Yeah, I don't totally remember it either so this post will be mostly made up of first-hand eyewitness accounts and some super depressing pictures that will probably make you cry. They made me cry. But then again, everything makes me cry, even with my super-duper happy drugs!
I read over the blog posts Brad wrote while I was in the hospital (way to go Brad! way to stay on top the blog and be totally awesome like that! goooo Brad go!!). Then I spoke with some friends that flew in town to be there to help me (and the boys) while in the hospital.
The two posts immediately preceeding this one were intentionally somewhat vague about how I was ACTUALLY doing at the time. I think the main motivation was that we didn't need 100 people in the waiting room of the hospital - but we DID need 1,000,000 prayers. So Brad tried to deliver accurate reports on my status without actually saying in so many words that the doctors thought I was dying.
If you've been following our story since the chemo days (oh, those good ol' chemo days...), you'd remember that I was one of the really twisted ones that loved getting chemo because I knew that I was being given something that could fight the cancer. So same deal now: I was excited to get the treatment plan (...ANY treatment plan) executed. We spent a lot of time hemming and hawing about what to do first. While we were trying to make a good decision, the cancer was filling up my lungs with fluid and my liver had a 6 cm met on it (I've never, ever heard of something like this before, ESPECIALLY in a week). I feel like I'm running out of ways to say I have the most aggressive breast cancer possible.
Somehow in the time it took to sign paperwork, or whatever else it is you do to get onto a clinical trial (looking back, what were we doing anyways?) - I took a nose dive. A great big nosedive. My body was shutting down. I was no longer coherent. I literally couldn't see straight.
The doctor was very forthright with my family and me - or, as much of me as was actually there. The options she gave us were: A) don't take the chemo and die peacefully at home (5-7 days), or B) take the chemo, my liver potentially fail (there was a high risk my liver wouldn't be able to handle the chemo at that point), and die in the hospital (1-2 days).
So this is how I saw my options: if I was dying either way, at least the chemo gave me a shot, however small. So I said go big or go home: chemo!
Thankfully when you are in this stage of dying they give you some excellent drugs that make these decisions not as stressful/scary. I was at total and complete peace. And mostly out of it. I feel bad mostly for Brad trying to make those types of decisions with a clear mind. Of course, I'm not sure I would prefer the reverse, either. :-)
Each day after the infusion we waited for the gauntlet to fall. For all my numbers - blood counts, liver function - to start tumbling. Instead, every morning I asked, "has my liver failed?" They kept telling me no. Something was working. Jesus performed a miracle in my body and instead of getting worse, day-by-day things improved. I had doctors with the most shocked looked on their faces - one even actually used the word "miracle". So I'm here. We don't know how long I'm here for, but I'm here right now- and I will take it!
I read over the blog posts Brad wrote while I was in the hospital (way to go Brad! way to stay on top the blog and be totally awesome like that! goooo Brad go!!). Then I spoke with some friends that flew in town to be there to help me (and the boys) while in the hospital.
The two posts immediately preceeding this one were intentionally somewhat vague about how I was ACTUALLY doing at the time. I think the main motivation was that we didn't need 100 people in the waiting room of the hospital - but we DID need 1,000,000 prayers. So Brad tried to deliver accurate reports on my status without actually saying in so many words that the doctors thought I was dying.
If you've been following our story since the chemo days (oh, those good ol' chemo days...), you'd remember that I was one of the really twisted ones that loved getting chemo because I knew that I was being given something that could fight the cancer. So same deal now: I was excited to get the treatment plan (...ANY treatment plan) executed. We spent a lot of time hemming and hawing about what to do first. While we were trying to make a good decision, the cancer was filling up my lungs with fluid and my liver had a 6 cm met on it (I've never, ever heard of something like this before, ESPECIALLY in a week). I feel like I'm running out of ways to say I have the most aggressive breast cancer possible.
Somehow in the time it took to sign paperwork, or whatever else it is you do to get onto a clinical trial (looking back, what were we doing anyways?) - I took a nose dive. A great big nosedive. My body was shutting down. I was no longer coherent. I literally couldn't see straight.
The doctor was very forthright with my family and me - or, as much of me as was actually there. The options she gave us were: A) don't take the chemo and die peacefully at home (5-7 days), or B) take the chemo, my liver potentially fail (there was a high risk my liver wouldn't be able to handle the chemo at that point), and die in the hospital (1-2 days).
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| The Sunday after I was admitted, folks brought the boys by to see me - and, we thought at the time, perhaps to say goodbye. |
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| We originally didn't share these photos since they look so sad. But now they are a testament to how amazing my recovery has been - Thank you Jesus!! |
Thankfully when you are in this stage of dying they give you some excellent drugs that make these decisions not as stressful/scary. I was at total and complete peace. And mostly out of it. I feel bad mostly for Brad trying to make those types of decisions with a clear mind. Of course, I'm not sure I would prefer the reverse, either. :-)
Each day after the infusion we waited for the gauntlet to fall. For all my numbers - blood counts, liver function - to start tumbling. Instead, every morning I asked, "has my liver failed?" They kept telling me no. Something was working. Jesus performed a miracle in my body and instead of getting worse, day-by-day things improved. I had doctors with the most shocked looked on their faces - one even actually used the word "miracle". So I'm here. We don't know how long I'm here for, but I'm here right now- and I will take it!
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| Another visit just before discharge from the hospital - what a difference a week can make! |
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