COUNTDOWN TO "MASS"ACRE

Greetings, Loved Ones,

Well, Dennis’ night was without incident. And in this household, that’s something to celebrate! A home-health-care nurse spent the evening with us hooking him up to every kind of drip imaginable. He looks like a marionette with all the tubes and wires, but this has become the norm. It is interesting how cancer changes everything. We’re not even sure just what “the norm” is any more. I recall going to a movie once, but that was another life altogether. And at one time we actually ate a meal, complete with chewing and swallowing. But that was before I discovered the joy of take-out (and the convenience of feeding tubes) I know it won’t always be like this…except for the take-out. But right now I point out a spot of Jevity on his ear as his worst social faux pas. I can’t wait until I can make discreet gestures indicating there is a piece of spinach lodged in his teeth. (By the way, Dennis calls his feeding cans “Levity.” That’s funny) The grandkids think it would be fun to try to drink a can of Jevity through a straw stuffed up their nostrils. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the answer to Sunday dinner. (Hey, we have to play to our strengths. Nasal buffets would be a gastronomical step up from anything I could concoct!)

It’s interesting how, under certain conditions, you get to know someone inside and out, literally and figuratively. For instance, I can tell by merely looking at Dennis just where his lab numbers are. I can tell by his color and demeanor whether his bili is up or his white blood cell count is down. And this influences our daily routine. For instance, he can’t wear his green sweater unless his bili is under 3.1. Those shades of yellow and green clash, and it’s soooo tacky. After all, it’s all about image, isn’t it? This morning, his “ducts” must all be in a row, because his pallor says he can wear his green sweater and be “runway ready.”

Dennis is very determined to get some exercise and maintain his six-pack abs, so he frequently pushes his IV pole in laps around the house. His phenomenal dexterity is still in tact, because so far he has neither hung himself on the tubing nor tripped over the hangee thingee. His workout sounds rather like a kid riding big wheels on a wood floor. But it is actually nice to hear the whir of the wheels and see the flash of his Superman jammies as he goes about his daily rounds. While he was in the hospital, I missed the little things that indicate his presence. And last night I slept soundly listening to the beep of the feeding tube as it infused his system with “Levity” at regular intervals. A quiet, empty house is not conducive to rest.

We are so grateful for the love and prayers of our family and friends. It is good to get your comments, telephone calls and visits. You don’t know what this means to us.We have even run into friends at the Huntsman. It is always good to see friends…just the venue is bad.

We have eight more sleeps and a wake-up before the “MASSacre.” I think I figured it wrong yesterday. It would be just like me to miscalculate the time and miss the Whipple altogether, but I was never any good with numbers.(Just ask me my age if you want proof). Anyway, the surgery is still scheduled for Thursday, January 7th. We will get Dennis to the hospital on time if I have to personally carry in his body parts individually. We can hardly wait to resect the little %*&#@. Recently we were talking about what we wanted to do with it when it is finally cut out. We liked Paul Jensen’s suggestion/curse: “May that damnable thing that took you to the ER rot on the festering forelock of Beelzebub!” (Don’t you love it?) And dear Wayne Kotter called it a name that made me ask if he’d graduated from West High, but he nailed it! (Couldn’t have said it better myself!) Sam, our son-in-law, suggested we put it in a jar, place it on the table, and humiliate it to death. (Sam has always been kinder, gentler.) I personally want to channel my inner Ripley and jettison the bugger into outer darkness and obliterate it until there is nothing visible left. Please feel free to share your innermost destructive desires, and we will pass the suggestions on to Dr. Mulvihill.

Have I mentioned lately how much your comments mean to us? We are able to understand Dennis better by seeing him through different lenses. We know the place he has in our lives. But it is so enlightening to see how he has touched the lives of others. (These are his most vital vital signs, after all). I guess that is really what life is about in the long run. We are all connected, and we are all an integral part of each other. I think that is a good thing.

So tonight, if all goes well, we will check his color for any sign of increased bili, do a few laps together in his Superman jammies and my Minnie Mouse night shirt (and you thought we didn’t have a life!) and raise a cup of Jevity to his health. And tomorrow morning, we will only have seven more sleeps and a wake-up until “Mass Obliteration!”

Our love to all,
The Clot

OK, Guys, it’s a political year, so expect a lot of flip-flopping. You can’t tell the players without a program, so listen up. I’m going to try to impose some order on a week of utter chaos. This ought to be good.

As you know, we took Dennis to the ER last week because of extreme pain, weakness and boredom (he has been with me without respite, break, or stunt double for a while now, and I think he was just looking for a little excitement! And there is nothing like replacing a stent to provide just the diversion he was hoping for.) They admitted him to the HCI and provided him with shelter, round-the-clock nursing care and culinary delights such as ice chips, IV fluids, and lime green jello (This is Utah after all)

Dennis’ gall bladder made a major bid for attention, however, and provided lots of excitement with fever and icky stuff. Scans showed it doing things gall bladders shouldn’t be doing, and the doctors named those things with words which were eventually reduced to initials I can’t remember, but sounded serious. Then the surgeons and radiologists began debating whether the gall bladder should be removed or if a drain should be installed. Meanwhile, the Clot decided to stand and wait…and wait…and, well, you know. The scorekeepers kept us up-dated, and we had fun wagering bets, the winner of which got to eat Dennis’ jello. (Actually, so did the loser!)

Finally, in a stunning announcement from the medical team spokesman that no one could have predicted, it was decided that since the gall bladder had settled down on its own, Dennis would be discharged into my care if I signed a legally-binding pre-op saying I would vow not to cook anything ever again as long as I lived. I signed in a heartbeat, and took the man home. Once inside our four walls, however, he began a steady decline. This is enough to give me a complex. He hadn’t even been home for 24 hours. Now in the interest of truth in blogging, I honestly didn’t even open the refrigerator door, except to extract cans of soda pop with caffeine. I do admit that the frequency of that frenetic little exercise ratcheted up my sparkling conversation to the point of nuclear explosion, but hey, he’s used to that.

However, Hthe Clot gathered, counseled, and decided he should return to the hospital.

So Sunday afternoon the Clot caravanned once more up to the Huntsman, went directly to the fourth floor, greeted all our friends and fellow patients, turned on the DVD player, and began watching the second season of Veronica Mars. It was all so homey gathering once more around the old IV tubes. It was a Norman Rockwell scene of domestic bliss. With Dennis in the hospital, I have been spending increased amounts of unstructured time at home alone. Great amounts of unstructured time at home alone has made me realize how absolutely boring I can be. And suddenly my appreciation for Dennis’ gift of patience has increased in direct proportion to my personal boredom. Gee, the guy’s a saint. But in my own defense, I do take partial credit for preparing him for his up-coming surgery. I am the major contributor to his endurance factor.

As of today (Tuesday) we have ten more sleeps and a wake up until we go to surgery. WooHoo!

It has been decided that Dennis will come home today. I have promised upon pain of stoning in the town square that his only nutrition will consist of Jevity, sips of water with ice chips and the occasional oral reading of recipes from our new ward cookbook. And utter boredom to enhance his sleep.

More updates to come. Breaking news airs immediately.

Love,

The Clot

GETTING TO THE WHIPPLE, ONE ORGAN AT A TIME

Good Morning, Loved ones,

This update will be coming in increments because that’s simply the way we live our lives these days. We are never quite sure just what’s going to occur. But here is how things stand as of the moment.

Dennis is still at HCI, where he has been since the midnight flight last Saturday. Since then, we have become acquainted with all the staff, including housekeeping. And we really like everyone… but we keep clicking our heels together and saying, “There’s no place like home,” … and everyone looks at us like we’re crazy. As you know, Dennis has a brand new shiny stent somewhere within the walls of his chest, but there has been persistent pain and nausea… completely unrelated to the constant presence of the Clot, we assume.

He is being treated with antibiotics for evidence of infection and fever, and he gets regular doses of Zofran and pain meds when needed. The doctors ordered an echocardiogram to check his heart, and besides showing an over-abundance of gratitude (yes, that actually showed up on the chart) everything looked great. They finally decided to do a CT scan of his gall bladder, and that little guy showed evidence of inflammation and irregularity of something or other. Its walls looked like they needed painting, and it might have lost some of its squeeze. (In the middle of an “Oh, Crap” moment, the doctors insist on trying to make me understand things, but that’s just like trying to reason with roadkill!)

So the dilemma is this: Do we operate on the gall bladder and push back the Whipple? Do we put a drain in and try to maintain status quo and keep the Whipple in its regular programming slot? Do we bring him home? Do we leave him there? Do we continue his feeding tube Jevity? Is Britney Spears going to get custody of her children? These are all the things we must decide.

So the Clot did what we always do in these moments of extreme stress and anxiety: We went to the Bistro, got French fries and diet Cokes, and watched Veronica Mars. Because of the severity of the issues on the table, it required three straight episodes without a potty break before we finally decided on the best course of action. (did I mention the size of the soda cup was extra extra gihugeous?) This is serious stuff. (I sometimes wonder if world leaders can’t bring about world peace because of “junk food deprivation.”) Anyway, Dennis is scheduled to have a drain installed in his middle domain this morning, so we may not be able to bring him home today. Bummer. The house has seemed so big, and quiet.. and clean… since he’s been away. This will never do. He needs to get back to Kansas, … and his little dog, too.

I have actually been able to get some things done, in spite of the long hours at the Huntsman. I even had my annual mammogram while I was up there. Mammograms are interesting things. What an experience. To the uninitiated, the techs issue hospital gowns that tie in the front and are designed to cover absolutely nothing. Then they escort you into a room with a contraption that has very ominous-looking vice grip-looking thingees in front. It does not require much imagination to understand what is about to take place. In an effort to accumulate enough flesh to compress in the “jaws of death” vice plates, the tech pulled body mass from every quadrant of my being. Then she scooped it all together like a snowball and bulldozed it en masse toward my sternum. She told me to take a big breath and hold it. and then she smashed it all… and I’m talkin’ “road-kill flat!” It was all I could do to stifle the primal scream… and the harsh language. It was a good thing she had included some of my tongue in with the mammary tissue and impaired my ability to articulate. When I regained consciousness, I asked her if she saw anything suspicious in the pictures. She declined to speculate, deferring to the radiologist, but she did assure me I wouldn’t need a colonoscopy for a while, and I should get a pedicure. Without the elasticity I had in youth, my body tends to retain the contours imposed by blunt force trauma. When I returned to Dennis’ hospital room, he knew right away where I had been… and he was in a Zofran-induced stupor! All I could say was, “Don’t ask!” Oh well, I hope my short-term memory loss kicks in and deletes the mental images before there is permanent damage.

By the way, cancer does have its privileges. The other day Andre Kirilinko of the Utah Jazz and his wife stopped for a visit and to take some pictures… although why he wantd pictures of us I don’t know. Anyway, he autographed pink hats for me and Brodi and a Jazz jersey for Dennis. We also gat a banner with his signature. He is such a nice fellow (and too shy to ask for our autographs). He is taller than he looks on TV, and the only one in the room as thin as Dennis. I was able to try out some of my high school Russian on him, and he even understood me. he seemed duly impressed with all four words, and began laughing. Gee, I wonder what I said. Oh well, when it comes to saying the wrong thing, there are no language barriers.

The Clot doesn’t exactly have a “bucket list.” For us a bucket is something you barf in, not kick. But after Dennis has the Whipple (does that name conjure up visions of a fussy old man squeezing Charmin?), we have decided to go on tour as Elvis impersonators. If we have learned anything, it is to not postpone plans and reams until too late. So when you see us in the Spring, get out your velvet and start painting our portraits!

Every day there is a little extra light grafted onto the lengthening evening. This is a good thing. We will make our way to February 7^th one day and one organ at a time. For those who wonder how Dennis is doing on this roller coaster ride, I must say he is an emotional Samurai. He knows where we are trying to go, and he will not allow anything to deter from his appointed rounds. It is a privilege to know him.

We love you all,

The Clot

This is NOT Resectile Dysfunction: It's just a bump in the road!

(Dad getting his PICC line)

Hello, Dear Ones,

My, how fast time flies when you’re having fun. I’m not sure just where this past week has gone, but perhaps by reviewing it, I can account for it.

Dennis is presently happily registered in a four-star private room at the Huntsman Resort. This is where he has been since the wild ride to the E.R. on Saturday night. And by the way, I guess I suffer from “series TV,” but when we arrived at the hospital that night, I had sort of expected Patrick Dempsey to be there just waiting for us. Lately I’ve been thinking I shouldn’t believe everything I see on TV. Anyway, because of the long holiday weekend, we were unable to have Dennis’ stent replaced until Tuesday. It had become occluded and was causing infection and pain. So for what seemed like an eternity, we were in management mode. Trying to deal with Dennis’ pain was the main challenge, but we had a fair degree of success with sparkling conversation, watching the complete DVD collection of Veronica Mars, and a whole lot of morphine. (They even gave some to Dennis!)

On Tuesday, Dr. Jason Wills replaced his stent. He is a remarkable doctor and friend, and after the procedure, he came in to explain what he did and why he did it. Apparently, and I hope I get this right, there was a lot of sludge build-up in his carburetor, causing toxic emissions and expulsion of particulates in the atmosphere. Dr. Wills put in a new stent, sucked out the bad stuff, and said Dennis was good to go until surgery. We were glad to get that done, but apparently there had been a fair amount of infection. So they put Dennis on massive doses of antibiotics, the names of which sound like guys I used to date. Then he spiked a fever, and it was determined that he should not be discharged at that time. I was disappointed, but deferred to the doctors’ decision (besides, we still have 24 more episodes of Veronica Mars to watch) He had a PICC line put in because he must remain on antibiotics until our date with Dr. Mulvihill, so it is back to the old Saran Wrap showers. Oh well, small price to pay for the opportunity of going to surgery. Nevertheless, I think we’re all ready to get out of Oz altogether. Especially Dennis. He’s been clicking his hospital socks with the grippers on the bottom together and repeating, “There’s no place like home.” He is getting his strength back, however, and yesterday he even crushed a styrofoam cup in his bare hands. We just have to work on recreational feeding and see if we can get that boy some contours. Not that a straight line isn’t a perfectly acceptable geometrical figure. Besides, as I’ve always said, curves and gender-defining attributes are highly over-rated.

And speaking of surgery, Brodi was able to download the Whipple procedure from the internet. We watched with great fascination, although it was rather graphic. Everything went smoothly in this surgical Whipple, and there was no occurrence of R.D. (medical abbreviation for “Resectile Dysfunction) It was easier to watch because the patient was anonymous, and the Clot had no emotional attachment vested in the guy’s duodenum. I am glad, however, that we will pace out Dennis’ procedure in our room watching anything but operations down-loaded off the internet. But as we say in Clotville,…”I’ll think about that tomorrow – when I get home to Tara.”

Oh, how we love your comments. I read them to Dennis as he was coming out of the anesthetic, and he said he preferred them to goofy limericks. He kept asking me to read them again. Funny, he never says that about our rhymes. Thank you for taking time to join us on this journey. We cannot express our gratitude.

We are going to the hospital this morning to spend another fun-filled day amidst fluids, wires, needles and procedures. We will post up-dates with better regularity.

Our love to all,

The Clot

Update

Hi Everyone!

We just wanted to give a quick update. Dennis is still up at Huntsman Cancer Hospital. He had his procedure to replace his stent yesterday, and unfortunately he's developed an infection that's keeping him in the hospital longer than we would like. He had to get a PICC line inserted from his arm to his heart (same kind he had for chemo) and they will use this to deliver strong antibiotics. Hopefully, we will be able to bring him home tomorrow, if we can go 24 hours without a fever.

We'll give a longer, much more entertaining, and thoroughly clever post later!

love,
the Clot

Could it be: Psoriasis of the Liver?

Good Morning, Dear Ones,

I am chronicling this latest account while b.u.i. (blogging under the influence) of severe sleep deprivation. So please don’t condemn or hold me to a standard of ethics, taste, or political correctness for anything that is herein recorded. Even as we speak, Dennis has indicated with diverse hand gestures the sign for “ZIP IT, JONI!” However, he is, at the moment, tethered to the hospital bed by extensive IV tubing, and my distance exceeds his grasp. So my freedom of expression is ensured. Fasten your seat belts – this is going to be a bumpy ride!

Saturday afternoon, Dennis noticed the epigastric pain increasing, followed by shaking, tremors, spiking temperature and nausea ad nauseum. We were hoping these symptoms would gradually subside on their own, and they did, due, in large part, to my excessive pacing punctuated by frequent frantic requests for minute-by-minute updates on his condition. In other words, I annoyed him to the point that he settled the symptoms just to stifle me. This was wildly successful until about 11:00 p.m., when he woke me out of a soundless doze announcing we must proceed immediately to the ER. I was the model of composure, reacting like a well-oiled machine. I threw off the covers, threw on my clothes, threw open the door, and nearly threw up. And we drove through the night, with me telling him to try to breathe and try not to bear down, like a seasoned birthing coach. (Talk about unclear on the concept!) Poor Dennis had to endure both me and the pain, and we all know which was worse. We had a clear shot to the University Hospital, and made it in record time, in spite of a sudden and uncontrollable urge to pick up a few groceries at Dan’s on Foothill. We finally got him to the ER, and at first the admitting attendant couldn’t distinguish which of us was in crisis (I had arrived sans make-up, which accounted for the confusion.) After they cancelled the code red alert for emergency plastic surgery, the technicians switched their attention to Dennis, who by now was off the Richter Scale of pain. We feared it might be gall bladder, or worse, psoriasis of the liver. They administered high octane pain meds, and when they finally reached his midsection, Dennis visibly uncoiled, and his malalligned body contortions were able to resume the normal appearance of a humanoid. And then he slept.

It was decided to transfer him to the Huntsman because the blood work revealed a spike in his bili and white blood counts. I was glad for the nurses, technicians, phlebotomists (fancy term for people who monitor phlebs) and housekeeping staff, who scrupulously tended to his well-being, and made it possible to not get any sleep whatsoever. Once again, sleep is highly over-rated, and can impose discernment and discretion at random, which greatly inhibits one’s “blog blab.”

Right now Dennis is resting comfortably, in spite of the fact I have pen in hand, and we are waiting for the latest lab results, which will determine whether he will go in immediately for another stent replacement, or if we will wait until tomorrow.

Now this situation in no way derails us from our appointed date with Dr. Mulvihill. It is a mere bump in the road, a blip on the radar, a drop in the ocean…gee, I hate clichés! We are so determined for the surgery to take place that we have even imposed restrictions on Dr. Mulvihill.

We asked him to:

1. 1. Stop skiing for the next three weeks.

2. 2. Avoid pairs ice skating competition.

3. 3. Postpone synchronized swimming work-outs.

4. 4. Withdraw from the Tour de France.

5. 5. Swear off sushi.

He was compliant with all the requests except one – he claimed medical ethics would prevent him from performing simultaneous Whipple/face lift procedures. He diplomatically explained that he was a surgeon, not a magician, and the requested nip and tuck exceeded even his surgical prowess. But he did refer me to Dr. Phil. Oh well, I tried.

I will retire the pen now, until we get further information from the lab results and decide on the best course of action.

I’m baaaack! Well, after conferring with our fellow wizards, it has been decided that the stent replacement will take place tomorrow (Monday) This is very good because pain is very bad. We are still so euphoric about the news we received on Friday that nothing can dampen our spirits. But I must admit there are times during the course of this journey when I find myself borrowing a phrase from the grandkids, “Are we there yet?” But tonight we will gather around Dennis’ hospital IV and O.D. on Jane Austen, bull riding and relentless re-plays of the latest presidential primary results and be grateful for another “family hospital evening” together. This is a good thing.

More up-dates upcoming.

Our love to you,

The Clot

Joy in Clotville!

Dear Loved Ones,

You probably heard the hallelujah chorus shouting the news from the Huntsman Cancer Institute before even reading the blog that Dennis gets to go to surgery. It was a most singular moment, to say the least. And I want to tell all the details, because the situation warrants it. I just don’t know where to start. If you don’t have time to read it all, fast forward to the end of this message to the part that says how much we love you (although that sentiment will be liberally interspersed throughout).

Yesterday had been greatly anticipated and just as greatly dreaded by the Clot for a long time. Sleep was rather elusive the nights before, but then sleep is highly over-rated anyway. Besides, some of the best matches at the Australian Open are played in the wee hours of the morning. We saw a lot of tennis (and infomercials. I now know every remedy for every ailment known to man, and where to purchase it “for a limited time only”.)

Erin and Dave and the grandkids came over early. Erin’s eyes were red from her seasonal winter allergies. Brodi’s eyes were moist because she got caught in a rainstorm. I have lately been plagued by leaky tear ducts that I must remember to see about. And so began the day.

Dennis had had a CT scan on Thursday, but we did not know the results. So many unknowns. And then it was time to leave for our long-awaited appointment with Dr. Mulvihill. It is rather a peculiar feeling to travel to a destination where decisions which determine one’s future will be pronounced. We talked a lot to fill the car. Dennis was quiet, but that’s how he is at his most loquacious.

Dr. Mulvihill came hobbling in with his foot in a walking cast. Did we mention that he had broken his fibula skiing with his sons in Tahoe? As he shook hands with us, we all examined his fingers for any sign of impairment. I think he has become used to strange and unusual behavior from the Clot. But hey, we’re placing Dennis’ pancreas, liver, gall bladder, duodenum, and stomach in those hands. We’ve got a lot vested in those fingers! After he was able to extricate himself from our grasp, he delivered the fantastic news that Dennis would be going to surgery. He waited patiently until the spontaneous cheering subsided, and then began explaining what he saw on the CT scan. Bottom line – Honey, we shrunk the mass! All the pain of radiation and the nausea of chemo, the barfing, the weight loss, the fretting, sweating and swearing paid off. We are going to surgery! Hooray! Game on!

Then, in an effort to further enlighten us as to the procedure, he began to explain just what that surgery entailed. My head began to spin. My main response was, “You’re going to put what where?” “Doesn’t he need those organs?” “Can you actually suture those two little things together?” Again, the “limited knowledge/great imagination” syndrome kicked in, and I had uncontrollable urges to tear off all my clothes and run naked through the hospital yelling “We’re all going to die!” I managed to get a grip on myself just in time to hear Dr. Mulvihill expound on all the worst-case scenarios and what would be the protocol under adverse contingencies. The last thing I heard was a hanka hair and a piece of bone. Then I went deaf and dumb (which for me is not that long a journey) I retreated into my protective mind-set of “therapeutic stupidity.” That’s the point at which I know just enough to be informed, but not enough to lose sphincter control. It’s a rather delicate balance. But in my defense, I am taking a correspondence course for a degree in rocket science, not pancreas surgery. Some things I just don’t need to know. I will let Dr. Mulvihill deal with contingencies. I will deal with staying conscious. (We all have our coping mechanisms). Besides, as I’m teetering on the precipice of a black hole, do I really need to calculate the square footage of a crevasse without parameters?

When the over-view of this marathon procedure was concluded, I asked the good Doctor what we could do to best prepare Dennis for the ordeal. He said there were three things we should focus on: Nutrition, exercise and attitude. Regarding nutrition, we had to reminisce just a little. Remember when food was something we chewed, and it actually came in colors other than liquid gray? Remember when nutrition entered the system through the mouth, and anything in the nostrils was not considered a valid part of the four major food groups? Remember the “art of the swallow,” and that teeth have an anatomical function besides lip retention? Remember the concept of appetite – that biological alarm system that triggers the sensation of hunger? Remember when my food consumption was not predicated on Dennis’ current health status? Remember when putting something “where the sun don’t shine” was figurative? Ah yes, I remember it well.

Dennis is very good at exercise. He pushes his feeding tube hangee thingee as he does laps around the house. He does this wearing his Superman jammies, and it’s a thing to behold. One day when he is especially weak and physically unable to restrain me, I will take a picture and post it. It really is worthy of inspiration and a good laugh! What a man!

Regarding Attitude. Dr. Mulvihill acknowledged our support system, as he nodded to each of us individually. He recognized we were a rather cohesive unit. But I wanted to say, “Hey Dude. You have no idea how much support there is.” We started on this journey across the croc-infested river in a rowboat, and you all have made it an armada. We are not there yet, but we can see the shoreline. There will be quite a multitude unseen in that operating room on Feb. 7. I think Brodi expressed it best last night when she called. She said, “Mom, I’m exhausted with gratitude.” Enough said.

Dr. Mulvihill said that he is “intending to cure.” And then he said the ultimate goal is NED. Translation: No Evidence of Disease. NED spelled backwards is DEN. I regard that as a good omen.

To all of you who have prayed so hard on our behalf, and have stood by to watch and wait, we can never thank you enough. We are exhausted with gratitude.

We love you,

The Clot