Turbo Cancer: Day 120 - October 9, 2022

Gnomes

On this day, last year, my mom wrote:

Old Faithful stopped draining.

Lumpy started paining.

Poem of the day.

Great visit from Lenore. Will start painting. New beginning!

Slept well. Gained 1/2 pound. Increased Lasix to 2 1/2 pills a day.

“One would not generally put garbage into the stomach, but too often, one will put garbage into the mouth.” - Fulton Sheen

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In July, my mom had had a lymphectomy. A painful, inflamed lymph node had been removed from her groin.

The surgeon was confident that the procedure had been flawless and that my mom would not need a lymphatic drain. He said that the affected lymph ducts were very small. He said that they would seal off and that the lymph fluid would easily reroute itself.

In the days following the surgery, the top of her thigh swelled. Fluid began seeping through the surgical incision. The lymphatic ducts, it seemed, had continued to drain fluid, which was then trapped in her groin and upper thigh. With no place to go, the fluid was causing incredible pressure and pain.

Another surgeon, Doctor S, installed a drain. He cut a hole into thigh, and ran a tube from the hole into the lymphatic area of the groin. At the end of the tube, there was a collection bulb.

Doctor S said that the amount of fluid collected in the bulb would be reduced over the next few days. He told us to make an appointment in one week, to have the drain removed.

After one week, it was decided that the drain would be left in place for an additional week.

After two weeks, with no reduction in fluid production, the drain itself had begun causing inflammation and pain. Surgical drains are meant to be temporary. My mom’s body was rejecting the presence of this foreign object. Doctor S removed the drain, and he said that the fluid production would be decreased until it dried up on its own. He was confident that the wound on my mom’s thigh would close and heal independently, as well.

For three months, the hole remained open, and the fluid continued to drain. Eventually, we realized that the hole had been allowing the excess fluid to escape. We came to understand that The Blowhole had been my mom’s ally in the battle of keeping the fluid at bay.

On this day, last year, the hole closed.

We were never given an explanation as to why my mom’s body was producing such an incredible amount of liquid. The doctors were not able to explain why her disease was not following protocol. Nobody told us why the drainage didn’t reduce or dry up.

As far as we knew, there was no name for this condition. There were no previous cases to look to or to learn from. We only understood our own experience with Lumpy and The Blowhole.

We didn’t want the hole to close. With the hole gone, there was no way for the fluid to escape. The hole had given my mom the ability to control the pain.

We were afraid of what might happen next.

However, even in time of fear, life goes on. We had to wait and see.

So, while we waited, we painted.

The library had given out paint-by-number kits for seniors. The kit contained a very challenging gnome design on canvas. There were thousands of tiny spaces with numbers and little, corresponding, paint pots.

My mom and I stretched the canvas onto a board. We set the paints, brushes, and water cups up on the table. Each of us chose a color to start with, and carefully searched for the corresponding spaces to fill.

We were worried about The Blowhole. If the hole remained closed, where would the fluid go? Was the lump going to grow, causing unbearable suffering? Would the fluid, once again, surround my mom’s organs, constricting her heart and filling her lungs? Or were we to face some other, new, sudden, unexpected symptom?

We had learned that turbo cancer was unpredictable. It was impossible to plan for the future. We could not prepare for what was to come, because we had no idea what was to come.

Amid the chaos, my mom and I sat together, chatting, laughing, and creating something new. We painted the time away, while we waited for the future to reveal itself.

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The Next Day:

To know the whole story, start at the beginning: