An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Seventeen

For those of you who don’t know or maybe have never experienced it, chronic pain from illness or injury, over time becomes more and more difficult to live with. One thing it usually causes is fatigue. Doctors generally prescribe narcotics for chronic pain but these cause drowsiness and make living a normal life virtually impossible.

Thus, I wanted to deal with the pain as the first solution had run its course.  What to do next? My oncologist felt chemotherapy would solve my problem but chemo is poison and kills both good cells and bad cells. Not the best answer in my point of view. I discussed this with my oncologist, Dr. Lee, and I suggested surgery to him. It seemed so simple—just cut the offending growths off and be done with it.

Dr. Lee pointed out to me that the offending cysts sat on my liver. The liver has a very important role in our bodies. It cleanses our blood, among other things; therefore it is full of blood as it goes about its business. He said most surgeons are reluctant to cut into a liver except in extreme circumstances. To me this represented an extreme circumstance so I insisted. He called around and one day told me he’d found a surgeon who would do the surgery.

I’ll call her Dr. Nice as I don’t recall her name. I found her sympathetic, caring and kind. She, too, voiced her concern but since I was adamant she agreed to schedule the surgery. Since she knew it would require a blood transfusion and she felt it would be best to use my own blood, I deposited blood at the hospital prior to the surgery—two pints, if I recall.

On a day in April, 1999 I went under the knife for the fourth time due to the cancer. This scar, evidence of my many surgeries joined two other scars from operations on my abdomen. My husband and I referred to the result as my “road map.” Despite all the concern, the operation went well.  The surgeon reported to me that she removed only a small portion of my liver and that may have been the reason I had no difficulty following the surgery.

I remember well the day I went home from the hospital. A friend came to drive me home since Larry couldn’t take off from work. As we drove home the news on the radio related a shooting at Columbine High School. It was April 20, 1999, a day none of us will ever forget. At home, ensconced on my faithful blue floral sofa I watched horrified with the rest of the country the events at the school. It was a glad day for me as I recuperated from the operation but a sad day for so many.  I rejoiced in my renewed health but mourned the heavy loss of life on that day.

I need to report here that the “ultimate answer to the pain”, as I thought of this surgery, lasted only a few months. By October the pain returned and with it the need for another answer.

Looking for a lasting solution I made one of the worst decisions of my life.

An Ordinary Life Touched by an Extraordinary God – Part Sixteen

My doctor assured me when I quit taking the morphine there’d be no withdrawal to speak of. I went through three days and nights of withdrawal and since I’d been assured that that wouldn’t happen, it caused confusion in my mind about what was happening to me. I felt tremendous anxiety, panic, and fear. I felt afraid to go outside, to get in a car—to go anywhere.

The nights brought the worse symptoms and I spent three mostly sleepless nights. One evening when I was assailed by a great deal of anxiety, something I usually don’t experience, I called a pastor friend of mine, Pastor Kaster or PK as we called him.

I described to him what I was going through and related to him I’d taken morphine for the last month. He immediately made the connection and said, “You’re going through withdrawal. This doesn’t mean that you’ve become an anxious person or will be having panic attacks later on. He advised me to hang on, keep praying and like most things in our lives—both good and bad—that , “this, too, will pass.”

Heartened by his words, even though I still felt the anxiety, panic and fear and still didn’t get much sleep, I knew the reason for it and knew with God’s help I’d get through this okay.

And I did.

Feeling somewhat better after quitting the morphine and with the promise of pain relief I set out several days later for my first appointment with the doctor who would do the aspiration. Now this procedure is not for the faint of heart—at least any who faint at the sight of needles.

After putting on a hospital gown, I lay down on the examining table and he produced a needle approximately eight inches long (no exaggeration)! (Well, maybe it only seemed that long to me but it was long.) They sterilized and numbed the site of insertion and placed the needle through into the cyst on my liver, then extracted the fluid. I chose not to watch and didn’t feel much discomfort during the procedure. Next, as though on a spit, they rotated me on each side, in turn and reintroduced the needle and did the extraction—four times. It was some comfort that a camera helped them know where to guide the needle.

Well, when they finished and I dressed in my street clothes and I walking to my car I checked myself. NO PAIN!  That hadn’t happened for several months. What a relief. I’m not sure if my feet touched the ground as I returned to my car.

But, alas, in two or so months, the pain returned. Back I went to the doctor’s office for a repeat procedure. Relief for another two months. Then back for another procedure. But this one was different in that after they’d finished, I fainted. I didn’t know I did until I came to and realized someone was placing me back on the examining table. Of course, they gave me a few moments to recover then I was escorted to the doctor’s office and he told me they wouldn’t be doing another one because of the possibility of a life-threatening infection. I left, pain free, wondering what I would do in when the pain returned.

I looked to the only place available for an answer—God.