Recovering, covering up, and "It's in the bag, man."

Hello My Pretties,

This is Cookie, who is now one week and a day out from my cancer surgery.  I am here to tell you that all things considered, I am healing and feeling pretty fine. 

Last Monday was the operation and I must tell you, it was rough.  Well, it could have been a whole lot worse. They were able to use the DaVinci robot to cut out the involved prostate and reattach the pee pipe to the bladder - there was a chance that wouldn't happen because of previous abdominal scarring.  

The Cancer (because Cookie has lived in central and Southern, Ohio - we have to use the article in front of the disease noun - as in The Cancer, The Sugar, etc., and of course, et. al.) and some lymph nodes were sent to the lab, we get those results tomorrow.  

I was glued up, a drain inserted and stitched into place, brought to, and remarkably had no sore throat from the anesthesia tube.  I guess it was forty years of practice that paid off.  What hurt like Hell was the trunk of my body.  

Dear God!  

The pain from the CO2 that they fill you up with was excruciating.  I felt like Mr. Tropogrosso!

The worst of the worst is the exterior plumbing. Because they have to attach the pee tube back to the bladder, you have to have a catheter (NOT a Sureflo unit, and I did not have a buttocks drape either) and an external collection bag. They don't want the bladder to spasm, and they don't want the bladder to blow up with urine like a water balloon, yet.  So I have spent a week with three feet of tubing attached to the collection vessel (the bag).

The catheter itself is rubber and has a small balloon inflated in the bladder to keep it from pulling out.  It's not comfortable.  The figurative "pain in the ass" is the tube that connects the catheter to the bag.  The plastic tubing has a mind of its own.  It keeps wanting to twist and coil back into its original shape.  

Verily, it will not be denied. 

In the hospital, it was no problem, because you have people to help you deal with it, and IV poles for the bags of fluids, and you can hang it from when you have to walk the halls.  And yes, I was up walking the halls within three hours of the surgery.  But the tubing isn't a problem. because it's attached to the pole, which is on wheels, and around you go.  

But at home? No pole.  

This makes wearing pants next to impossible.  So I have spent the week in my husband's boxers while I sit around the house.  But because I need to walk up and down the street, that means stuffing said bag and non-compliant tubing into the large of some baggy pants.   And that makes for a look that gets second looks from people driving by or neighbors out for their walks. 

Add all of this up and you can't sleep well.  You are propped up on your back at odd angles.

My diet is pretty limited - soft food and semi-soft food. So lots of soups. Chicken soup is going in and out by the gallons because it's nourishing and surprisingly restorative.  I was able to have a crab cake because this is Maryland and crab cakes are our official food of choice, and a God-given right. 

But now the neighbors are sending food, and I am grateful, but they are sending gallons of Chicken soup.  I keep telling myself: soup is a meal and a liquid...soup is a food and a liquid...hydration is good...

I should start clucking soon. 

Soon, the catheter and I will part company, and we'll get the lab results.  I could pull it out at home, said the doctor.  And I replied "I couldn't but I won't."  I have had a catheter removed about eight years ago, and it wasn't something I was prepared for and I am glad of that.  So no, Dr. Surgeon is removing that clown car. 

The good news would be no spread, nothing in the margins, and nothing in the lymph system.  That means that I will have quarterly PSA tests (blood work), and that will reduce over the next five years.   The bad news is something in the margins, or something in the lymph system, which could mean radiation and chemo. 

Either way, you may not hear from me for a week or so because, and frankly, I am exhausted. 

Now all of you men out there, go to your doctor and get a PSA test. Seriously.  All of the above was but a minor nuisance compared to how this could have gone had I ignored the problem.  And I was that lucky because I insisted on them doing the damned test.   I watched my uncle die from this cancer as it spread through his body at 65, and I am determined that will not be me.  Oh, something will get us all one day, but it won't be prostate cancer.   

So don't let it happen to you.  Better to battle a bag for a week to ten days than to end up on a morphine drip headed into eternity.