I had scans following two cycles of chemo and it seems that the medicine is working its magic. The cancer has been knocked back in my lungs and my heart, the new stuff that showed up in my abdomen in July is gone, and sclerotic bone mets have appeared, which indicates that they were hiding out but are now dying. (I guess I also had some broken ribs?!? Who knew.) Much to my surprise, even my brain MRI showed improvement, with mets and edema showing reduction. Whew!
Cancer is a thief that steals by inches and by miles. Sometimes stealing pennies, sometimes pearls.
For the past few months it’s has stolen my breath. It’s startling to look back on how frail I was just a few weeks ago. Jason had to push me in a wheelchair for my first chemo, since I was too weak and short of breath to get there under my own steam. During that time, I couldn’t walk more than a few steps.
And now, thanks to chemo, I can walk again. I can yawn again. I can hold my breath. I can (mostly) take a deep breath.
I still have a very long way to go, but I can feel my lungs slowly getting stronger.
My balance issues have remained, meaning it wasn’t the trial drug causing those. They are likely the result of brain surgery and several bouts of radiation. Which also means there may not be a ton of improvement there, even with effective cancer treatment. Wobbliness may just be part of me now.
Cancer has stolen my gracefulness. It has stolen my handwriting. It took my naïveté years ago.
But chemo has given me back my breath, so I willingly continue my cantankerous partnership with this prickly friend.
I can go for a walk again. I can cook a meal again. I can take my kids to the park again.
I am slowly clawing my way back.
Showing posts with label brain surgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brain surgery. Show all posts
Sunday, October 04, 2020
Sunday, August 04, 2019
Unclear
Things are not great in CancerLand. My rising tumor markers and MRI changes have confirmed that the spot in my cerebellum has grown back and is starting to cause symptoms.
The great/terrible/ironic thing is that I’m not facing widespread cancer progression; the only spot causing troubles is the same bugger in the cerebellum that we tried to remove back in October.
My sense of equilibrium is off, and I was having headaches and nausea until we increased my steroids earlier this week. Now, some of the imbalance is likely caused by my trial drug - it is a frequently reported side effect - but certainly some is from the mass. Friends who knew me in my physical theatre / Dell’Arte days will find it strange that I now feel intimidated by a staircase lacking a rail. I reminisce about how I used to stand on someone’s shoulders without batting an eye. Flowers for Algernon’s Charlie comes to mind: I know I have done all sorts of physically challenging things in my life, but I cannot fathom them in my current wobbly state. To make things even more strange, when I sit down, I feel completely normal. It’s only when I stand up that I feel like I’m on a boat.
Where do we go from here?
The best case scenario is that I can get another brain surgery, and that they can remove the entire mass from my cerebellum. Waiting to hear from the neurosurgeon to see if that is possible.
The second option is to get another round of targeted radiation to the mass and hopefully knock it out. I’m doubtful that will be possible, since it has only been 9 months since I had radiation to that area.
If neither of those are possible, I will switch to a chemo that gets into the brain (likely Temodar).
For now, I wait for the experts to weigh in on what is possible at this point.
And we try to squeeze more fun out of the summer.
The great/terrible/ironic thing is that I’m not facing widespread cancer progression; the only spot causing troubles is the same bugger in the cerebellum that we tried to remove back in October.
My sense of equilibrium is off, and I was having headaches and nausea until we increased my steroids earlier this week. Now, some of the imbalance is likely caused by my trial drug - it is a frequently reported side effect - but certainly some is from the mass. Friends who knew me in my physical theatre / Dell’Arte days will find it strange that I now feel intimidated by a staircase lacking a rail. I reminisce about how I used to stand on someone’s shoulders without batting an eye. Flowers for Algernon’s Charlie comes to mind: I know I have done all sorts of physically challenging things in my life, but I cannot fathom them in my current wobbly state. To make things even more strange, when I sit down, I feel completely normal. It’s only when I stand up that I feel like I’m on a boat.
Where do we go from here?
The best case scenario is that I can get another brain surgery, and that they can remove the entire mass from my cerebellum. Waiting to hear from the neurosurgeon to see if that is possible.
The second option is to get another round of targeted radiation to the mass and hopefully knock it out. I’m doubtful that will be possible, since it has only been 9 months since I had radiation to that area.
If neither of those are possible, I will switch to a chemo that gets into the brain (likely Temodar).
For now, I wait for the experts to weigh in on what is possible at this point.
And we try to squeeze more fun out of the summer.
Thursday, January 24, 2019
Return to Oz
I woke up last Wednesday to a phone call from my oncologist confirming that the MRI I had just had showed that, while it was slight, my brain mets are progressing. My fancy new TKI (tyrosine kinase inhibitor - a drug targeted to my ROS1 mutation), Lorlatinib, was not holding my cancer in check. The next best chance for me was to get into a trial for the newest TKI in development, TPX-0005 (it is actually far enough along now in development that it has its generic name, repotrectinib, but I fell in love with it when it was just TPX, so it will always be TPX to me). The nearest site for this trial is at the University of Colorado, a powerhouse for ROS1 research. My longtime readers may recall that back in 2014 I took a trip there, my journey to Oz to meet the Wizards so that I could learn more about my newfound mutation.
With all of this on my mind, I got up and starting figuring out how to stay alive.
Actually, that’s not true. The first thing I did was get back in bed and get under the covers. Sometimes, this is a lot to take in.
THEN I got up, and called to get a copy of my latest MRI. My oncologist is wonderfully thorough, and asked that I take a disc to my surgeon at Karmanos, in case he had any other thoughts or ideas. I collected my disc and delivered it to Karmanos.
I actually managed to wait a full 24 hours before contacting the Wizards (who I have come to know in the years since my visit to Oz, because of my work with the ROS1ders). I knew my oncologist was taking care of setting up the trial for me and I was trying to let things happen the way they are supposed to ... but then I had to email them. This is my survival, after all.
And I got Out of Office replies from both! Crap crap crap. That is probably why my oncologist hadn’t given me an update yet.
And then, a few moments later, a magical reply came from one of the Wizards. He connected me with the people who do the enrollment for the trial and gave me some warnings for where things can get tripped up.
The next morning I was on the phone with the wonderful trial coordinator, my Glinda, going through part 1 of the trial consenting. One tricky part of this trial is that they want a tumor sample. No problem for me, I thought, I just had a chunk of tumor removed from my cerebellum. So I signed the consent to give Glinda permission to collect my tumor sample and get me ready to consent into the trial.
All signs are pointing to yes! I start busying myself figuring out how to manage all the flights I will need to take (anyone used Angel Flights?) and accommodations in Colorado.
However, I keep saying to myself, I’ll believe I’m in the trial when I swallow the first pill. You may recall when I literally had the pills in my hand and was not allowed in the entrectinib trial? Clinical trials are capricious beasts.
Unfortunately, tracking down my tissue has proven to be more difficult than I expected. I told her that my surgery was done at Karmanos, but my main hospital is the University of Michigan. She contacted them, but Karmanos said that they sent my tissue off for NGS (next generation sequencing, to see if I had acquired new mutations or if it was still just ROS1. Still just ROS1, by the way). She assured me that she can still collect it, but clearly it is becoming more time consuming.
AND THEN
%#*%~%#?!
Total panic.
I’ve had my heart set on TPX ever since the summer of 2018 when my oncologist tested my cancer cells against all the current TKIs and found them most reactive to TPX.
I belong in this trial.
I reach out to my ROS1 sistas, Janet and Lisa (who I guess become the Scarecrow and Tinman in my analogy?). I get an appropriate string of swearing when I tell the news. Then they reach out to their connections to get the behind-the-scenes scoop about the trial. Their folks reply at lightning speed encouraging me to get on the waitlist; more spots are coming.
My oncologist confirms that he feels it is safe to wait a few weeks.
So now I wait. And dream of Oz.
When I’m anxious, I knit. Let’s just say I’ve been going through a lot of yarn.
If you are wishing on stars for me, wish that I get a spot in the TPX trial, and that my cells were correctly predicting that this will be the drug that controls my cancer.
With all of this on my mind, I got up and starting figuring out how to stay alive.
Actually, that’s not true. The first thing I did was get back in bed and get under the covers. Sometimes, this is a lot to take in.
THEN I got up, and called to get a copy of my latest MRI. My oncologist is wonderfully thorough, and asked that I take a disc to my surgeon at Karmanos, in case he had any other thoughts or ideas. I collected my disc and delivered it to Karmanos.
I actually managed to wait a full 24 hours before contacting the Wizards (who I have come to know in the years since my visit to Oz, because of my work with the ROS1ders). I knew my oncologist was taking care of setting up the trial for me and I was trying to let things happen the way they are supposed to ... but then I had to email them. This is my survival, after all.
And I got Out of Office replies from both! Crap crap crap. That is probably why my oncologist hadn’t given me an update yet.
And then, a few moments later, a magical reply came from one of the Wizards. He connected me with the people who do the enrollment for the trial and gave me some warnings for where things can get tripped up.
The next morning I was on the phone with the wonderful trial coordinator, my Glinda, going through part 1 of the trial consenting. One tricky part of this trial is that they want a tumor sample. No problem for me, I thought, I just had a chunk of tumor removed from my cerebellum. So I signed the consent to give Glinda permission to collect my tumor sample and get me ready to consent into the trial.
All signs are pointing to yes! I start busying myself figuring out how to manage all the flights I will need to take (anyone used Angel Flights?) and accommodations in Colorado.
However, I keep saying to myself, I’ll believe I’m in the trial when I swallow the first pill. You may recall when I literally had the pills in my hand and was not allowed in the entrectinib trial? Clinical trials are capricious beasts.
Unfortunately, tracking down my tissue has proven to be more difficult than I expected. I told her that my surgery was done at Karmanos, but my main hospital is the University of Michigan. She contacted them, but Karmanos said that they sent my tissue off for NGS (next generation sequencing, to see if I had acquired new mutations or if it was still just ROS1. Still just ROS1, by the way). She assured me that she can still collect it, but clearly it is becoming more time consuming.
AND THEN
Tuesday night I get an email from one of the Wizards saying that all of the trial spots are taken.
Total panic.
I’ve had my heart set on TPX ever since the summer of 2018 when my oncologist tested my cancer cells against all the current TKIs and found them most reactive to TPX.
I belong in this trial.
I reach out to my ROS1 sistas, Janet and Lisa (who I guess become the Scarecrow and Tinman in my analogy?). I get an appropriate string of swearing when I tell the news. Then they reach out to their connections to get the behind-the-scenes scoop about the trial. Their folks reply at lightning speed encouraging me to get on the waitlist; more spots are coming.
My oncologist confirms that he feels it is safe to wait a few weeks.
So now I wait. And dream of Oz.
When I’m anxious, I knit. Let’s just say I’ve been going through a lot of yarn.
  |
| My latest is a collection of octopus toilet paper cozies. I made one, then the kiddos wanted one in each of our colors. Then they wanted hats for them. M is excited that it matched the style of hat I made for her. The two in the back still need their hats. They will be done soon, trust me. |
If you are wishing on stars for me, wish that I get a spot in the TPX trial, and that my cells were correctly predicting that this will be the drug that controls my cancer.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
California Dreamin’
Jason and I got married in a perfect, tiny ceremony on the beach in San Clemente, California, then honeymooned in nearby San Diego. On each anniversary, we show our kids the wedding video, and every year they ask if they could see where we got married.
Our little crew has never been on a family vacation. Yes, we road trip to Minnesota every summer to see my parents, and while I find that wonderfully relaxing, it’s not really a family vacation.
There is an improv festival coming up in San Diego, and the League of Pointless Improvisers (the Pointless cast) got accepted to perform in it.
...do you see where I am going with this?
These past few months have been rough. Frankly, these past 5.5 years have been hard, but the last few months have been particularly challenging. And the road forward remains unclear.
So we decided, come hell or high water, we are going to California!
Jason pointed out to me that Disneyland and LEGOLAND are in California, too. I’m well aware what a challenging time this has been for Jason and I, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t recognize how hard this has been on the kiddos, too. They deserve some fun.
—
I spent today anxiously waiting for my MRI results, the first MRI after 6 weeks on my fancy new TKI drug, Lorlatinib. It is my third TKI, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting nervous that I’m on #3 of the 4 that have been developed for ROS1 (and #4 is only up to phase 1 in clinical trials). I called the cancer center and left a message, saying I was waiting for results. They said they would call me back when my doctor was available.
So 2 hours later I called again (I am bad at waiting), and they said they know I called, and they will call me back.
An hour later I just about jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. It was a nurse saying that my doctor would call me tonight, after he finished in clinic. That sounded terribly ominous, and I was shaking so much I felt like I could barely stand.
Finally, tonight, my doctor called.
Frustratingly, we are back in the vague land of “slight enhancements”. My doctor feels (and I agree) that it is too soon to make a call whether or not this drug is working for me, especially with such vague results, so I am staying on the drug and we are rescanning in 4 weeks. Back on the emotional rollercoaster. This is exhausting.
But we are going to California, dammit! A week to forget about all of this and just be together! Fun, family memories, and adventures await!
Our little crew has never been on a family vacation. Yes, we road trip to Minnesota every summer to see my parents, and while I find that wonderfully relaxing, it’s not really a family vacation.
There is an improv festival coming up in San Diego, and the League of Pointless Improvisers (the Pointless cast) got accepted to perform in it.
...do you see where I am going with this?
These past few months have been rough. Frankly, these past 5.5 years have been hard, but the last few months have been particularly challenging. And the road forward remains unclear.
So we decided, come hell or high water, we are going to California!
Jason pointed out to me that Disneyland and LEGOLAND are in California, too. I’m well aware what a challenging time this has been for Jason and I, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t recognize how hard this has been on the kiddos, too. They deserve some fun.
—
I spent today anxiously waiting for my MRI results, the first MRI after 6 weeks on my fancy new TKI drug, Lorlatinib. It is my third TKI, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting nervous that I’m on #3 of the 4 that have been developed for ROS1 (and #4 is only up to phase 1 in clinical trials). I called the cancer center and left a message, saying I was waiting for results. They said they would call me back when my doctor was available.
So 2 hours later I called again (I am bad at waiting), and they said they know I called, and they will call me back.
An hour later I just about jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. It was a nurse saying that my doctor would call me tonight, after he finished in clinic. That sounded terribly ominous, and I was shaking so much I felt like I could barely stand.
Finally, tonight, my doctor called.
Frustratingly, we are back in the vague land of “slight enhancements”. My doctor feels (and I agree) that it is too soon to make a call whether or not this drug is working for me, especially with such vague results, so I am staying on the drug and we are rescanning in 4 weeks. Back on the emotional rollercoaster. This is exhausting.
But we are going to California, dammit! A week to forget about all of this and just be together! Fun, family memories, and adventures await!
Sunday, December 09, 2018
Pause
I am now 9 weeks post brain surgery on my cerebellum.
And 1.5 weeks post targeted radiation to my cerebellum.
And 4 weeks post-entry into my second clinical trial, the EAP for Lorlatinib, which we hope will control (dare we say shrink?) the metastases in my brain.
Right now, we are in a very pleasant phase I am calling ...
The Pause.
I don’t have another doctor’s appointment until my MRI on December 17, so until that time I am going to assume that all of these treatments have done what they were supposed to do, that my new clinical trial med Lorlatinib is holding my cancer at bay, and all I have to deal with are some pesky side effects.
I’ll take it.
In the mean time, I am enjoying trying to get back to some basic level of fitness (brain surgery followed by radiation really knocked me down, and I find myself huffing and puffing just from walking fast). And enjoying movie nights with my kiddos, planning for the holidays, soaking up laughs at Pointless, complaining about my new diet*, and appreciating feeling relatively well. I’m sure hoping for a lot of boring news from the scan and lots of boring months to follow. These past two months have been the hardest two of the whole 5.5 years (and counting!) that I’ve been in treatment for metastatic lung cancer. Boring sounds really good to me!
*one of the side effects of the new drug is that it makes your cholesterol and triglycerides go astronomically high. I am currently on a low-carb diet to see if I can get them to come down. I never knew I loved carbs so much. Or not having to think about what I can and cannot eat.
And 1.5 weeks post targeted radiation to my cerebellum.
And 4 weeks post-entry into my second clinical trial, the EAP for Lorlatinib, which we hope will control (dare we say shrink?) the metastases in my brain.
Right now, we are in a very pleasant phase I am calling ...
The Pause.
I don’t have another doctor’s appointment until my MRI on December 17, so until that time I am going to assume that all of these treatments have done what they were supposed to do, that my new clinical trial med Lorlatinib is holding my cancer at bay, and all I have to deal with are some pesky side effects.
I’ll take it.
In the mean time, I am enjoying trying to get back to some basic level of fitness (brain surgery followed by radiation really knocked me down, and I find myself huffing and puffing just from walking fast). And enjoying movie nights with my kiddos, planning for the holidays, soaking up laughs at Pointless, complaining about my new diet*, and appreciating feeling relatively well. I’m sure hoping for a lot of boring news from the scan and lots of boring months to follow. These past two months have been the hardest two of the whole 5.5 years (and counting!) that I’ve been in treatment for metastatic lung cancer. Boring sounds really good to me!
*one of the side effects of the new drug is that it makes your cholesterol and triglycerides go astronomically high. I am currently on a low-carb diet to see if I can get them to come down. I never knew I loved carbs so much. Or not having to think about what I can and cannot eat.
Sunday, November 04, 2018
If Brain Surgery Wasn’t Enough
The good news is that my brain surgery recovery is coming along really well. I’ve even been approved to start driving again, so Jason is taking me out for some driving practice this weekend.
However, life with metastatic lung cancer continues to keep me on my toes. I’ve been in seemingly endless doctor appointments, and the plan now is to do targeted radiation to the area surrounding what was removed from my cerebellum. I am also moving to a new targeted medicine, Lorlatinib. Hence, the endless doctor appointments.
I had my penultimate appointment for the Entrectinib trial, and I am currently going through the washout period in preparation for the Expanded Access Protocol trial for Lorlatinib. As you may recall from my Crizotinib washout, the withdrawal from these powerful meds is remarkably painful. Every muscle in my body is aching, even muscles I didn’t know I had.
On Monday I have the radiation planning appointment. There will be 5 radiation sessions, every other day, beginning the following week. The main side effect is fatigue (but I’m not even over the fatigue from the surgery yet!).
I am due to begin the EAP of Lorlatinib on Tuesday or Wednesday, with all the side effects that come along with that. One of which is fatigue. Oh my!
Don’t get me wrong - I am immensely grateful to have treatment options.
I am grateful there is another targeted med for me to switch to. (And another in trials after this one.)
I am grateful that I am well enough to withstand all this treatment.
I am immensely grateful for more time with my family.
But I have to admit that this has been a lot to deal with. I know that every day I am in treatment is another day I get to live, and for that I am grateful. But some days this is almost overwhelming.
I am very grateful for the support of my community - support that I am going to have to lean on again over the next few weeks.
Thank you so much to all the folks who brought meals to my family during my recovery. It is such a comfort. I can’t help but share this particularly adorable themed meal we received. Great work, Jennie, and it tasted great, too!
In other news, November is Lung Cancer Awareness Month. The ROS1ders are raising money for more research into treatments for our rare cancer. I started this fundraiser back in 2016, for my 40th birthday - and we raised over $6,000! I am reviving it, and hoping we can hit $8,000. Here is the link to donate: https://www.supportalcf.org/ros1/ToriTomalia
Also - make sure you get out and VOTE on Tuesday. As a naturalized citizen, I take voting very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that I voted absentee and mailed in my ballot at 4 am, just before we hit the road for my surgery. I didn’t know what kind of shape I would be in on November 6, and there was no way I was going to miss voting!
However, life with metastatic lung cancer continues to keep me on my toes. I’ve been in seemingly endless doctor appointments, and the plan now is to do targeted radiation to the area surrounding what was removed from my cerebellum. I am also moving to a new targeted medicine, Lorlatinib. Hence, the endless doctor appointments.
I had my penultimate appointment for the Entrectinib trial, and I am currently going through the washout period in preparation for the Expanded Access Protocol trial for Lorlatinib. As you may recall from my Crizotinib washout, the withdrawal from these powerful meds is remarkably painful. Every muscle in my body is aching, even muscles I didn’t know I had.
On Monday I have the radiation planning appointment. There will be 5 radiation sessions, every other day, beginning the following week. The main side effect is fatigue (but I’m not even over the fatigue from the surgery yet!).
I am due to begin the EAP of Lorlatinib on Tuesday or Wednesday, with all the side effects that come along with that. One of which is fatigue. Oh my!
Don’t get me wrong - I am immensely grateful to have treatment options.
I am grateful there is another targeted med for me to switch to. (And another in trials after this one.)
I am grateful that I am well enough to withstand all this treatment.
I am immensely grateful for more time with my family.
But I have to admit that this has been a lot to deal with. I know that every day I am in treatment is another day I get to live, and for that I am grateful. But some days this is almost overwhelming.
I am very grateful for the support of my community - support that I am going to have to lean on again over the next few weeks.
Thank you so much to all the folks who brought meals to my family during my recovery. It is such a comfort. I can’t help but share this particularly adorable themed meal we received. Great work, Jennie, and it tasted great, too!
In other news, November is Lung Cancer Awareness Month. The ROS1ders are raising money for more research into treatments for our rare cancer. I started this fundraiser back in 2016, for my 40th birthday - and we raised over $6,000! I am reviving it, and hoping we can hit $8,000. Here is the link to donate: https://www.supportalcf.org/ros1/ToriTomalia
Also - make sure you get out and VOTE on Tuesday. As a naturalized citizen, I take voting very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that I voted absentee and mailed in my ballot at 4 am, just before we hit the road for my surgery. I didn’t know what kind of shape I would be in on November 6, and there was no way I was going to miss voting!
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
Home Home Home
I made it home Saturday afternoon and am now slowly rebuilding my strength surrounded by my beloved family.
The surgery went well and without complications. We won’t know for sure until we get the pathology report but the surgeon said the feel of the tumor led him to believe there is still live cancer in the section he removed, rather than all necrosis. So that’s a bummer, and may mean more targeted radiation to the area left behind. But we will cross that bridge when we come to it.
This was one of the scarier hills I have tackled over my 5+ years with metastatic cancer. There is an awful calculus that patients go through, deciding what we would be willing to give up for more time on earth. What deficits will we accept for more days? What makes life worth living? What risks will we accept for the hope of another year?
The amazing Jason stayed by my side at the hospital, sleeping (or attempting to sleep) in a non-reclining chair, which frankly doesn’t seem possible at all. But I dearly appreciated his company as I transitioned out of the weird post-surgery twilight into the early steps of recovery.
Now that I’m home, I’m totally focused on recovery. The main things are regaining my steadiness, balance, and coordination. There are subtle changes that I’m noticing, like how my handwriting looks different, though I am very pleased to see that I can still knit. Overall, I’m having to learn to move at turtle pace, rather than my preferred lighting speed. An interesting perspective shift which is probably a good life lesson. As always, I’m not sure why I have to find such hard ways to learn these lessons.
I am looking forward to tapering off these steroids and the messed up sleep and puffiness they bring.
Check out my amazing post-surgery hairdo! My Mum spent a solid hour soaking out the glue that had held the sensors in place, and which had dried into gooey, itchy chunks. She is staying with us for a bit and her help has been invaluable (far beyond just getting glue out of my hair).
The support from folks has been absolutely vital and humbling. The meals, the puzzle books, the well-wishes and prayers. All of these have allowed me to focus on healing, knowing I have a community pitching in to help! If you still want to sign up, I’ve added a few more meal requests to the Lotsa Helping Hands site. We are the “Tomalia Support Team” and our zip code is 48104.
Tuesday, October 02, 2018
Batten Down the Hatches
I saw my surgeon on Monday and all systems are go for brain surgery on Thursday, October 4.
I’m oscillating between being incredibly nervous and remarkably calm.
Acute recovery will be anywhere from 2-5 days in the hospital, and he estimates 4-8 weeks of slowly rebuilding my strength. His calm demeanor is buoying my optimism; he kept saying this is straight forward and he doesn’t anticipate any problems.
In the mean time, we have been trying to get everything ready at home, for the family, the kiddos, the business. I’ve been feeling a very literal need to get my house in order to prepare for this event. As a fairly behind-the-scenes person, I feel like most of what I do is make sure things keep moving smoothly - like a player in curling, rushing about sweeping a clear path for that granite stone to get where it needs to be.
As the surgery nears and my to-do list gets shorter, the primary thing I need to do is hand over the reins to all the trusted members of my team. A strange and liberating feeling.
Many heartfelt thanks to all the people who have reached out to offer help, meals, prayers, and well wishes. My friend Meriah is organizing all of this through Lotsa Helping Hands, so if you would like to join the “Tomalia Support Team” to learn about practical ways you could help, visit the website and you can learn more (our zip code is 48104).
I will happily accept any thoughts and prayers for strength to me and my family, and for my surgeon to have steady hands and a clear mind on Thursday!
I’m oscillating between being incredibly nervous and remarkably calm.
Acute recovery will be anywhere from 2-5 days in the hospital, and he estimates 4-8 weeks of slowly rebuilding my strength. His calm demeanor is buoying my optimism; he kept saying this is straight forward and he doesn’t anticipate any problems.
In the mean time, we have been trying to get everything ready at home, for the family, the kiddos, the business. I’ve been feeling a very literal need to get my house in order to prepare for this event. As a fairly behind-the-scenes person, I feel like most of what I do is make sure things keep moving smoothly - like a player in curling, rushing about sweeping a clear path for that granite stone to get where it needs to be.
As the surgery nears and my to-do list gets shorter, the primary thing I need to do is hand over the reins to all the trusted members of my team. A strange and liberating feeling.
Many heartfelt thanks to all the people who have reached out to offer help, meals, prayers, and well wishes. My friend Meriah is organizing all of this through Lotsa Helping Hands, so if you would like to join the “Tomalia Support Team” to learn about practical ways you could help, visit the website and you can learn more (our zip code is 48104).
I will happily accept any thoughts and prayers for strength to me and my family, and for my surgeon to have steady hands and a clear mind on Thursday!
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