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04-19-2015, 03:37 AM
The condensed version of the story:
In 2001, I was diagnosed with terminal Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, which started the rounds of chemo and a move from Germany to TX for treatment. Now jump to early 2002. Things started going very badly for me. I developed blood clots around my implanted catheter, which caused me to develop a condition called superior vena cava syndrome. I gained 40 pounds from retained fluids, all from the waist up(I was bald, too. I looked like a freaking bullet head.
). My breathing was compromised and even getting up to use the bathroom laid me out for hours. Not only that, the tumor in my chest blocked off my thoracic duct, which meant my left side lung cavity couldn't drain. Fluid backed up in the cavity and squished my lung upwards until it was under my shoulder blade. I was at the oncology clinic every other day for a thoracentesis, a procedure that involves a very big needle being pushed into the lung cavity from the back to drain fluid, usually 1.5 liters. LOL-I was the go to person for all the trainee docs to get that procedure checked off on their training lists, which is another story in itself. Anyway, after about two weeks of this, my body said no more and the poor wanna-be doc got to try and drain fluid using ultrasound to let him know where to tap(Poor guy kept apologizing to me). Long story short, it didn't work. After much discussion, it was decided I needed a chest tube. But I was in such bad shape, they were going to use as little sedation as possible. Another long story short, it didn't work. I crashed on the table and was essentially dead for over 6 minutes(there's a whole story for that, which I heard from the pulmonologist who managed to get me trached and intubated).
I woke up 2.5 weeks later. I had to learn how to sit up, stand, walk, swallow, talk-that was easy, once I got the talking trach-but ten days after I woke up, I walked out of the hospital under my own steam. I didn't walk far, mind you, but it was the gesture. In all, I had spent 5 weeks in the hospital, what with one thing and another.
Two months after my discharge, I was readmitted for an autologous stem cell transplant. That means my own cells were used in the transplant. I spent another month in the hospital for that, mainly because my doc was twitchy after everything that had happened. I liked him so I humored him.
Yet another long story short, after two years of follow up chemo, I tested clean. No cancer cells whatsoever. My doc was stunned. Me, not so much. I always knew I wasn't going to die.
See, one of the few memories I have during the coma period is something that happened. I woke up on a "mother ship", for lack of a better term, strapped down on an exam table, and surrounded by medical equipment I didn't recognize. There was a bright light over me, one of those surgical lights. I could hear murmuring and movement in the shadows outside the light but I couldn't see anyone. Then, someone stepped out of the shadows and next to the table. She was tall, slender, black hair cut in a short bob, and big black eyes. She wore a white uniform: A white jacket that reminded me of the old Nehru jackets and white slacks. She looked down at me and smiled. It was such a gentle smile and it felt like it was intended to reassure me. She laid her hand-long slender fingers on a narrow hand-across my forehead. Next thing I knew, I was waking up that 2.5 weeks later.
In 2010, I was talking with a Chilean shaman who wanted to hear the story. When I told her, she said, "Oh. You went to the clinic." It was the first time anyone had understood what I was talking about. I asked her to clarify and she told me that "they took you to the clinic because they take care of their own." All's I know is they-whoever "they" were-fixed me. Yes, our medicine may have had a hand in things, but they fixed me and I lived.
Since that time, I've been working on healing. They fixed my physical body but it's up to me to "fix" my emotional and spiritual bodies. Some days it's a hard slog, facing those parts of myself that I buried and retrieving those soul pieces that fled so I could survive things that happened to me.
I've been doing some heavy-duty work this past week. Put that with the work I did during the week of the full moon and eclipse and I think what's happening is I'm in the middle of a huge shift that's causing an even bigger purging of old energy that no longer serves me. So I just have to be gentle with myself and ride this out until it's finished. Doesn't mean it's fun, though.
In 2001, I was diagnosed with terminal Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, which started the rounds of chemo and a move from Germany to TX for treatment. Now jump to early 2002. Things started going very badly for me. I developed blood clots around my implanted catheter, which caused me to develop a condition called superior vena cava syndrome. I gained 40 pounds from retained fluids, all from the waist up(I was bald, too. I looked like a freaking bullet head.
). My breathing was compromised and even getting up to use the bathroom laid me out for hours. Not only that, the tumor in my chest blocked off my thoracic duct, which meant my left side lung cavity couldn't drain. Fluid backed up in the cavity and squished my lung upwards until it was under my shoulder blade. I was at the oncology clinic every other day for a thoracentesis, a procedure that involves a very big needle being pushed into the lung cavity from the back to drain fluid, usually 1.5 liters. LOL-I was the go to person for all the trainee docs to get that procedure checked off on their training lists, which is another story in itself. Anyway, after about two weeks of this, my body said no more and the poor wanna-be doc got to try and drain fluid using ultrasound to let him know where to tap(Poor guy kept apologizing to me). Long story short, it didn't work. After much discussion, it was decided I needed a chest tube. But I was in such bad shape, they were going to use as little sedation as possible. Another long story short, it didn't work. I crashed on the table and was essentially dead for over 6 minutes(there's a whole story for that, which I heard from the pulmonologist who managed to get me trached and intubated).I woke up 2.5 weeks later. I had to learn how to sit up, stand, walk, swallow, talk-that was easy, once I got the talking trach-but ten days after I woke up, I walked out of the hospital under my own steam. I didn't walk far, mind you, but it was the gesture. In all, I had spent 5 weeks in the hospital, what with one thing and another.
Two months after my discharge, I was readmitted for an autologous stem cell transplant. That means my own cells were used in the transplant. I spent another month in the hospital for that, mainly because my doc was twitchy after everything that had happened. I liked him so I humored him.
Yet another long story short, after two years of follow up chemo, I tested clean. No cancer cells whatsoever. My doc was stunned. Me, not so much. I always knew I wasn't going to die.See, one of the few memories I have during the coma period is something that happened. I woke up on a "mother ship", for lack of a better term, strapped down on an exam table, and surrounded by medical equipment I didn't recognize. There was a bright light over me, one of those surgical lights. I could hear murmuring and movement in the shadows outside the light but I couldn't see anyone. Then, someone stepped out of the shadows and next to the table. She was tall, slender, black hair cut in a short bob, and big black eyes. She wore a white uniform: A white jacket that reminded me of the old Nehru jackets and white slacks. She looked down at me and smiled. It was such a gentle smile and it felt like it was intended to reassure me. She laid her hand-long slender fingers on a narrow hand-across my forehead. Next thing I knew, I was waking up that 2.5 weeks later.
In 2010, I was talking with a Chilean shaman who wanted to hear the story. When I told her, she said, "Oh. You went to the clinic." It was the first time anyone had understood what I was talking about. I asked her to clarify and she told me that "they took you to the clinic because they take care of their own." All's I know is they-whoever "they" were-fixed me. Yes, our medicine may have had a hand in things, but they fixed me and I lived.
Since that time, I've been working on healing. They fixed my physical body but it's up to me to "fix" my emotional and spiritual bodies. Some days it's a hard slog, facing those parts of myself that I buried and retrieving those soul pieces that fled so I could survive things that happened to me.
I've been doing some heavy-duty work this past week. Put that with the work I did during the week of the full moon and eclipse and I think what's happening is I'm in the middle of a huge shift that's causing an even bigger purging of old energy that no longer serves me. So I just have to be gentle with myself and ride this out until it's finished. Doesn't mean it's fun, though.