. 

I again donned the gown with built-in air conditioning/heating and tried to convince the nurses that I did not purposefully match my purple nail polish to the gown.  Or my glasses.  I again had an IV placed in the back of my hand; it's never my favorite but the nurses have been excellent in trying to minimize any discomfort (Ha - PAIN! - it's called sticking a needle into ....good gracious, I'm a wuss) I felt and I appreciate it.  I met my nurse, my anesthesiologist (so wait ... I might remember what?), and, of course, saw Dr. App before being wheeled on my bed into the surgery room.

Each person introduced themselves and explained their part in the process.  My anesthesiologist, who could have been brothers with one of our local Grand Rapids comedians (Stu McCallister), explained that I would not be under general anesthesia this time but would be kept comfortable and sleeping for most of the procedure.  He assured me that if I did remember anything, it would not be something that was painful.  [And he was correct.]

I helped transfer myself from the hospital bed to the surgery table (those things are so narrow) and then separate side holders were placed to support both arms out away from the body, a bit like a cross honestly.  Eventually, my arms were secured and I went to sleep as everyone was busy getting ready. 

I DID wake up while things were still happening but felt no pain.  There was something over my head, which makes sense because they are working in a sterile environment, but at the time, I recall saying something like, "Can you move this from my face?" and "So how's it going?" and trying to - like a drugged idiot - catch the cover with part of my face to move it so I could see.  Because THAT would have turned out well.  I wonder how often a surgical team gets to laugh afterwards about the antics of their patients.  I know I would.

I was awake enough to remember sitting up so that Dr. App could wrap my wound, wrap, wrap, wrap, then wrap some more with an ace bandage, then put another stylish surgical bra on top.  Picture a heavy duty weight lifter.  No, wait, picture this:

THE snowsuit from A Christmas Story

Yep.  My arms aren't touching my sides naturally at the moment.  Which is fine because I'm pretty sure my sides what NOTHING to do with me right now, particularly the left side. The pain will probably be the worst today but should get better by tomorrow.  It did last time anyway.  *fingers crossed* 

I was awake and able to get back onto the hospital bed before being rolled into the recovery area where I'm pretty sure I was a star patient.  I was in very little if any pain, was able to use the restroom on my own, and was fairly quickly wheeled back to a hospital room to finish all the pre-release tests.  I was given a double chocolate muffin, heated up, which was a heavenly beginning to my food for the day at about 6 p.m. after a day of clear liquids only.  I left between 30-45 minutes later.

*****

Dr. App has sent a sample of the "lot of stuff" off to be identified in case a different antibiotic would be more effective.  I'll be interested in hearing what nefarious microorganisms has been colonizing my body and knowing that we are using the most effective means of eradicating them.  Damn immigrants. 

[Can I make that joke in this political climate even when I'm talking about my body?  Before making an assumption as to my views on the subject in our country, don't.  My joke above in no way reflects my thoughts on the subject.  And no, I'm not inclined to share them.  And you'll likely be blocked or unfriended if you push the subject with me.  This has been a public service announcement of the Justa-Blog-System.]

A Slightly Wrong Children's Song

You know that feeling when you can't get a melody out of your head?  One's been twirling around my brain since last night ... when I changed the dressing on my Frankenboob wound.

See if you can hear it, too.

***

There's a hole in my boob, dear doctor, dear doctor,
There's a hole in my boob, dear doctor, a hole!

Then fix it, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Then fix it, dear Kimmie, dear  Kimmie, fix it.

With what shall I fix it, dear doctor, dear doctor,
With what shall I fix it, dear doctor, with what?

With wet/dry dressing, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

With wet/dry dressing dear Kimmie, use saline solution.

It's not working, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,
It's not working dear doctor, dear doctor, now what?

Here's some medicine, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Here's some medicine, dear Kimmie, take one a day, start now!

But this medicine can cause nerve pain and extra heartbeats, dear doctor,
But this medicine can hurt tendons, dear doctor, WTF?!

Come and see me, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Come and see me, dear Kimmie, on Monday afternoon next.

But what in the meantime, dear doctor, dear doctor,
But what in the meantime, dear doctor, there's a hole!

Take your medicine, change your dressings, and don't move, dear Kimmie,

Take your medicine, dear Kimmie, and watch a show on Netflix.

There's a hole in my boob, dear people, dear people,
There's a hole in my boob, dear people, a freakin' HOLE!

Oh, and watch out for mood swings, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie,

Watch out for paranoia, dear Kimmie, dear Kimmie, watch out.

SERIOUSLY?!

***

This hole is seriously damaging my calm.

Meanwhile, here's a happier version from my childhood.  You know, back when my boobs were tiny and cancer-free:

Oh, Henry.  How you're not smacked over the head is beyond me.  The hole is half-way up the damn bucket, Henry.  It can hold enough to sharpen the stone. 

Logic and children's songs don't always mix. 

Excuse me while I go see if I have any worsening nightmares (another possible side effect).  I'm sure death is listed there as well.  I swear the warnings on medicine are enough to make you fear the medicine more than the disease.

Nope. Not paranoid AT ALL. 

THERE'S A FREAKIN' HOLE.

Relativity

You've most likely heard the phrase, "It's all relative."  I was reminded of the truth of this today along with the sentiment, "Everyone is fighting their own battle." 

I had my 2nd post-op appointment at my surgeon's office and had the hope to have lots of sutures removed and a green light for my chemotherapy to begin next Friday.  I know, it's odd to think of someone wanting that fright-fest to begin, but I have the dates (including the end date) in my head and have been trying to mentally prepare myself for next Friday so ... I'd like to proceed as planned. 

The appointment did not go as planned.

See, this thing called gravity (Ah, Sir Newton), has been pulling Frankenboob down despite my alternating between a mega-supportive sports bra and corset-tight wrap.  The result is that one of the sutures pulled open and ... well .... open wounds are not good things.  I'm now on an antibiotic with instructions to use wet/dry dressings (a square wet with saline solution on the wound with a dry dressing on top), and have a follow-up appointment with Dr. App on Monday afternoon.  It will really be up to her at that appointment as to whether I proceed as planned next Friday.

Meanwhile, my lymph node incision site is doing beautifully and the sutures were removed today.  Odd to think that a location that had much more movement (and next to my armpit) is fine yet the underside of Frankenboob is toxic.

With my perfectly planned next steps and appointments in jeopardy, I picked up the antibiotic prescription and decided to cheer myself up with a protein rich and delicious omelet at Real Food Café (pretty much my second home these days).  I sat down, grumbling internally over the doctor's visit, my toxic tit, and my possible delay in treatment.  I was frustrated and feeling pretty sorry for myself overall.

I glanced next to me and saw two women having lunch.  The younger of the two was talking nonstop and it was easy to tell that this was a young adult daughter talking to her mother.  I also noticed pretty quickly that the mother had some difficulty in speaking and moving.  After making sure that the server understood her mother's order, the daughter continued telling her mother about her plans for the future - school, work, living arrangements, etc.  It did not appear that the mother's condition was recent although I certainly don't know that for sure. 

The two left before I was finished and three men took their place.  One of the men, pulled the table out so that his friend/son/brother could easily sit down.  It was apparent that the man had both difficulty speaking and a physical disability.  Once seated, the table was replaced and the two men joined the third and proceeded to ensure that the server understood all of their lunch orders.

Honestly, I felt ashamed.  I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself because of a completely treatable medical condition when, in the course of 30 minutes or so, here were two individuals who are living with what appear to be lifelong conditions.  Now, please don't misunderstand me.  I have no idea what either of these individuals think or feel about their conditions ... or even if they think of them as conditions.  But it reminded me that everything is relative. 

Having a "bit" of cancer is a pain in my ass - or, rather, a pain in my breast.  But the tumor was relatively small, it was caught relatively early, and my treatment is expected to be relatively manageable with an actual end date.  In the grand scheme of things, in the many ways in which life and health can smack us upside the head, when I could just as easily live in a place where medical treatments are not as advanced, are too expensive, where even clean water is a luxury, my life is still relatively freakin' spectacular. 

Everything is relative. 

I also found myself remembering that everyone is fighting their own battle.  If you saw me today, you would have no idea that I have cancer, or that I'm ill in any way.  You certainly wouldn't know that I have an infected hole in my breast, or would be grabbing yogurt on my way home to re-stock the good bacteria in my body after the antibiotic kills the good, the bad, and the ugly indiscriminately.  I looked around that diner and started wondering what other people were going through.  What hidden battles waited for them at home, or never left them alone.  Medical conditions, mental conditions, the loss of loved ones, financial difficulties, heartbreak ... the potential list is endless. 

It's so easy to be caught up in our own lives that we assume a nice car means the person that just cut us off did so because he's an asshole, not because he's racing to the hospital to be with a loved one.  The woman taking too long to decide what she wants (IT'S MCDONALD'S - DO YOU NOT KNOW THE MENU?!) is simply an idiot, not completely emotionally bent over a breakup or job loss.

One late breakfast humbled me.  I hope I do better in remembering both how blessed I am and that I've no idea what battles are being faced all around me. 

Now, excuse me while I go replace my soaked dressing - WTH! - with a new one.

Stupid toxic tit! 

Still ... relatively ... not that big of a deal.