There’s a New Leg Order!


All my life my right side has taken charge.
Need to write something? “I’ll do that!” says Righty!
Swinging a hammer? “I’ll do that!” says Righty!
Kicking a ball? “I’ll do that!” says Righty!

Whether it is doing things with my hands or my feet, my right side has always been the stronger of the two. The disparity has been so great that at times I would stop Righty from automatically taking the lead, and tell Lefty to try. This would always end in tears. Lefty would whine and complain and when forced to try anyway, would perform awkwardly and weakly, leading to anguished wailing, “See? I told you I can’t do it! I suck!”

And I would have liked to reassure Lefty that she didn’t really suck, but… yeahhh, well she kind of did. Usually all I could say was, “good try, kid!” and hand the ball back to Righty who smirked like an older sibling who knew that mom loved her best.

But now it is Righty who is the weak one, at least in the legs. I am now missing half my main calf muscle complex in that leg, and as I am healing up and using the leg more, I can tell that my right leg is now the weakling, considerably so.

I have to give Lefty credit. She could have been lording this over Righty, but instead she’s been a good sister and seems to just want to help out as much as she can. Barely a smirk seen.

It’s still hard on Righty though, such a blow to her pride and identity. She keeps trying to prove she can do what she used to, that the leader’s job is NOT up for grabs. Righty will try and take the first step up a stair still, or lead in a pivoting turn, but then the lack of strength will nearly topple us completely and Lefty will quietly move in front saying “It’s ok. I got this.” I think that just makes Righty more angry.

So now Righty wants us to get to the gym, the pool, into physio. Whatever it will take to reclaim her… uh… righteous… space of being. And she may very well. And Lefty will quietly shuffle back and all will be as it once was.

Unless this little exercise in leading gives Lefty thoughts:
Left behind no more!

(and I didn’t mention monkeys once!!)
Oh, here they are….

One_Leg

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There are almost certainly monkeys, somewhere. Yeah, no.


I have been remiss in my monkey scribing duties, and I apologize to those who enjoy reading about those monkeys and to the monkeys themselves for being ignored.

The truth is there is a part of me that wants to move on from my bad monkeys and forget they ever existed. And yet, that would be rude. And when one is rude to a monkey, a monkey will always find a way to top you in rudeness. And I definitely do not want that! A happy monkey is a quiet monkey and if the bad monkeys of low grade fibromyxoid sarcomic leanings want to have a fuss made over them, then it is folly to refuse them!

My oncological surgeon thinks the same way it seems.

I received the good news a couple of weeks ago that there was no evidence of ANY monkeys in the muscle and other good bits of me they carved away a month ago. No bad monkeys lurking in the shadows. No bad monkeys hiding in little holes in the ground, hoping the troops would wander away so they could leap out and continue their reign of terror.

Like I suspected, the bad monkeys had all been huddled around a card table, intent on their own plans for mischief when the surgeon’s first strike of the scalpel took them out without them even knowing what hit them.

However… the surgeon…, he’s one of those guys who sees a shadow in every silver lining. It’s probably the nature of his job. Either that or he wants to gain some kind of glory for himself as these kind of monkeys are very very rare and a coup to a doctor like himself. He could make me the subject for a fascinating study on the rarely seen bad monkeys of the fibromyxoid jungle.

So when I saw my family doctor to show him how well my REALLY LONG incision is healing up, he offered to print me out the documents of my surgery, including a letter from the surgeon, in which he stated the good news that the biopsy came back clean BUT…. “there is almost certainly microscopic disease, somewhere.”

That line… those words… they threw me for a tailspin. My family doctor did concur that there was no evidence for the surgeon to say that which helped a bit. But what it left me with immediately was, “I am f**ked. These bad monkeys will come back and trash my temple yet! It’s only a matter of time! How much time? Days? Months? Years? How will it end? Will they slowly break me apart piece by piece? Will they rip my head off and cast it outside into the damp darkness of the jungle?”

That sent me back into a long low depression which is one reason I didn’t feel like writing here. I didn’t feel like anything actually. But I’m fighting back. Because, after research online and talking to others, my doctor is right… the surgeon can’t really say that.

Or rather… he can. In fact we ALL have microscopic evidence of disease, somewhere. It’s how our bodies work. It’s like… we all have a monkey or two wandering our temples. What matters is how we maintain our temples, how much power we give to these monkeys.

So maybe that’s the real reason I didn’t want to post here. I don’t want to glorify these monkeys anymore.

Only… I know I can help others by talking about this. I know I can help myself by talking about this. And I know that monkeys need to be watched and that taking the mickey out of a monkey, so to speak, is sometimes the best way to keeping them in line.

So now begins the “we’re watching you, monkeys!” phase of this particular adventure.

And that I can write more about in the future.

Because we ARE watching you now, bad monkeys!!!

The Hunt For Bad Monkeys Part 2


The Surgical Observation Ward.

After my surgery, while coming to what senses I have in the recovery room, I was informed that I would not in fact being going up to the private room I had requested, but instead would be staying overnight in a multi-bed ward called the Surgical Observation Unit or something like that. They told me that is was for “staffing reasons”.

What I have come to realize since, partly from research online, was that this is where “high risk” post operative patients are placed so they can get a better level of nursing care. In case, you know, you start bleeding, or go into convulsions, or the surgeon’s watch starts beeping inside your leg. Things like that.

At first I was miffed. Housed with commoners? How dare they! And with members of the opposite sex? Too horrid to even think about!

But I was very grateful in the end to have spent the night in that ward because the care I received was first class. There weren’t too many of us I don’t think. I actually spent the night thinking the room was much smaller than it turned out to be. The next morning when I hobbled over to the bathroom on my own, I saw that it was an L shaped ward, with more beds, full, on the other side of the nurses’ station.

I wasn’t even sure how many I shared my side of the room with. I knew there was no one right across from me, and I suppose that was a concession to my royal status, and the person next to me was very quiet, but kitty corner there was a man who had apparently had a knee operation, and who was dealing with a lot more pain and issues than I was. I forgave him for keeping me awake half the night with his moans and his being sick and calling for nurses. He seemed almost embarrassed to be troubling anyone. He would explain that his pain level was a 7 or 8 (these arbitrary numbers we are asked to make up to convey pain – they gave me a sheet weeks before the operation with face diagrams to suggest the count level, 10 being your face scrunched up like you like just ate something very bad). And then he would apologize for being in such pain. It was hard to be mad at him, although he was mainly responsible for me not sleeping more than an hour at a time all night.

The other thing also responsible for a restless sleep was that, after smugly thinking to myself I did not have to pee when this man was having so many issues with it himself, I ended up having to pee about 3 or 4 times through the night. It was the water and apple juice diet I was on.

I hadn’t eaten in about 20 hours but I didn’t feel very hungry, so I did not rise up in rage when the nurse informed me that she had sent my dinner away earlier. But I was very thirsty and apple juice also meant sugar so I kept asking for that. The first time the nurse came by to ask me if I needed to pee I said, smugly, “no! I’m good.” But she wanted to play with the ultrasound machine they use to see how much liquid is in your bladder and I decided to let her, more out of curiosity than anything.

As she placed it over me she asked me if I had ever had a hysterectomy or had any other issues with my womb or uterus. I looked at her and (major reveal for some of you here?) said, “Ummm… actualllly… I never HAD those parts. I’m transgender.” She didn’t miss a beat. Just smiled and said “Oh, ok!” and told me my bladder was 14% full. See I knew it!

But later it was more than 14% full, and when I buzzed the magic button (gotta get one of those for home) the nurse asked if I wanted to get to the bathroom, use the commode or a bed pan. Getting out of bed was NOT an option for me at that point. And I was hooked up to an IV, a pulse thingy on my finger (note to fellow patients – when you move the hand those monitors are attached to, a machine will beep LOUDLY and wake others up! DO NOT move that hand!), and the oxygen thingies stuck in my nostrils. So the bed pan seemed the best option.

It’s awkward. I had to use my sore leg a bit to push myself up off the bed enough but that was a good excuse for a new painkiller. I got into a rhythm eventually. Buzz nurse, lift butt, pee, buzz nurse, she brings painkiller and takes away pee and happy me!

Until I got the male nurse.

He seemed annoyed. He thrust the bed pan at me and started to walk away.
“Uh.” I said, “Um, the other nurse puts down one of those blue cloths underneath the pan first.”
“Why?”
“Because… uh… it gets a bit messy?”
I could just see his mind think “girls!”
I don’t know. I suppose it would have been easier if I hadn’t had the operation a couple of years ago. I mean, guys can pee into a bottle for goodness sakes. I could have tried that, but at least half of it would be outside the bottle too.

The night passed with me drifting in and out of sleep. I had brought a TON of stuff with me in my over packed bag. I had imagined lounging, post surgery, in my own little room, perhaps even with a tv, dressed in my pj’s and slippers, munching on chocolates, sipping juice, reading different books. In fact the only things I got from my bag all night was my new teddy bear, bought just to protect me on this mission, and a couple of chunks of chocolate bar when I felt hungry late at night.

I did try to read but really all I wanted to do was sleep. And pee.

In the morning, bright and early, I was woken by a cheery new person, who brightly told me she was from the lab and was here to take blood! I’m not sure why they wanted blood. Maybe they just collect it. Or perhaps it’s how they make sure they look busy. “I know. I’ll go up with my cart and collect samples from people who can’t run away!”

Shortly after she left, breakfast came. I had woken dreaming of coffee and bacon, a sure sign one is well on the road to recovery!
And here it was! Two thing strips of desiccated bacon, a little mound of re-constituted scrambled eggs, some cream of wheat, weak coffee and soggy toast. It was the most delicious breakfast I have ever had!

I ate all of it.

The poor guy across from me looked through the crack in his curtain and looked like he was going to be sick.

Then I had to pee again!
This time, because I knew they were planning to kick me out that morning, and truly I would not want to spend another sleepless night there, I went for the commode which would at least get me out of bed. I knew that when I stood for the first time the blood would rush to my legs and arrrrrrgh!
So pee. And pills.

The assistant surgeon came to see how I was doing. I had met her before the surgery and figured she was pretty behind that mask but the next morning I saw she was downright glamorous! What’s with these surgeons? It’s like being operated on by supermodels.

She checked my leg and re-iterated that everything went really well from their standpoint, and then tested to see how much feeling I had in my foot. When she got to my little toe and the outside of my foot she was surprised when I said I could still feel it.
“You shouldn’t be able to. I thought we severed that nerve.”
“I thought so too, and it is a little numb, but I can still feel something.”
“You shouldn’t be able to. Strange.”

Yes, I am strange. It’s as simple as that.

But I am very pleased the numbness in my foot is about the same as it was after the original tumour removal, when they moved the nerve but did not severe it. Perhaps my body was already building a new pathway or using another one?

The physiotherapist on the floor was showing patients with new hips, knees, whatever, the beginning steps of a long and difficult regime to recovery and I asked to see him before I left. He showed me how to use my crutches properly and helped me practice on stairs that were very steep and very narrow. I briefly wondered if he was thinking about making a new client for himself, so was careful not to turn my back on him.

And then, before I left the hospital, I had one last pee! This time I crutched it over to the washroom all on my own and felt sorry for all the bodies in the beds, still attached to IV lines and such, and moaning and pressing their nurse buttons.

And then I remembered them from before.
We all shared that waiting room a day earlier. Some of us were alone, looking nervous and unsure of what to do with ourselves. Some of us were with family or friends, and I would look for the wrist bracelet to see which one was walking through those doors with me.

We seemed independent and healthy enough. You could detect slight limps. You certainly could feel the nervousness. We were the chosen ones.

We would all walk through that door on our own feet, possessions in hand, fully dressed, as on an otherwise ordinary day. We would exit that area on our backs, in flimsy hospital gowns, our possessions taken from us, tubes and things stuck in us, totally helpless…. all of us lain low by the surgical team that waited for each and every one of us. Then we would listen to each other moan and groan and cough through the night, absolutely dependent on the nurses, helpless and wounded warriors of the world.

I hope they are all out of there by now and working towards their own healing and recovery. I hope they are doing as well as I am doing now.

My new guardian bear who watched over me all night long. He's so awesome! And soft!

My new guardian bear who watched over me all night long. He’s so awesome! And soft!

The Hunt For Bad Monkeys Part 1


It has been a few days since I even felt like getting online, other than a couple of quick phone to Facebook updates for friends and family. I had no idea I would feel as awful as I have. It’s like someone performed major surgery on me and I have had to recover from that. Oh, right, in fact that is what has happened.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. After a lifetime of no surgeries at all, I now have had 3 in two years. It’s like a later life hobby, but frankly I really think I should find a better hobby. This one kind of sucks.

It is a long slow process to recovery and there is no way to really hurry it up. The trick is finding the right combination of rest, movement, and painkillers. I’m learning. It is getting a bit better, day by day.

To go back to the day of surgery, it started with my brother driving me bright and early through an eerie morning fog, to the main city hospital, where I had 4 rather larger vials of blood extracted from my arm. I’ve never had this done before, but apparently it gives the medical team, MY medical team, an accurate idea of the exact blood type I would need should I start bleeding all over the place during surgery. It’s not just about type, but the details too.

As much as my brother suggested my blood type should read “blue blood”, for a princess like myself, I was reminded by the intake nurse, John, that I am AB. AB+ I think he said. I knew it was one of the rare ones. Seems like I am a rare creature all around. I probably should have some endangered species protection you know. I knew that I was a rare blood type when I was a kid and the whole class found out their blood types. It was par for the course, being the only kid in the class of that type. Outside looking in. Odd duckling. All that. Par for the course.

I actually arrived for my surgery two hours early. I am never early for anything. Of all things to be early for, the surgery wasn’t a great one. They didn’t push another patient out of the queue seeing I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. They, rather, admonished me for being so early and told me to wait the next two hours in the stuffy and crowded waiting room. Instead I went for a walk to the university bookstore and for once in my life took my time looking at all the books!

I was starving by the time I came back to properly wait for my surgery. It had been about 13 hours since I had anything to eat so when a nice young Italian man showed up with coffee and baked goods for his aunties waiting for another family member it was difficult not to join them. Then, while they munched on delicious looking treats, the aunties started talking about their favourite recipes. I think perhaps they weren’t actually waiting for anyone to come out of surgery – they most likely got their kicks from hanging out in waiting rooms full of starving people while they ate and talked about food. They seemed to be enjoying it far too much.

Fortunately, my call up came soon and I was able to FINALLY get in to have my turn of fun. John, the nurse, greeted me jovially. That mood soon changed when, after I had dutifully cleaned and changed, he was interrupted in our intake by the surgeon himself, who was ready to go. The surgeon spoke to me a few minutes and did his best to reassure me while I did my best to annoy him (not the smartest thing) by being a difficult patient. Then the surgeon left, the unsaid message to John being “My time is way more valuable than yours so get this one in the OR immediately – we are ALL waiting for you now.”

Poor John. People kept coming by to check in on me, greet me, tell me who they were and what their job was and John was trying to race through about 15 pages of questions and information in between. And he was doing his best to not make me feel like I was being rushed to market. He did an amazing job and I only felt a little bit shaken by the rush. They wheeled me into the OR, maybe traveling a bit too fast as we almost crashed into a few things and people. We passed a few scrubbed up nurses sitting up on counters kicking their feet idly while waiting for me. I could almost see the expressions under the masks; “Oh! FINALLY! We were ready to go to lunch.”

The anesthesiologist had introduced himself to me earlier and he seemed cool and confident so I trusted him. I barely blinked when he informed me he would just set up IV in the OR and then told me I would have a tube shoved down my windpipe for air as I was going to be flipped face down once they knocked me out.

He was merrily chatting away with me while other people grabbed my other arm and someone shouted over the din who I was and what they were all about to do to me. I thought to myself, “OMG! This is chaos! I hope they…..”

And then I was awoken from a nice dream. I was moving through a hallway and people were talking. “She’s awake” were the first words I heard.

It took a moment to remember where I was. Wasn’t I supposed to be having an operation done? Oh. Oh, maybe it HAS been done? Yes. My leg feels a bit sore. I think something happened.

It’s a very strange thing, to one moment be awake and fully together physically, and the next moment be not only somewhere else but missing a chunk of yourself.

They took me into a recovery room and talked to me and gave me a sip of water and asked about my pain. It wasn’t too bad at that point. Presently the surgeon came by and said all had gone real well, he had taken out a wedge of muscle and flesh (30-50% of the muscle.. I’m not sure why he was still uncertain on the size) and that his assistant would see me in the morning. After the surgeon left I looked at the nurse and said ‘God he’s gorgeous!” and she smiled weakly and said “Yes dear. And how is that pain now?”

About an hour or so after surgery, they took me upstairs to my room. I had asked for a private room, being a spoiled princess of rarity, but they said “staffing concerns” made it more important that I be in a different room with others. It was actually the surgical observation ward, and after I got over my initial hissy fit (kept to myself other than a slight pout) about sharing the room with “commoners” I was actually very grateful for the increased care and attention in that ward.

But I shall save that for another post as this has been long enough, and I need to have a nap now. A princess needs her sleep. Especially a wounded princess.