Sunday, Bloody Sunday

A few decades ago there was a U2 song titled Sunday, Bloody Sunday. It was about a protest in Northern Ireland where a bunch of people were shot. I think. Don’t risk your Jeopardy winnings on my knowledge of the meaning of U2 lyrics. Anyways, I had my very own Bloody Sunday two Sundays ago....

DISCLAIMER (again): if you don’t want to read about my girly parts, then avert your eyes and move along to another post. If vaginas don’t bother you, then carry on.

So it was a typical Sunday...except I had the flus. Yes, flus plural...I had Influenza A and B...again. (Eye roll). But symptoms were mild and I was on Tamiflu. Nevertheless, I didn’t go to church with Dan and the boys. I figured I should follow dr orders to keep my zip locked vagina from closing even more. So I used the dilator that I’d used before and never once had a problem. It’s not nearly as fun as you may imagine. Trust me. I did my 10 minutes of prescribed dilator use and was shocked to see a large amount of blood. Large isn’t the right word. Horrifying amount of blood. I called Dan and thankfully he was on the way home from church. He dropped the boys off at his parents and rushed home. By now I was feeling faint and leaving quite the mess. Looked like someone murdered someone in our bathroom. I called my gynecologist at Loyola (my specialist gyn). She never returned my call, but it may have been the answering services’ fault. Either way, when nobody called me after 30 min, I called my local (and awesome) gynecologist who said she would meet me at the local ER. So off we went. This was not yesterday, but the week prior and NW Indiana was having a minor snowstorm. Whiteout conditions. Dan always wanted to rush me to the hospital when I was pregnant but since all three boys were induced, he never got to. Well, now he was able to...in whiteout conditions none the less! Took us an hour to get there when it should only take 30 min. By that time I had bled through everything and made yet another mess. The ER receptionists said they were sending me to labor and delivery to meet my dr there. Ended up in pediatrics..but whatever. My Dr took one look and said she was getting an Operating Room ready. At that point I had lost enough blood that I was woozy and feeling pretty awful. Blood transfusions was mentioned but since I need special blood (irradiated) because of the transplant, there was a brief panic as everyone realized that the blood bank didn’t have this blood and it had to come from Fort Wayne. In a snow storm. 3 hours at least. My dr called the transplant department at Loyola and got the head of the department who wanted me to “just come to Loyola”. Clearly he didn’t understand that I was bleeding to death. Only halfway joking. He apparently also hadn’t noticed the snowstorm. (Eye roll again). So my very amazing dr said “no way, she cannot get there, you have to tell me what to do with her blood transfusion if needed”. After many more phone calls and a lot of head scratching, the blood blank realized that they DID have irradiated blood on hand for newborns. So I was saved! On to surgery. My gyn cauterized the artery that had ruptured when a vaginal adhesion tore from the use of the dilator. I was never in pain and had no idea anything tore. I never needed the blood transfusion. Spent one night in hospital and was sent home with low hemoglobin and a headache. Now, a week later, I’m feeling close to normal. I have a follow up with my dr in a week to figure out “now what”. The fun never ends!

Jagged Little Pill

Remember Alanis Morissette from back in the 90’s? She had a hit album titled Jagged Little Pill. Although she was a successful and popular artist, she was angry and bitter with her lyrics...a favorite of the women of the 90’s dealing with teenage angst or just looking for a song to blow off some steam. My 15 year old self sang along to the CD, on repeat at times, knowing every word but not really understanding the meaning. I had bigger things to deal with like homework, a busy schedule, friends, work and a boyfriend. I had no real reason to be angry or bitter but I liked the music.

Fast forward 22 (oh my...really?) years and my understanding of Jagged Little Pill has changed. Now, don’t get me wrong. I have a fantastic life. My husband is truly the best out there. My children are amazing. Our home is beautiful and holds many fine memories. We have friends and family that we enjoy spending time with and we are all healthy and strong overall. I live an extraordinarily good life. In the grand scheme of things, the leukemia will be a blip on the radar....a little pill to swallow. But wow was it a jagged one, leaving scrapes and wounds going down that now have to heal and forever leave scars.

Allow me to wallow a bit. See, I’m coming up on my 2 year anniversary of my stem cell transplant. It’s not “a big milestone” in the medical world. THe big ones are 1, 3, and 5 years. At 1 year they celebrate the fact that the killer chemo only killed your bone marrow and not you. At 3 years they celebrate that you are “out of the woods” and your chance of relapsing drops significantly. At 5 years they celebrate that you are essentially “cured” and your risk of developing leukemia is the same as the normal person. But I am happy to be nearing my 2 year mark because there were days when 2 years seemed impossible. So here I am. Thrilled to be alive. Most days. Here’s the wallowing...and anger...and bitterness...and sadness...and grief that the little pill of Leukemia has left behind. Let me begin with some humor. Last month, I went in for a blood draw.
Lab tech: wow, those are some nice track marks on your arm
Me: uh, thanks?
Lab tech: no, really...those are impressive.
Never in a million years would I have thought I”d have track marks that compete with the junkies. I laughed out loud. Me. Track marks. So now I look at my poor veins and laugh. Some days I can see the results of thousands of blood tests over the past several years and other days I don’t. My veins are scarred and getting blood out of them is like getting water out of a stone (without Jesus’s help!). It’s a result from that jagged little pill that will be with me for the rest of my life.

Another humorous quality that will be with me forever is my lack of hair. Now, some days when we are crazy busy trying to get the 5 of us out the door in a timely fashion, I enjoy throwing on a wig and having it be mostly “ready to go”. No curling irons or blow dryers here! Hair product? Nope. Just me and my fake hair. Other days I get angry at my hair follicles for wimping out so fast and not even trying. I get angry at the chemo that saved my life. I get angry at the leukemia that came in and caused an upheaval of everything. Here’s the funny part. Or maybe not so funny. Before I had a wig, I’d go out with my head scarf and carry on running errands like anyone else. Well meaning people who touch my arm and say “I’m praying for you”. Usually I had all 3 boys with me and they were not the quietest bunch..and I felt like saying “I”m praying for me too!”. But those people thought I was in treatment still. I looked sick. Some people would assume I had breast cancer because I was young and female. On more than on occasion, I had a woman hand me a pink ribbon and say something along the lines of “I’m supporting Breast Cancer Awareness and a cure for you”. Well, that’s great and I support Breast Cancer Awareness as well but that’s not what I need a cure from. Thanks though. My favorite was when people would say “you look so pretty bald”. Uh...thanks? I mean, it was said with love from many friends and family but I DON”T WANT TO BE BALD! Bald is not the new beautiful. Bald is a constant reminder of what I’ve lived. So, enter the wig. Now I can walk out in the world and not be prayed for in the produce section or pitied in line at Target.

Ah well, I could complain and wallow for several more paragraphs but I must switch the laundry and fold a load. Let me conclude with some sort of point to this rambling. Leukemia itself was a rather little pill to swallow but boy did it leave scars and wounds from its jagged little edges. Scars that I’ll take with me forever. Wounds that are still wide open and bleeding. Scraps that still burn. My picture above with my husband doesn’t show them, but they are there. That picture shows the life I live 90% of the time. Happiness and contentment. Truly, I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams. But 10% of the time, I get angry, bitter and weepy. It happens and gosh darn it, that’s ok. When you’ve lived through what my family and I have lived through, you get to be a grouch sometimes. So there.