Staying busy and productive while we wait

In two days we’ll get the results of Tom’s biopsy.  It’s been an excruciatingly long month and at times I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But since last Tuesday, when Tom had a biopsy on his prostate (he was a trooper, the perfect patient), it’s been easier to wait instead of harder – which has surprised me. 
Quite honestly, I’ll be pretty shocked if either extreme happens – if he doesn’t have cancer at all (a PSA of 49 along with a palpable mass kind of belies that possibility, much as we hope otherwise) or if he has cancer and it’s spread beyond his prostate.  My realistic hope is that it’s contained and therefore curable. 
Fingers crossed and all my energy is focused on good (or at least not awful) news on Tuesday.  I think I now understand prayer and meditation a bit better… and I do think they’re similar.  Both help me breathe out completely, focusing on the positive.  For weeks, I breathed in and in and in, and hardly breathed out, and I exhausted myself.  Once I could focus on breathing in, full of positive thoughts and energy, and then breathing out fully, letting go of negativity, I felt much better.  Maybe this is what prayer feels like too?
While we wait, Tom and I have stayed VERY busy, he in the backyard and me in the front.  First, his amazing creation.  Remember this water feature that Tom’s been working on?  Well, look how far he’s come!  Much of it previous to this weekend…

(Yes, he inlaid hundreds of black pebbles in the grout in a cool pathway, down the steps and around the patio!)

Many of the above photos were taken in the past month – since Tom has been sick.  This really doesn’t look like a man with cancer to me!
This weekend, just days after he had 14 needles shot into his prostate (ouch – it hurts prostate-less me to type that!), he did this:

He demolished a good portion of the wood steps that have been her since we bought the house in ‘95 and replaced then with these HEAVY stepping stones that will take people around the deck out-cropping so they don’t bump their heads.


Then he created what we’ve been calling the ‘bell tower.” 

About 30-some years ago, Tom’s parents visited Arcosante, an “experimental town” in Arizona, where they bought three bells made by Paolo Soleri.  Unfortunately, Tom’s parents never put up the bells; instead, they stayed in a box until this evening, when Tom hung them on the “bell tower” next to the water feature.

Just listen!

While Tom was busy in the back yard, I decided to pretty much get rid of most of the tired, overgrown, dried out plants in the front yard.  Just look at this mess!

After a full weekend in the dirt, the refreshed front yard looks much happier!
 
(That stepping stone was my gift to Tom on our 25th wedding anniversary, six-plus years ago.)

You know those people who love to garden? I am SO NOT ONE OF THEM! I actually hate gardening (especially weeding)!  But I wanted to spend the weekend both distracted and doing something that nurtured life and health.  Not that I think it will make any real difference on Tuesday, but at least my energy went toward the new, healthy growth and that, if nothing else, felt good.  (And believe me, not a single muscle in my body feels good right now!)
I will blog what we know once we know it and, if appropriate, once we have told close family and friends.  Thanks for your continued good thoughts.  We need them now! 

In ten days we’ll know if our future will include cancer or if we just dodged the biggest bullet EVER.

Sorry, that’s the shortest post title I can come up with because, since July 4th nothing has been normal, and racing, scary thoughts have been part of that.
My plan was to not say anything on social media until we knew one way or another, but it will be a full month between the first ER visit and the appointment at which we will get biopsy results and I just. can’t. stand. to. keep. it. all. in. any. longer.
I’ll start at the beginning.
On July 4th, six week after we returned from our amazing family trip to Europe, Tom was working on the water feature in the backyard, which had become a work of art as he lay small black pebbles carefully in the grout of the flagstone, creating a beautiful meandering line around the steps and the patio. When he was close to done grouting for the day, he suddenly noticed that he just plain wasn’t feeling well.  He mentioned it to me as he sat on the couch, but he was determined to continue with our plans to watch fireworks from Elisabeth and Danny’s place in Seattle.  They have an amazing view of the Olympic Mountains, the Space Needle, and the entire Puget Sound, and we weren’t about to miss it.  Peeing, Tom said, was painful, and he felt like he was coming down with the flu.
As fireworks lit the Seattle sky, I noticed that Tom was just not himself.  I don’t think anyone else noticed it, but to me it was obvious.  When he didn’t fight my suggestion that we head home and stop at Urgent Care on the way, I knew something was wrong.  Tom had had a bladder infection in 2005 and he had waited too long to get care, so by the time we got him to the doctor that time, his kidneys had been affected.  Once he was on antibiotics, though, things cleared up quickly and within a day or two he was back to normal.  We assumed that he again had a bladder infection and all he needed was antibiotics.
The doctor prescribed antibiotics and pyridium, but 36 hours later Tom only felt worse.  This time I took him to the ER where they took another urine sample (which showed nothing) and prescribed him another, stronger antibiotic.  They also suggested that he see a urologist.  We found a urologist and made an appointment for ten days from the second ER visit.  Elisabeth, our nurse daughter,  implored us to find a urologist who could see him sooner – especially because he was still in pain.  Fortunately we were able to get an appointment just two days later, on July 9th. 
At the urologist appointment, Tom again peed in a cup and again, no infection was found.  The doctor told Tom that he suspected possible prostatitis, an inflammation of the prostate, or possibly BPH (benign prostate hyperplasia), both non-cancerous conditions.  He was baffled, though, as to why the antibiotics didn’t seem to be clearing things up.
I stepped out while the doctor examined Tom and when I came back in, the doctor immediately told us that he felt a “nodule” on Tom’s prostate.  This was of particular concern, especially because Tom’s father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in his early seventies.  (My father also had it in his seventies.  Our boys need to be extremely vigilant!) The doctor mentioned that he didn’t feel that the nodule was related to the symptoms that brought Tom in, but that he definitely wanted to do a biopsy.
First, though, whatever was causing Tom such discomfort MUST be cleared up, as doing a biopsy on a possibly infected prostate is dangerous.  (His urine apparently showed no infection, but that didn’t mean that his prostate wasn’t infected… at least that was my understanding.)  The doctor sent Tom for a CT scan to check for a possible kidney stone, but no evidence of any kidney stone was found.  He also prescribed a stronger pain killer – which, like the pyridium, had no effect! 
After that appointment Tom slowly, slowly began to feel better.  The flu-like symptoms had disappeared and he was able to pee again.  Hallelujah! 
By the time we visited the urologist again a week later, on July 16th, Tom felt almost back to normal.  The doctor examined him again and, of course, still felt the nodule.  Then he ordered a PSA test.
This was Tom’s seventh PSA test.  He’d had them regularly since 1996 and his score was always well within normal limits (under 4 ng/ml).  His latest PSA, in late November, 2012, was 2.2.  Nice and low.  Completely normal.
On July 16th, Tom’s PSA was 49.  Forty-nine.  A nodule and a PSA of 49. This is scary stuff. 
Elisabeth and I immediately hit the internet – which was about the stupidest thing we could have done. Education is a good thing, but freaking one’s self out really isn’t.  Tom, who was, I think, just trying to digest everything before hitting the internet, was faring far better than I was.  He was upbeat, optimistic, and… breathing.  I was panicking – and in that panic I called his doctor to beg for a biopsy sooner than the scheduled date of July 29th.  The doctor immediately told me that he had seen a very high PSA like this, especially after raging prostatitis, that did not turn out to be cancer. He also told me that he will not do the biopsy any sooner because operating on a prostate that has ANY chance of infection can cause sepsis, a “far more serious immediate risk than your husband is dealing with now.”
So we wait.  Tom has been on a third antibiotic for the past ten days and his biopsy is still scheduled for July 29th, with our “find out results” appointment scheduled for August 5th – a full month after our first trip to the ER.
Our emotions are everywhere, from very hopeful (because all stats come from somewhere; that is, there are always people who beat any odds) to more realistic, knowing that a PSA of 49 usually signifies cancer, and that a change from 2.2 to 49 in 18 short months can signify a very aggressive cancer. 
We believe in positive energy and positive thoughts, so if you could send any our way as we wait, we sure would appreciate it.  Hopefully, hopefully, there will be only one more post here about cancer, and it will be to say that Tom doesn’t have it. 
Let’s focus on that possibility for now…

Facing my Worst Habit: It's a Nailbiter!

All my life, I have hidden my hands.  Just don't look at them.  Please, just don't ever look at them. 

I feel this way about my hands for two reasons.  One is within my control.  One is not. 

First, I am a nail biter. Not just a now-and-then nail chewer, but an all-the-time, down-to-the-quick, bite-it-till-it-bleeds/hurts nail biter. The only time I ever managed to stop biting my nails enough to be willing to present them at all was for our wedding, 31 years ago.  Even then, I bit the thumb nail. 

That thumb nail. 

Which brings me to the second reason that I feel as I do about my hands: I have a birth defect that, while not all that obvious otherwise, becomes quite obvious when you look at my right hand. I was born with three thumbs - one on my left hand (duh!) and two on my right hand (huh?). 

The rouge right thumb was removed when I was 18 months old.  This is the only existing photo that shows it… kind of.

Fast forward fifty-seven years later, to yesterday.  Kat came home for the weekend and suggested that she and I “get our nails done.”  Apparently, this is something that her friends in junior high and high school did with their mothers and Kat always envied them.  So, she decided, it was finally time.

“No WAY am I going to willingly show my hands to a stranger!” I protested.  But Kat would have none of it. “It’s time to face your insecurities and to confront this habit,” she told me. 

(Is this the beginning of the child parenting the parent?  You know how that ends, don’t you…?)

So off we went.  But first, the before photo.  It was hard enough taking the damn photo, but attaching it here is…

OK, fine.  I can hardly look.  And you should just take a quick peek and move on.

There you go.  Move on now.

Yes, you may call me Stubby. (Pretty bad, eh?)

I pretty much wanted to turn around and leave.  Instead, we did this:

Yes, I freaked out when she put those dragon claws on me!  But Kat reassured me that they’d cut them shorter. 

I started by telling myself that this woman had probably seen far worse than my stubby nails, and that she really didn’t even care about my nails.  That made it easier to stay in my seat.  Once I relaxed into it, I even liked it!

And the best part?

LOOK!

(My hands sure look older than I had realized.  But look!  I have fingernails!)

(And possibly arthritis?!!)

Even my retarded thumb doesn’t look all that bad!

  

I just might replace that biting habit with a new habit of getting my nails done!

Thanks, Kat!  Cheers to you!

Heartbroken. (Boo is missing.)

Last Saturday evening, four nights ago, Boo joined me as I read a book on the bed of our new travel trailer as it was parked in our driveway. 

I remember saying jokingly to Boo, “Geeze! Can you purr a little more quietly?  I can hardly hear myself read!” He was so content in the crook of my arm, his favorite place to be when we’re hanging out together – which was all the time.

A while later, Boo and I, along with Simon, Quinn, and Shasta, left the trailer.  And that was the last I saw of my beloved Boo boy.  He just never came in that night – or the next, or the next. 

Tom and I fear the worst because Boo NEVER stays away from home for more than a night.  Needless to say, we are absolutely heartbroken.

I’ve put up signs around the neighborhood and our vet (who is a half mile away) was nice enough to post a flyer, but so far we have had no news at all about what might have happened to sweet Boo.  My guess is that a coyote got him.

This is how I’ve been feeling all week:

I just want my Boo-Boo back.

Six benefits of blogging over facebooking

About five years ago, I joined Facebook.  Coincidentally (NOT!), about five years ago I stopped blogging with any real consistency.  Because Facebook is so easy, it’s been hard for me to go back to blogging. Not because I don’t like blogging – I actually love it – but because it seems that I am a damn lazy communicator. 

‘Listen up, Carol,’ I’ve told myself recently. ‘You really should get back to blogging – if for no other reason than that you LIKE it more than you like facebooking.’  And then I proceed to tell myself why:

1. Because you’re making a point, telling a story, or recounting an experience, you have to actually write when you blog. Facebook – at least the way I’ve been doing it -- doesn’t require the ability to write. In terms of expressive language, Facebook is usually more of a grunt to blogging’s strung-together words that form actual sentences.
2. The only people who read your stuff on Facebook are people you deem as “friends.” The people who read stuff on your blog are people who decide you have something interesting to say.  (And then, if they actually like enough of what you have to say, they sometimes they become friends because of it.)
3. Blogging is like journaling.  Facebooking is like texting.  When I’m long gone, my journals will give far more insight into who I was than my texts will.
4. In term of cataloging, it’s a whole lot easier to find a blog entry you wrote three years ago than it is to find a Facebook post you wrote three years ago.  I can hardly find a Facebook post I did three days ago!
5. Blogging is often like going to a foreign country, in terms of the comments and feedback I get, while facebooking is more like going to my high school reunion.  This can be both terrifying and gratifying.
6. Blogging requires me to stop and think, to be mindful, careful, and detail-oriented, and to review more carefully what I’m sending out to the world. Posting to Facebook is much more impulsive for me.  ‘Hey, my cat’s being cute…’  Snap. Navigate. Attach. Post. This is neither bad nor good; it just is.

All of this said, I found myself posting to Facebook a few times today. 

I mean, seriously, am I really going to blog about an unexpected make-up-in-a-store-with-a-delightful-gay-man-who-made-me-feel-great-about-myself experience, which ended in me buying an unprecedented $112 (gasp!) worth of make-up? 

Ya know, now that I think about it, I really should have!

Sigh.  This re-focus might take a while…