It's just after midnight, Tuesday night. I spoke with Lisa a few hours ago. On Monday, she was moved out of the “warm-room” I wrote about a few days ago. They needed it for someone else.
It was wonderful to talk to her. I could hear the smile in her voice. Is it wrong to just end this blog entry with a series of little smilies? You know, like this >> :) :) :) :)
This will be my last blog entry. I didn't discuss this with her but, this will be my last post. Tomorrow Lisa will be discharged.
:) :) :) :) :}
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
From Chris ...
Earlier tonight, I spoke to Chris who has opened up her home to Lisa and I during our recent stays in Vancouver. Chris, is one of the TITS. The only one that does not live in PG. Since Lisa went into surgery on Friday, Chris and I have had many conversations about life, love, relationships and friendships and, of course, Lisa. Actually, it was more like one long-running three-day discussion punctuated by time on the blog, phone calls, sleep, and getting ready to see Lisa, only 15 minutes away. Oh, yes, we ate too :)
I asked Chris to send me something that I could post here ‘in her words’. Lisa is not the first close friend that Chris has supported through breast cancer. In fact, during a brief escape from the hospital on the day of Lisa’s surgery, Chris learned that yet another friend had tested positive for the disease. I’m certain that Chris could drive to VGH blind-folded.
Chris emailed me back with some thoughts straight from the heart. Anyone, who has “experienced” cancer in their life time will be familiar with the underlying emotions in her voice.
From Chris ..
I took Norm to the airport this morning; he has been here since before her surgery but must return to work. After dropping him off I drove straight to VGH to visit Lisa. She was awake and glad to see me. It’s day three post-op. She’s had a decent night’s sleep and has found her sunny smile again.
Lisa is healing well but it’s a slow road. Last night she phoned her 8 year old daughter to wish her good-night. Keeping it together on the phone took everything she had.
Cancer is painful. You walk in to surgery with no pain or symptom and you wake up feeling terrible, only to hold your breath until you learn about what ‘they’ in the medical field want to do to you to prevent it from spreading. It’s especially hard to endure, you wish you were dead.
Lisa is 42, she teaches high-school. Special Ed. She’s also working towards her Masters degree – she should complete it in July. She is beautiful. She looks a bit like Sandra Bullock. She has risen to every challenge [and she has had more than her share] with dignity.
She is my friend and I am exactly where I need to be.
I asked Chris to send me something that I could post here ‘in her words’. Lisa is not the first close friend that Chris has supported through breast cancer. In fact, during a brief escape from the hospital on the day of Lisa’s surgery, Chris learned that yet another friend had tested positive for the disease. I’m certain that Chris could drive to VGH blind-folded.
Chris emailed me back with some thoughts straight from the heart. Anyone, who has “experienced” cancer in their life time will be familiar with the underlying emotions in her voice.
From Chris ..
I took Norm to the airport this morning; he has been here since before her surgery but must return to work. After dropping him off I drove straight to VGH to visit Lisa. She was awake and glad to see me. It’s day three post-op. She’s had a decent night’s sleep and has found her sunny smile again.
Lisa is healing well but it’s a slow road. Last night she phoned her 8 year old daughter to wish her good-night. Keeping it together on the phone took everything she had.
Cancer is painful. You walk in to surgery with no pain or symptom and you wake up feeling terrible, only to hold your breath until you learn about what ‘they’ in the medical field want to do to you to prevent it from spreading. It’s especially hard to endure, you wish you were dead.
Lisa is 42, she teaches high-school. Special Ed. She’s also working towards her Masters degree – she should complete it in July. She is beautiful. She looks a bit like Sandra Bullock. She has risen to every challenge [and she has had more than her share] with dignity.
She is my friend and I am exactly where I need to be.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Overwhelming ...
I'm off to Toronto in the morning, and wanted to take an opportunity to thank you for the prayers, white-light and supportive thoughts. The support that you've shown Lisa has been incredibly, um, overwhelming - I'm looking for a better word but nothing else springs to mind.
I also wanted to give some perspective to Lisa's decision to start this blog. In my estimation, it started from a discussion that took place soon after her diagnosis. Our conversation focused on how so many people look away when discussing cancer, or quickly try to change the subject. While they may have reasons for doing so, they don't realize that in an instant they've let the disease define the person.
I remember Lisa pointing out that she's not the first woman with cancer, nor is she the first woman to require chemo or radiation. (Note: It will be 10-12 days before we find out what the next steps are.) From the beginning, she was insistent on being there for her "peeps", especially me. By keeping her life, more or less normal, she felt could stay on top of her stress. She's done a remarkable job.
When word of her cancer hit the word-of-mouth express, Lisa was inundated with emails. I watched one evening as she worked diligently to answer them all personally. When she was completed, she was exhausted. It was then that we discussed the idea of the blog. It was a brief exchange but it obviously stuck with her.
The idea of wearing pink came after a few exchanges with friends. Like all good friends, they offered to help Lisa with "anything". Lisa typically responded with a request for people to wear pink on the day of her surgery. In her wildest dreams though, she couldn't have anticipated the support that has poured in from, quite literally, all across the country. I thank you for making the woman I love understand just how special she is. Earlier tonight, she saw all the pics you've sent in and she cried.
She was overwhelmed.
There's that word again.
This has been a real-life 'pay-it-forward' experience that I will never forget.
I also wanted to give some perspective to Lisa's decision to start this blog. In my estimation, it started from a discussion that took place soon after her diagnosis. Our conversation focused on how so many people look away when discussing cancer, or quickly try to change the subject. While they may have reasons for doing so, they don't realize that in an instant they've let the disease define the person.
I remember Lisa pointing out that she's not the first woman with cancer, nor is she the first woman to require chemo or radiation. (Note: It will be 10-12 days before we find out what the next steps are.) From the beginning, she was insistent on being there for her "peeps", especially me. By keeping her life, more or less normal, she felt could stay on top of her stress. She's done a remarkable job.
When word of her cancer hit the word-of-mouth express, Lisa was inundated with emails. I watched one evening as she worked diligently to answer them all personally. When she was completed, she was exhausted. It was then that we discussed the idea of the blog. It was a brief exchange but it obviously stuck with her.
The idea of wearing pink came after a few exchanges with friends. Like all good friends, they offered to help Lisa with "anything". Lisa typically responded with a request for people to wear pink on the day of her surgery. In her wildest dreams though, she couldn't have anticipated the support that has poured in from, quite literally, all across the country. I thank you for making the woman I love understand just how special she is. Earlier tonight, she saw all the pics you've sent in and she cried.
She was overwhelmed.
There's that word again.
This has been a real-life 'pay-it-forward' experience that I will never forget.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
She's ba-a-a-a-a-c-c-k ...
A quick blog entry this time. Today is my last day in Vancouver for a few days so we've some running around to do before days-end. Tomorrow, I'm heading off to the "centre of the universe" aka Toronto - apologies to my Toronto friends but, after all, your airport DID stamp my passport during my last visit. I return Friday afternoon and, if Lisa stays on sched, she'll be recouping with Chris by that time. I'll add more later.
Chris and I visited Lisa this morning to find her sitting up in bed giving herself a sponge bath. Her eyes were wide open and her grin ear-to-ear, "Hi, you arrived just in time to wash my back!". To see that familiar look on her face was, simply, amazing.
Some highlights from today's visit: the incubator get's unplugged this afternoon (no more umbrellas in her water glass) ; she had salisbury steak for lunch (yippee); she was, awake, alert, in good humor and was able to stand for a bit; she's in very little pain and not taking a lot of pain meds. Feeling cheeky, she announced that she "felt like running a marathon".
She's ba-a-a-a-a-c-c-k ...
It's gettin' better all the time ...
It’s just after 11pm and I’ve returned from the “warm room” at VGH. Tonight was my third visit of the day. The second visit was short because, well, Lisa was snoring away and obviously relieved to have the nausea of the morning behind her. Okay, don’t tell her about the snoring, we can keep it our little secret.
I was in the room for about five minutes when the nurse, Yola, ( In my head I was singing L-O-L-A … those of you who are over 40 will know the song by The Kinks) stopped in to introduced herself. As Lisa slept, Yola explained that in her job she is tasked to four patients at a time while on shift. She went on to let me know how Lisa’s care would progress over the days to come.
Lisa, is progressing well. Very well. Her spirits are good. At 5pm, four hours ahead of schedule, Lisa started having water and broth. For those of you who have had surgery, you’ll recognize this as a major milestone in recovery. Tomorrow, she’ll be able to have heavier liquids such as milk and porridge. Soon after that she’ll be able to have some of that great food that hospitals are known for J
Yola also told me that the incubator is to be turned off tomorrow. When I told Lisa, she looked so relieved. Just this afternoon they mentioned that the incubator could be on for as long as five days. Tomorrow night, hopefully, she’ll have a much better sleep.
- Norm
PS: I’ve downloaded about 50 pictures so far. Keep ‘em comin, won’t you? The support for Lisa has been, simply, overwhelming. I’ll work more on the pics tomorrow. Now, I need some sleep.
I was in the room for about five minutes when the nurse, Yola, ( In my head I was singing L-O-L-A … those of you who are over 40 will know the song by The Kinks) stopped in to introduced herself. As Lisa slept, Yola explained that in her job she is tasked to four patients at a time while on shift. She went on to let me know how Lisa’s care would progress over the days to come.
Lisa, is progressing well. Very well. Her spirits are good. At 5pm, four hours ahead of schedule, Lisa started having water and broth. For those of you who have had surgery, you’ll recognize this as a major milestone in recovery. Tomorrow, she’ll be able to have heavier liquids such as milk and porridge. Soon after that she’ll be able to have some of that great food that hospitals are known for J
Yola also told me that the incubator is to be turned off tomorrow. When I told Lisa, she looked so relieved. Just this afternoon they mentioned that the incubator could be on for as long as five days. Tomorrow night, hopefully, she’ll have a much better sleep.
- Norm
PS: I’ve downloaded about 50 pictures so far. Keep ‘em comin, won’t you? The support for Lisa has been, simply, overwhelming. I’ll work more on the pics tomorrow. Now, I need some sleep.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The first post-op visit (nothing like how it’s portrayed in the movies) ….
Nope, it’s not like the movies at all. In the movies, the nurses would have let me in last night when I played the loving husband card. By the way, my name has changed to Mr. Norm Norman. (Heavy on the 'Mister' thank-you.)
We arrived this morning unsure of what we might find when we arrived. After all, this was our first post-op visit. Going in, Chris and I discussed that Lisa likely wouldn’t “be” herself. After a 15 hour surgery we weren’t sure if she’d be awake or not.
Lisa is staying in the Burns, Plastic and Trauma Unit, or BPTU. Even during visiting hours, the door is locked. We speak to the intercom and a nurse, on the other side of the door, buzzes us in. “Lisa Norman? Yes, come in and be sure to wash your hands before proceeding.” At VGH, you can’t walk 30 feet without passing a waterless soap dispenser. In the BPTU, washing the hands on the way in and on the way out is mandatory and cell phones are to be powered down.
We encounter the nurse’s station, and are directed onward to a second unit further on. A friendly face directs us to Room 11, which has a notice on the door - “Warm Room”.
Lisa’s room is smokin’ hot. No kidding. This is deliberate, however. The post-op rationale is that the tropical temperature is essential for promoting and maintaining good blood flow to the “girls”, as Lisa would put it.
We arrive to find Lisa surprisingly lucid, sweating, and in obvious distress. “I’m nauseous and I’m hot. I mean, look at this?” Her eyes look upward but I haven’t yet taken the room in. As I lean in, I bump into the very thing she’s referring to: a large incubator (okay, there’s likely a better name for it), mounted on wheels, has been pushed to her bedside. The heating panel, white in color and about 18” x 3’ arches over the bed. It’s thermostatically controlled to keep Lisa’s skin temperature at 33 degrees.
I looked at Chris, Lisa was so very uncomfortable. During our visit, the anesthesiologist dropped into pay her a visit and discuss her pain requirements. Lisa said that she was sore but, more than anything, she was hot. “There’s hot and then there’s ridiculous!!” She was cranky, she had every right. Lack of sleep, nausea, thirst (she wasn’t allowed fluids at that point) can do that to a person.
More in a bit ...
We arrived this morning unsure of what we might find when we arrived. After all, this was our first post-op visit. Going in, Chris and I discussed that Lisa likely wouldn’t “be” herself. After a 15 hour surgery we weren’t sure if she’d be awake or not.
Lisa is staying in the Burns, Plastic and Trauma Unit, or BPTU. Even during visiting hours, the door is locked. We speak to the intercom and a nurse, on the other side of the door, buzzes us in. “Lisa Norman? Yes, come in and be sure to wash your hands before proceeding.” At VGH, you can’t walk 30 feet without passing a waterless soap dispenser. In the BPTU, washing the hands on the way in and on the way out is mandatory and cell phones are to be powered down.
We encounter the nurse’s station, and are directed onward to a second unit further on. A friendly face directs us to Room 11, which has a notice on the door - “Warm Room”.
Lisa’s room is smokin’ hot. No kidding. This is deliberate, however. The post-op rationale is that the tropical temperature is essential for promoting and maintaining good blood flow to the “girls”, as Lisa would put it.
We arrive to find Lisa surprisingly lucid, sweating, and in obvious distress. “I’m nauseous and I’m hot. I mean, look at this?” Her eyes look upward but I haven’t yet taken the room in. As I lean in, I bump into the very thing she’s referring to: a large incubator (okay, there’s likely a better name for it), mounted on wheels, has been pushed to her bedside. The heating panel, white in color and about 18” x 3’ arches over the bed. It’s thermostatically controlled to keep Lisa’s skin temperature at 33 degrees.
I looked at Chris, Lisa was so very uncomfortable. During our visit, the anesthesiologist dropped into pay her a visit and discuss her pain requirements. Lisa said that she was sore but, more than anything, she was hot. “There’s hot and then there’s ridiculous!!” She was cranky, she had every right. Lack of sleep, nausea, thirst (she wasn’t allowed fluids at that point) can do that to a person.
More in a bit ...
The importance of the network ...
Finally, I've gained access to the blogsite. Groggy from surgery, Lisa still was able to roll her eyes and give me the password with one of those 'you weren't listening' looks. If you know Lisa, you know that she's a master of a million expressions. Even in post-op, she still has it. I'll save my post-op comments for later because I don't want to get ahead of myself.
Since her diagnosis, Lisa understood just how important having a "team" would be in her care. Literally, millions of words have been written in hundreds of books that speak to the importance of the team. However, despite all that literary effort the point is largely missed.
The team is important but not for the reasons you might think. The team is NOT important for coping with cancer. (Okay, settle down, I'm making a point.) Nope, dealing with the cancer is the easy part. The team is important for dealing with those who have chosen to work in the medical field. If you're a medical receptionist, read along, I have plenty of say and I don't really care much at this point about the security-guy at the end of the hallway.
Lisa has navigated this journey with amazing dignity and grace and, of course, with optimism. I admire this quality in her. I simply don't possess her tact in dealing with the dismissals of receptionists who have treated her as a nuisance rather than a person in need. Remember, Loni Anderson in WKRP? No platinum-blonde, high heels or emery board here. Just dis-interest.
Consider the following episodes:
** When Lisa was told that she had bilateral breast cancer, she was all alone. She entered the meeting feeling upbeat and positive because, a week before, the same Doc assured her that if the news wasn't positive he'd suggest that she bring someone along. When she received the call to review her pathology results, she felt good about things. After all, they hadn't suggested that she bring someone with her. What a setup! When she left the office, they comforted her by shaking their head and commenting about "how strong" she was. What a strong woman.
** Over the course of a few days, Lisa played a long-game of telephone tag with the oncologist in Vancouver who'd agreed to take her on as a patient. At one point, the receptionist told Lisa that "just because you've read the Doctor's book, you don't get a referral!". Demonstrating the same poise, Lisa secured the meeting-time that she sought and learned, along the way, that the young receptionist was a temp-employee! Apparently, in this business of medicine, there is an apprenticeship program in place and mastering rudeness is critical to securing full-time employment.
** Earlier the same month, Lisa met a PG-graduate from the same apprenticeship program working for her local Doc. All she needed was a signature on a referral form from her local Doc in PG in order to pave the way to see the oncologist in Vancouver. When she visited the Docs office the waiting room was empty. Lisa was told that she'd have to wait because the Doc was busy with patients. (Did I mention the waiting room was empty?) The receptionist then questioned the efficacy of the out-of-town referral because "we don't even know this Doctor" and was in the middle of reiterating just how busy the Doc was when he arrived. He greeted Lisa with a welcome smile, and while signing the referral form, gushed over Lisa's ability to have secured the services of such a well-known oncologist. "You must know some big people," he said.
I could go on but I think you get the point: it's not the cancer that needs coping with. The stress comes from resisting the urge to choke the bejesus out of those who've opted for a career in "health-care". I'm not proud to admit this but I've found myself wishing breast cancer upon snotty receptionists, thinking that maybe what they really need is to meet themselves as a patient in order to get the point.
As a wonderful footnote to all this angst, I was delighted with the way Lisa was admitted by the surgeons, the anesthesiologist and the RN's at VGH. They were, far and away, the kindest most professional of the lot. I'm hoping that as Prince George moves forward in developing it's own Cancer Clinic that some of the attitude we've witnessed in Vancouver can migrate north.
More later ...
Since her diagnosis, Lisa understood just how important having a "team" would be in her care. Literally, millions of words have been written in hundreds of books that speak to the importance of the team. However, despite all that literary effort the point is largely missed.
The team is important but not for the reasons you might think. The team is NOT important for coping with cancer. (Okay, settle down, I'm making a point.) Nope, dealing with the cancer is the easy part. The team is important for dealing with those who have chosen to work in the medical field. If you're a medical receptionist, read along, I have plenty of say and I don't really care much at this point about the security-guy at the end of the hallway.
Lisa has navigated this journey with amazing dignity and grace and, of course, with optimism. I admire this quality in her. I simply don't possess her tact in dealing with the dismissals of receptionists who have treated her as a nuisance rather than a person in need. Remember, Loni Anderson in WKRP? No platinum-blonde, high heels or emery board here. Just dis-interest.
Consider the following episodes:
** When Lisa was told that she had bilateral breast cancer, she was all alone. She entered the meeting feeling upbeat and positive because, a week before, the same Doc assured her that if the news wasn't positive he'd suggest that she bring someone along. When she received the call to review her pathology results, she felt good about things. After all, they hadn't suggested that she bring someone with her. What a setup! When she left the office, they comforted her by shaking their head and commenting about "how strong" she was. What a strong woman.
** Over the course of a few days, Lisa played a long-game of telephone tag with the oncologist in Vancouver who'd agreed to take her on as a patient. At one point, the receptionist told Lisa that "just because you've read the Doctor's book, you don't get a referral!". Demonstrating the same poise, Lisa secured the meeting-time that she sought and learned, along the way, that the young receptionist was a temp-employee! Apparently, in this business of medicine, there is an apprenticeship program in place and mastering rudeness is critical to securing full-time employment.
** Earlier the same month, Lisa met a PG-graduate from the same apprenticeship program working for her local Doc. All she needed was a signature on a referral form from her local Doc in PG in order to pave the way to see the oncologist in Vancouver. When she visited the Docs office the waiting room was empty. Lisa was told that she'd have to wait because the Doc was busy with patients. (Did I mention the waiting room was empty?) The receptionist then questioned the efficacy of the out-of-town referral because "we don't even know this Doctor" and was in the middle of reiterating just how busy the Doc was when he arrived. He greeted Lisa with a welcome smile, and while signing the referral form, gushed over Lisa's ability to have secured the services of such a well-known oncologist. "You must know some big people," he said.
I could go on but I think you get the point: it's not the cancer that needs coping with. The stress comes from resisting the urge to choke the bejesus out of those who've opted for a career in "health-care". I'm not proud to admit this but I've found myself wishing breast cancer upon snotty receptionists, thinking that maybe what they really need is to meet themselves as a patient in order to get the point.
As a wonderful footnote to all this angst, I was delighted with the way Lisa was admitted by the surgeons, the anesthesiologist and the RN's at VGH. They were, far and away, the kindest most professional of the lot. I'm hoping that as Prince George moves forward in developing it's own Cancer Clinic that some of the attitude we've witnessed in Vancouver can migrate north.
More later ...
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