The date was August 6th 1998, coincidentally, and fortunately, 3 years to the very day that I started to work for Autoliv in Brigham City Utah. Fortuntately because after 3 years of service I was eligible for full short term disability, 80% of my salary, vs. just 40% is I went on disability any earlier. One of many blessings and miracles, if you choose to see it that way, that we experienced through this entire ordeal.
We had been referred to a neurosurgeon to consult on what to do about my tumor, discovered in the MRI I had in July. We were sent to a neurosurgeon because the MRI revealed that the tumor encased the nerve roots at C7, C8, T1, and T2 and partially at C6. By the way, this link gives a pretty darn good approximation of what they did when they fused my spine in February of 1999.
These are designations for vertebrae, particularly in the cervical spine (neck) and the thoracic spine (upper back). C6, C7, and C8 are the lower-most vertebrae in the cervical spine and the very next is T1, the top-most vertebra in the thoracic spine.
The nerves that come out of these vertebrae make up what is called the brachial plexus, a junction of the nerves that come out of the spine at the lower neck and upper back and go into your shoulder and arm. Most all of the nerves that control the arm come through the brachial plexus. My tumor was smack-dab in the middle of the brachial plexus and all of the nerves there went right through the tumor. Since the danger to damage these nerves was very great, a neurosurgeon was necessary to ensure that at little damage as possible was done.
August 6th we went in for the first of what would be several surgeries over the years. The plan was to go in above the colar bone and simply pull the tumor out. It was assumed that the tumor at this point was benign and that would likely mean it was like a balloon and could just be pulled out through a relatively small incision. Here is the scar this and subsequent surgeries left behind (luckily kind of hard to see, but more visible in real life).
I was nervous more than I thought I would be for this surgery. We just did not know what this would all mean to us, and the threat of cancer loomed, even though the doctor was reasonably confident it was not cancerous. Cancerous tumors in this part of the body were just too rare. The odds were against it being cancer. Still, I wondered.
The surgery lasted about 5 hours, pretty short compared to others I have had. In the end, the tumor was not like a balloon, it was more like a mass of peanut butter. It stuck to everything. The doctor did all he could to "debulk" the tumor to at least give me some relief of the pain that started all this off, and he took material for a biopsy. It turns out that "sticky" tumors indicate they are encroaching on surrounding tissue, meaning they are spreading aggressively, which is a prime indicator of cancer.
One interesting side effect of this surgery is that they cut nerves that control some of the autonomous functions on the left side of my head. My left eye droops just a little now, and I don't sweat on the left side of my head. It is literally like a line. When I work out or play basketball or whatever you can actually see a line on my forehead, sweat beads visible on the right side, dry as a bone on the left. This also means I overheat very easily since I do not sweat enough to cool my head down. I guess I have truly become a hot-head through all this!
I also am largely numb across the upper left part of my chest. This started with this surgery and got worse with other surgeries. Also, no hair grows there. Weird. The little things you just don't think about in situations like this. Really adds new meaning to "the devil is in the details".
I recovered just fine from the surgery. One rather funny memory is when I was in the hospital (I was there for about 3 or 4 days I think), and I was on pain meds. They had be hooked up to a machine that would dole out a specific dose of morphine when I pushed a button, then would not give me any more for a certain amount of time, then would give me another dose and so on. My sisters came to visit right after I had pushed that little button and I was somewhat loopy. I had a big grin on my face and they asked me if I was alright. I responded with "Now I know why they call it MORE-phine...cuz you just want more."
You take what laughs you can get, right?
I need to look up the exact date, but it was nearly a month later that we met again with the neurosurgeon. They had sent out the tumor material for testing and the results were grim. Glynna and I both sat in his office after he gave me a once-over to see how I was healing. He then sat down and told us that they tests had come back positive. The tumor was malignant.
Osteosarcoma, he said. Bone cancer.
We were both kind of in shock at that point. What do you say about that? The tears did not really come in force until we got home. I was scared, but I really had no idea how bad it would get. We were then referred to Dr. Alton Wagnon, my first oncologist.
I remember telling my dad. He was supportive and understanding and just awesome about the whole thing. My dad is just that way, one of the best people you could ever hope to know.
The news came as a pretty big shock for my whole family. My paternal grandmother had died of cancer when I was about 7. I could vaguely remember that. My brother-in-law, Art, had died of cancer while I was on my mission, a mere 7 years before, to the very month I received my diagnosis. I could not imagine how hard that was for my sister to relive some of that horrible time through me.
Uncertainty is a terrible feeling, and up to that point I really did not understand the phrase "all we have to fear is fear itself". Our lives changed dramatically on that day, in some ways for the better, and in other ways for the worse.
I turned 28 in 1998. And I graduated from college. My kids were 5, 3, and 1. I had been married for 6 years. And I had cancer.
1 comment:
Again, thank you for sharing. It is nice to get your perspective on things.
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