What's Left of Me
Page 77
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I got the call while I was talking with Mom on the phone, so, of course, she panicked and told me I was not allowed to make my appointment without her being there. She said she would do whatever it took to rearrange her work schedule so she could be with me.
I told Parker about the phone call and the appointment. He told me he would reorder his surgery schedule to come with me, but I urged him to keep it. He’s already rearranged his schedule so much, and I don’t want him to lose patients. When he told me it was okay and that they would understand, I demanded he stay. I assured him multiple times I would call him as soon as I was out, so he reluctantly agreed.
The morning of my appointment, my mom paces the house, cleaning anything in sight. When it comes time to leave, I’m afraid she is going to chew her nails right off, but I, surprisingly, don’t feel as nervous as I probably should.
The office is located in the heart of Minneapolis and has the worst parking known to man. It takes me ten minutes to find a spot every time, then another ten to get into the building because I had to park a mile away.
By the time I get called back into Dr. Olson’s office, I’ve already drunk an entire bottle of water and flipped through the latest People magazine, twice. My mom follows so close behind me that I swear if I stopped mid-stride she’d run right into my back, tumbling us both straight to the ground.
When we are brought into Dr. Olson’s office, I’m surprised to see her already there, along with Dr. James.
“Aundrea. Donna.” Dr. Olson nods at us both.
“Hello,” we reply together.
“Please, sit.” She motions toward the two chairs across from her desk.
Sitting up tall and wiping my now-sweaty palms on my jeans, I take deep, calming breaths to help with nerves that weren’t there before.
Dr. Olson looks down at the chart lying open on her desk. She glances back up at me and I can see it in her eyes—the sadness in them. I’ve learned over the last four years how to read her. When there’s good news, you can see the sparkle and glee in her eyes. When she’s sad, or upset, she has the look she’s giving me right now. Deep down, in my gut, I know the words that are about to come out of her mouth will be life-changing.
“Just give it to me straight.”
My mom reaches over, taking my hand into hers and squeezing it. I give her one quick squeeze back, but don’t hold her grip.
Dr. Olson lets out a soft sigh and nods her head. “I want to point out first that the PET scan and all your labs show that the stem cell transplant is doing well. Your markers are clean and there is no sign of Hodgkin’s. It’s only been a few weeks and I won’t say anything about remission until you are clear for six months. Dr. James has been following your other scans closely, along with your blood pressure, which is why I’ve asked him to join us today.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly. I give Dr. James my full attention.
“Aundrea, your tests came back showing that your heart is becoming abnormally large. The echocardiogram shows that you’ve developed something called cardiomyopathy, which can also be induced by tachycardia, an increase in your heart rate. It’s a serious side effect of long-term chemotherapy. It’s not something anyone can predict, and it usually doesn’t show up until months after you’ve finished chemo. Based on what I’ve seen in the tests we’ve already done, I’d say you’ve had some form of it for a while, and are just now getting symptoms.”
“What exactly is this card-my-othy?” My mom’s voice shakes.
“It’s a weakening of the heart muscle. There are different types, but based on our tests, Aundrea has what is known as dilated cardiomyopathy. This is where the heart becomes too large, starting in one ventricle and moving into other chambers as the disease worsens. It eventually makes pumping blood extremely difficult, putting a lot of strain on your heart. This explains the shortness of breath she’s been having, the high blood pressure, and the rapid pulse.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom wipe her face. She sniffs beside me, wiping her nose before asking, “So, what now? Surgery?”
What now? This isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words. What now?
I’m tired of hearing them.
I’m tired of feeling weak.
I’m tired of being sick.
I’m tired of hurting.
I’m tired of being a pincushion for the latest set of nursing students or prospective doctors.
I’m tired of the scans, the tests, and the hospitals.
I’m tired of all the What nows.
I’m over it.
Dr. Olson looks at me, not Mom. She gives me unspoken words of support. I understand now the reason behind her presence here. She knows I trust her and value her opinion. She knows my family can get overly emotional and sometimes miss valuable information. She’s my second set of ears.
Dr. James takes a deep breath. “Aundrea, I’m going to be very honest with you. Eventually, down the road, you may need surgery on your heart. How far? I can’t tell you. A year; maybe longer. My job right now is to control your symptoms with medication.”
I hear my mom’s soft cries and reach over, taking her hand in mine, trying to give her some comfort. It’s strange how I always seem to be the one to comfort my family.
“I’m sorry. This is … just a lot to take in, so forgive me if my questions come out scattered or incoherent. Is this something that you fix with just medication or surgery, and then everything is okay?” I question.
I told Parker about the phone call and the appointment. He told me he would reorder his surgery schedule to come with me, but I urged him to keep it. He’s already rearranged his schedule so much, and I don’t want him to lose patients. When he told me it was okay and that they would understand, I demanded he stay. I assured him multiple times I would call him as soon as I was out, so he reluctantly agreed.
The morning of my appointment, my mom paces the house, cleaning anything in sight. When it comes time to leave, I’m afraid she is going to chew her nails right off, but I, surprisingly, don’t feel as nervous as I probably should.
The office is located in the heart of Minneapolis and has the worst parking known to man. It takes me ten minutes to find a spot every time, then another ten to get into the building because I had to park a mile away.
By the time I get called back into Dr. Olson’s office, I’ve already drunk an entire bottle of water and flipped through the latest People magazine, twice. My mom follows so close behind me that I swear if I stopped mid-stride she’d run right into my back, tumbling us both straight to the ground.
When we are brought into Dr. Olson’s office, I’m surprised to see her already there, along with Dr. James.
“Aundrea. Donna.” Dr. Olson nods at us both.
“Hello,” we reply together.
“Please, sit.” She motions toward the two chairs across from her desk.
Sitting up tall and wiping my now-sweaty palms on my jeans, I take deep, calming breaths to help with nerves that weren’t there before.
Dr. Olson looks down at the chart lying open on her desk. She glances back up at me and I can see it in her eyes—the sadness in them. I’ve learned over the last four years how to read her. When there’s good news, you can see the sparkle and glee in her eyes. When she’s sad, or upset, she has the look she’s giving me right now. Deep down, in my gut, I know the words that are about to come out of her mouth will be life-changing.
“Just give it to me straight.”
My mom reaches over, taking my hand into hers and squeezing it. I give her one quick squeeze back, but don’t hold her grip.
Dr. Olson lets out a soft sigh and nods her head. “I want to point out first that the PET scan and all your labs show that the stem cell transplant is doing well. Your markers are clean and there is no sign of Hodgkin’s. It’s only been a few weeks and I won’t say anything about remission until you are clear for six months. Dr. James has been following your other scans closely, along with your blood pressure, which is why I’ve asked him to join us today.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly. I give Dr. James my full attention.
“Aundrea, your tests came back showing that your heart is becoming abnormally large. The echocardiogram shows that you’ve developed something called cardiomyopathy, which can also be induced by tachycardia, an increase in your heart rate. It’s a serious side effect of long-term chemotherapy. It’s not something anyone can predict, and it usually doesn’t show up until months after you’ve finished chemo. Based on what I’ve seen in the tests we’ve already done, I’d say you’ve had some form of it for a while, and are just now getting symptoms.”
“What exactly is this card-my-othy?” My mom’s voice shakes.
“It’s a weakening of the heart muscle. There are different types, but based on our tests, Aundrea has what is known as dilated cardiomyopathy. This is where the heart becomes too large, starting in one ventricle and moving into other chambers as the disease worsens. It eventually makes pumping blood extremely difficult, putting a lot of strain on your heart. This explains the shortness of breath she’s been having, the high blood pressure, and the rapid pulse.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom wipe her face. She sniffs beside me, wiping her nose before asking, “So, what now? Surgery?”
What now? This isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words. What now?
I’m tired of hearing them.
I’m tired of feeling weak.
I’m tired of being sick.
I’m tired of hurting.
I’m tired of being a pincushion for the latest set of nursing students or prospective doctors.
I’m tired of the scans, the tests, and the hospitals.
I’m tired of all the What nows.
I’m over it.
Dr. Olson looks at me, not Mom. She gives me unspoken words of support. I understand now the reason behind her presence here. She knows I trust her and value her opinion. She knows my family can get overly emotional and sometimes miss valuable information. She’s my second set of ears.
Dr. James takes a deep breath. “Aundrea, I’m going to be very honest with you. Eventually, down the road, you may need surgery on your heart. How far? I can’t tell you. A year; maybe longer. My job right now is to control your symptoms with medication.”
I hear my mom’s soft cries and reach over, taking her hand in mine, trying to give her some comfort. It’s strange how I always seem to be the one to comfort my family.
“I’m sorry. This is … just a lot to take in, so forgive me if my questions come out scattered or incoherent. Is this something that you fix with just medication or surgery, and then everything is okay?” I question.
