The first day of the rest of my life...

Thanks so much to all of you for hanging in there while I grouse about my catheter and other humiliations.  It is kind of interesting to look back over these past four months.  I tend to think of myself as kind of a modest, private person.  Thus it has been kind of weird to have a succession of strangers coming at me with gloved fingers or with a “let’s check your catheter” “pull up your shirt so we can see your stomach” “Take everything off and put on this gown” etc… I can’t quite decide whether it feels stranger with women or with men.  When my surgeon stopped by to check on me last Tuesday morning, it turned out to be a small touring group (med students?) and I felt like a prize pig at the county fair. 

I am hoping tomorrow to go back to and in the process spare all of you--my family and friends--of my TMI theme to this blog/adventure!  I go in tomorrow morning to break up with “cathy” and also to get my pathology report back—it will evaluate both the lymph nodes and my prostate margins.  I keep trying to imagine the doctor saying “everything is all clear.” But somehow, as complicated as this whole situation has been, it is fairly hard to imagine it ending as neatly as that.   At any rate, I’ll have my answer in about five hours….

So that is how far I got in blogging last night.  Now I am back from Roswell.  The last chapter was just as  ignominious as all of the others.  “I just have to be sure I see you pee before you get dressed and see the doctor.” said the jolly little male nurse.  

The good news was the lymph nodes were entirely clear.  The margin report was not quite as worry-free.  There was a tiny tumor that had grown to the exterior surface of the prostate, thus potentially exposing the rest of my body to cancer cells.  They will check my PSA levels at six weeks and six months to get an idea whether there has been any spread.  I had mostly spoken only with Dr. Guru’s young assistant and had a hard time reading him about how worried I should be about it.

After they had brought me more prescriptions and instructions and said goodbye I gathered up my things to leave but then I found myself standing in the hallway, not quite satisfied with the results.  So I gathered up my courage and knocked on Dr. Guru’s door; he came out very graciously.  I told him I was having trouble knowing how to think about the problem at the margin.  “How worried should I be?” 

He smiled a very reassuring doctor smile and said “You should not be worried at all.  It is so tiny, it could only be seen with dye under a microscope.  I do not believe it will ever cause you any problems.  Go home and rest and relax.  I’ll see you in six weeks.” 

My sweet Samantha and I stopped for a celebratory lunch at Moe’s on the way home, which I hope will be the first step in getting my normal life back.  So that is all the news that’s fit to print, and then some.  Once again, I can’t thank you enough for all of your kindness and support and love and prayers….and even jokes. I could never have slogged through this without all of you.  Love to all!

PS - Just as I was about to post this, Samantha came running in for me to come out and see the incredible  sunset.  I snapped a quick pic for you all to enjoy also; I am interpreting it as a sign of serenity and hope from God.

A lesson in thankfulness...

So, let’s just say I’ve had better weeks. I have fooled around with writing a blog ever since I got home from the hospital. I wrote a nine-page essay but then decided in the interest of decorum I took out all passages about catheters, farting, and pooping and then it was only about three sentences long. The intense pain I felt on Monday and Tuesday went away by Thursday morning.  But still, everything is either uncomfortable or painful.  Even coughing is bad.  

Worse still, I see myself having turned into one of those dreadful old whiners who can’t seem to muster any conversational topics beyond his health and bodily functions.  I’m sure I’ve been a scintillating companion for Samantha!  I have a countdown on my computer until “Cathy” and I part ways on Thursday.  It is down from ten days to three days and sixteen hours as I am typing this. Mostly it is boring, and isolating, and uncomfortable.  And yet, I have found myself feeling challenged by something I read in The Hiding Place many years ago and never forgotten. Corrie tenBoom's sister, Betsie, urged her to be thankful in ALL circumstances, even for their flea-ridden beds in the concentration camp. At first Corrie refused, but then Betsie gently reminded her that the fleas allowed the women to have Bible studies and sing and pray together—all which would have been forbidden by the guards who stayed away for fear of getting fleas. 

So I thought to myself, can I be thankful even for this cursed friend, “Cathy, the catheter?” First of all, I need to remind myself that I am not in a concentration camp and that my kids are all healthy and well. We have a roof over our heads and enough to eat.  What a great blessing that is when I stop to consider all of the suffering and misery in the world.  Then I thought to myself, this device is not the result of a sadistic doctor or anything like that. It is being used to help cure me of cancer and to keep me from getting a nasty infection.  Then I reminded myself that it is only for ten days.  What can’t I put up with for ten days?  

Then my mind went again to all of the kind friends who have done so, so much to stand by me, help me, lift me up in prayer and help me in other tangible ways. I thought of all of the encouraging, funny, warm and loving comments I get on facebook to keep me cheered up.  We have had some lovely meals sent in and two nights ago dear Janyce and Norm Smithley arrived with treats galore and also brought a precious card from a former student, one I had not even gotten to know all that well.  He is Vietnamese and I only had him in class one year.  His English was never strong but he had a sweet spirit and was very earnest and hardworking.  The note that Janyce brought was characteristic of his careful efforts at expressing himself in English.  He told me how sorry he was to hear about my health scare and that he was praying for me.  He said “I hope this little bit of money can help with your expenses,” and inside he tucked $200! I had tears pouring down my cheeks by the time I finished reading it.

My student, in his seventeen-year-old wisdom included this precious sentiment:

“God with you, Dr. Nick! We still have hope and Jesus. We are all pray for you. I know you and God already had a plan for you.  And this period is just a piece of sand on his desert. You can do it!”  

Out of the mouths of teenagers!  So yes, thank you Lord, I am thankful for the catheter and for my students and my friends and I am ever reminded of your unending love for me. 

HOME!

When I was growing up, anytime I had something to celebrate or needed cheering up, my mom would make my all-time favorite treat: Apple Dumplings.  This was a family recipe from my Grandma Nichols.  Warm chopped apples in flaky pastry baked in a cinnamon sugar sauce.  I don’t make them very often in my adult years; they seem almost too decadent. And obviously I had not had them since my sugar-free diet began.  But nonetheless they remain my ultimate comfort food.

So after my Saturday-Tuesday starvation ended with disappointing hospital cafeteria food today, imagine walking into the house to smell apple dumplings baking in the oven, made—believe it or not—by my two sons! They called Aunt Mindy and got coached through the process and had them ready and waiting, as good as the ones my mom made.  Nothing has EVER tasted that good!

I have the best kids on the planet.  Samantha had stayed up late the night before we left making a welcome home poster for me and then she came along for the two long hard days in Buffalo.  She rubbed my back on the nerve-wracking drive to the cancer hospital at 4am.  And then she say by my bedside all day yesterday while was zoned out on drugs. Kudos to Olga also who drove through a blinding snowstorm to get us there safely yesterday morning and has been looking out for me throughout this whole process. 

I am a blessed man indeed. I have six holes in my stomach where my little robotic friends went in for their cancer search and destroy mission.  I feel as though everything at Roswell went as smoothly and painlessly as possible under the circumstances.  Everyone there is so friendly and helpful.  Yesterday afternoon I felt like I had gotten run over by a fleet of cement trucks, but by today I am up, walking around (albeit like an octogenarian) eating apple dumplings and counting my blessings.  

Let nothing you dismay...

The Christmas season has been so full of fun, friends, family, and fellowship that I have hardly had any time to think/get nervous about my surgery tomorrow.  My pre-op appointment with its “possible complications include infection, stroke, and death” wasn’t exactly cheering. But many other gifts have been: Having Jan along on pre-op day to make jokes and buy donuts; having Anthony & Samantha home from college; lots of encouraging texts, messages, phone calls, and visits; New Year’s Eve with the LaCelle-Petersons.  Two years ago, I had a student, Anh, from Vietnam, who has always called me “dad” because he says I’ve been like a father to him.  He arrived for a surprise visit yesterday to wish me well. Pastor Wes called to pray with me.  Olga fixed my favorite meal for supper last night (since I won’t be able to have anything to eat again until Tuesday.) I had a fun visit by phone last night with my dear friend Amy from my Arkansas years.  One of my favorite encouraging messages of the whole ordeal came from another Arkansas friend, Marilyn, who lost her son to cancer this fall.  She sent me these words from the Anima Christi which I keep repeating to myself:

“Blood of Christ, fill all Tim’s veins; from the malignant enemy defend him.”  And she closed her email with a favorite phrase: “God rest you merry, Tim.  Let nothing you dismay.”

So today, I am kind of pacing around, anxious to get this over with.  I am doing a little light and cheery reading: Macbeth. (Which I am starting with my seniors when I go back later this month.) I see a number of repeat postings on facebook this morning of this axiom: “Light travels 18 million times faster than rain, so Jesus is there before your storm even starts.” Normally I’m not that into these pithy, religious memes, but somehow on the day before cancer surgery that message feels just right.

I’ll post again on the other side, once my merry little robot has relieved me of my prostate, and hopefully all of the cancer with it.