Pretty routine stuff, right? I honestly tried to absorb and respond to as much as I could, but it all quickly became a blur. I walked around the house like I was lost. The diagnosis of a second tumor, this one in my pituitary -- news I’d received after the short-lived relief of finishing my last round of chemo -- had taken the wind out of my sails and left me searching for my bottle of Xanax. Some days I woke up feeling okay with it, but later I’d be mad, followed by scared and anxious, and then back to okay again.
The worst part of my confused emotional state was that I wanted to hide it from everyone. I’d just started getting past my post-chemo blues, so why draw any more attention to my altered mental state? And writing about it seemed like an even worse idea. (Hence this blog, written weeks after the fact.)
The only thing I knew for sure was that I had to keep this train moving.
With little more than a week till surgery, Josh started coming down with a cold. This was the last thing my poor guy needed. But there was no time for him to stop and rest -- not when he had deadlines to meet at the office and was preparing for a lengthy leave to be my caregiver once again. I knew that the stress of it all was getting to him, and this is how his body was responding. Fortunately, word got out and our dear friend Nan Fitzpatrick quickly called offering to help. She had the best remedy we could have asked for -- homemade turkey soup.
I called Josh at work to tell him I was coming by with the soup and asked him to meet me on the side of the building. I wanted it to be a quick exchange, partly so he could get some nourishment and -- fine, I’ll admit it -- also because I didn’t want to be spotted in my PJ bottoms and chemo cap outside the building where we’re both employed. Though my family and close friends have gotten used it, it’s still sometimes hard to accept the fact that I look like a cancer patient. And this was not Take Cancer to Work Day.
When I drove toward the building, I spotted Josh standing near the parking meters in the shade with another man. Maybe a coworker, I thought as I parked the car. But I was completely wrong. Instead, it was a friend we’ve known for many years -- Joe Zaniker -- an amazingly talented artist and someone I truly admire. What a happy coincidence. I had managed to show up at the same time Joe had also arranged to meet Josh. I wondered why Josh hadn’t mentioned it to me on the phone.
That’s when I spotted the large canvas Josh was holding behind his back. Joe, this dear soul who’d gifted me once already with an original drawing during chemo, had decided to thrill me again. This time it was a gorgeous painting that carried a similar theme, using imagery I have long admired in his work. The piece featured four images atop of a hill, leaning into each other and backlit by a starry night sky. It represented our family, Joe explained, and was a reminder that our love would help us overcome any adversity.
Talk about perfect timing. Just as I was getting ready for what Josh was calling my personal Super Bowl and the anxiety was hitting its peak, I was met by yet another example of pure love that grounded me once again. The tears came quick and I held on to Joe for a long time, sobbing into his shoulder. Josh got teary too. And at that moment I didn’t care who saw me. It was the furthest thing from my mind.
We made two trips to Stanford that week. The first was a consultation with the head of Stanford’s pituitary department, an endocrinologist named Dr. Larry Katznelson, to discuss my new tumor. I brought a CD with the results of my MRI, and after I was interviewed at great length, we huddled around a computer monitor to view the images of my brain. There, in the space just behind my eye sockets, was the tumor -- more specifically known as a pituitary macroadenoma. It was a garden variety, he assured us confidently. After I asked him point-blank, he explained this meant it was benign. Whew.
We were shocked to learn there was a correlation between the pituitary tumor and my original cancer diagnosis. According to Dr. Katznelson, the pituitary tumor was causing excess growth hormone to be secreted. This, he explained, was feeding the tumor in my chest “like fertilizer,” as well as any other potential cancer elsewhere in my body.
It was intriguing to learn what else that excess growth hormone was to blame for -- many symptoms that I’d been experiencing for years. I’m talking about the very symptoms that many doctors had explained away each time I’d tried to address them. The increase in my ring size and my shoe size, perspiration, headaches, breakouts, skin tags, even the changes to my tongue and jaw that ultimately prevented my adult orthodontia from working! Over time, I’d heard reasonable excuses for nearly all of these things.
But now someone was finally able to connect the dots on all these bizarre symptoms with a single diagnosis. It was the second time I felt like I was standing on hallowed ground at Stanford. Based on how long I’d been experiencing my symptoms, Dr. Katznelson suspected I’d been living with the pituitary tumor for as many as eight years. Counting backward, I realized that was right around the time I was pregnant with Camryn. A coincidence?
It scared me to think what the chemo had been up against, now that I knew my own body had been working covertly to feed and grow that darn tumor in my chest. Dr. Katznelson then went over the treatment options for a tumor that measured all of 1.3 centimeters -- considered large by medical standards! We agreed that I would begin shots of a medication to suppress the growth hormones until I was able to have the tumor removed by a neurosurgeon.
But first things first. There was already one surgery looming around the corner. And that train was moving full speed ahead with no intention of stopping.
We went back for the second trip to Stanford on a Wednesday evening, and were happy to visit and stay overnight at the home of our friends Ali and Bryan Kolozsi. This guaranteed our arrival for the first of many pre-op appointments and tests Thursday morning. Dr. Whyte, my surgeon, as well as the hospital staff continued to amaze us with their level of care and concern. One particular anesthesia nurse, after making the connection that she had family leaving near us in Sacramento, went so far as to give us her cell phone number in the event that she could help me with anything after I’d returned home from surgery. So kind.
We got things organized for the five days we'd be at Stanford and planned the logistics for the kids during those days that we’d be gone. Camryn and Hayden seemed to be taking it all very well -- no noticeable anxiety, unlike their momma -- and were actually excited at the idea of Aunt Donna coming from Tahoe to stay with them again. I’d found myself joking about it many times during these last several months, that as along as their routines were kept as normal as possible, our kids seemed downright unflappable.
Two days before surgery, I joined my family at Sunday mass -- my first visit back since that wonderful service I’d attended on Christmas Eve. Looking for some words of wisdom to hold on to, I approached one of my favorite priests -- Father Franklin. He listened as I explained what I was facing, then smiled and told me he believed it was no coincidence I was going into surgery just days after Ash Wednesday -- since the experience itself was my own Lenten journey. He added that while I might not understand at this moment the reason why everything was happening, it would be apparent to me someday -- most likely when I’d have the opportunity to help another person walking a similar path.
And there I was, grounded again.
Looking back, I had so much to be grateful for in the time leading up to my surgery. Tremendous support and well wishes poured in during those last days. I was wined and dined by my closest girlfriends and received gorgeous flowers from my sweet cousins in Canada, along with other lovely gifts, cards, emails, phone calls and visits from so many other special people. I even received a second binder of "love letters" -- this one from my wonderful family and in-laws -- containing messages and photos from loved ones both near and far. Heartfelt tributes and words of encouragement were collected from both the young (my nephew, Isaac, age 10) and the young at heart (Josh’s great-aunt, Anita, who is truly ageless). All of these loving gestures gave me strength when I needed it most, and for that I am truly blessed.
After a nice lunch out with my family and just hours before Josh and I left for Stanford, I got news of one last surprise. Riny Kooymans, who is married to my cousin Teresa and has known me since I was a little girl, had done something very special for me -- all the way from Canada. Here is the contents of an email he sent to my sister Wendy:
Being a cyclist, I follow the Tour De France every year, especially when Lance Armstrong was on his comeback from cancer. I have read all his books about his fight and recovery, and find him a great inspiration (and now Angela is my inspiration!). After Lance retired from international cycling, he devoted all his time to the LAF (Lance Armstrong Foundation), which raises funds and awareness for the fight against cancer.
This year, Lance will come out of retirement to race once again in the Tour De France. I had a chance to send Lance (LAF) support for the fight against cancer, and by doing this, he will be riding in honor of Angela. I have attached the link to Lance's website so that you can see Angela's name (along with others) under "Riding in Honor".
http://www.rideforlivestrong.com/riders/armstrong.html
When Wendy called me to share the news, I could hardly believe it. Then I quickly checked the website and spotted my name near the very top of the scrolling list. How cool is that? I could now add Lance Armstrong to my arsenal of supporters! It was just the boost I needed to take me on the final leg of the journey. I went to sleep that night, tucked into bed at a hotel just blocks away from Stanford Hospital, actually feeling excited about what the morning would bring.
The train was nearing the station at last.
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