When time is limited

 

Oliver and I were meant to be in each other's lives. I discovered his sweet face on one of those websites that offers pets for adoption. I knew two things - we needed to meet, and I would need to change his name. He wasn't a Roscoe. 

And it was love at first sight. While the woman at the animal rescue wanted me to meet eight or nine small puppies running around, I knew I'd come for him. He was in another area at least 75 yards away, behind a three or so foot fence, and when we locked eyes he literally climbed the fence and bolted over to me. 

Meant to be.

He turned ten years old last fall, and this spring we will celebrate our ten years together. 

Almost two years ago, I wasn't sure that would be possible. He was struggling to walk, to breath, and he had lost so much weight. An exploratory procedure allowed for the discovery of PLE.  Protein Losing Enteropathy has been a battle for both of us since July 2023. 

Oliver and I have climbed our way out of some pretty devastating and challenging times. From divorce, and the loss of his other best friend, a second dog that stayed with her dad, to two surgeries for him and four for me, many moves and changes, and some great losses. 

And we've thrived together as well. From countless beach trips, walks, snuggles, and visits with friends and family, we have taken full advantage of being each's others everything. We know each other by heart.

More than ever before, these last two months has proven we were meant to be in each other's lives. Regular testing and visits with his internist have confirmed, just as I begin to truly face my own terminal illness, his personal battle (and ours together) is coming to an end in the next few months.

Our time together is limited, but the last couple of months have helped reshape my ability to see the gift rather than the loss. Or perhaps not rather than, but more than. He is the greatest love I've ever known. And what we have been able to give to one another is nothing short of true magic. 

And maybe the real lesson is something I've been thinking about almost since the moment I was diagnosed with stage IV cancer. 

I'm one of the lucky ones. Because so many people are taken from this life in a breath. No chance to reflect, make final plans, create or even attempt to tackle a so-called bucket list, and no opportunity to say a goodbye and have some sense of closure.

But Oliver and I have had that chance. And I will continue to have those chances for some time to come. It will be breathtakingly hard to do most of that without him by my side. But I am the luckiest that I've had that chance. What a privilege. 

Just say 'Hello'

 

*

I have never had someone up close and personal in my life - as in they are in my daily life or they were the person I was closest to - go through something like this.

But my best friend's mom had surgery a few weeks ago and I immediately thought 'what can I do?'

It wasn't going to make her heal faster, or make her follow-up PT sessions easier. Nothing I could do would 'make it go away.' But I wanted to do something. 

When I had surgery last fall I got several nice things sent to me and one of them was a gift from Spoonful of Comfort, which I immediately ordered for her mom. 

(I get nothing if you purchase one of these for someone but it is a great company. I wish I'd thought of it.)

However, for the most part food is not my love language (except cake of the gluten free variety). If you're up to speed you know about my auto immune disease which took gluten out of my life. My food allergies list is three pages long. (yep, I'm as fun as I sound).

I already told you I don't have a green thumb. It's remarkable I've kept Oliver alive. Nothing else stands a chance. And that's a succulent. That thing doesn't even need much water and I'd manage to end it.

It's natural when we hear someone is suffering to ask 'What can I do?' and I quickly learned I needed to figure out an answer to that fast or I was going to end up with plants, cassaroles, and things to keep me busy I'd never touch. 

So that's my answer: Just say 'Hello'

Whether you text me, email me, message me online (because we work together), call me, offer to take a walk with me (assuming you're local), or drop a card in the mail (assuming you have my address which I'll give you if you ask but I'm not putting it here obv.) that's going to light me up and improve the chances my day will go better.

And so many of you reading this blog are already doing that. So I guess my reason for writing this is not to specifically give those of you in my life advice on what to do for me. It's more a gentle reminder that when people hurt, they are lonely, sad, lost, or life isn't making any sense whatsoever, a 'hello' (which can be totally free of cost and generally requires a light lift) will likely make a very significant difference. 

It might turn the light back on that day, in fact.

*I mean, if you have eight million dollars...I'll take some of that too. You don't need to bring me any coffee though. I'm allergic to that as well.

Asking & Answering the hard questions

 There are some people in my life who aren't afraid to ask me the hard questions. I actually don't mind it. What are the hard questions, you may be asking...

Well, 'hard' is subjective of course but to them it's questions such as how I'm thinking about life now that I'm aware the clock started on my countdown to when someday I'm not here and the journey ends. Or what I'm feeling about a treatment that will only work for a limited time. 

Not as limited as a sale at Nordstrom's but limited, nonetheless. 

And I don't mind those questions at all because it tells me two things - they are willing to acknowledge I'm probably thinking about it (at least at some level) and they're opening up to the uncomfortable conversation about how life - yours and mine - doesn't last forever. 

Which begs the question: why is it so uncomfortable to talk about life ending when we all at the very least intellectually can acknowledge that is the way it works. 

I can't answer that question for you. 

I've had no less than three highly educated, exceptionally intelligent, incredibly experienced doctors (two of whom have so many degrees you wonder how they found the wall space to display the proof) look me directly in the eye and explain the realities about my disease and how long I can (statistically) expect to live. 

And I still can't answer the question of why we, as human beings, can't wrap our minds around the fact that it'll happen to all of us. And we all know for so many it'll happen sooner than later. We just do not expect it to be us.

And with that heavy psycho-babble out of the way, I think I should tell you a story. It's short, don't worry.

I spent almost two years completely aware that something was terribly wrong with me back when I was in my early 30s. I just didn't know what the problem was for a long time.

I had weird symptoms like a constant film on my teeth, unfortunate but familiar symptoms like foggy brain, and digestive issues that could compete with just about anyone. I'm trying to be real here but we're leaving that right there. 

It took a lot of wasted doctor appointments, failed attempts at elimination diets (that's not true - I didn't fail them all, I just didn't always learn something), and losing my dignity to figure out I had Celiac disease.

When I finally got the call on August 7, 2013 from a doctor who had begrudgingly tested me for it to tell me it was positive, I sat for at least three or four hours as the light in the living room faded away into evening, just stunned. But of all the things I probably thought about in the silence of that day, I only really remember thinking about the two foods I would miss the most.

Pizza & Birthday cake. I love cake.

Do you want to know what I thought of pretty soon after I learned I likely won't see 50 due to this cancer diagnosis?

I have always wanted to live in one of those 55 and older housing complexes. Well, at least since my divorce. I'm serious. In some ways I'm so much like a typical bachelor. I completely dislike cooking (mostly I'm impatient when I get hungry and I don't want to clean up the kitchen when I'm finished), it would mean making so many new friends (which let me tell you can be very hard to do at my age, especially when you're single and have no children), and they do the lawn work and maintenance for you (I'm lacking a green thumb).

So this is crushing.

Now. If you know me well, you know I expect you to both take me seriously and finish reading this post laughing (at me or with me, take your pick.) I'm trying to lighten the mood here friends. 

On the upside, perhaps I don't need to be quite as concerned with wrinkles and I can save the money going toward those products for a trip to the beach.

I love the beach.

If you're willing to ask hard questions, I'm willing to answer them. Or at least discuss ways to get them to lower that 55 year old age requirement.

What is Palliative Care?

 I've mentioned the term Palliative Care a few times now, so I thought it might be best to help define it for those who are less familiar with it. 

The definition: Palliative care is specialized medical care for people living with a serious illness. It has four key goals for patients, and in some cases, their families

• Relieving suffering
• Improving quality of life
• Providing emotional and spiritual support
• Facilitating communication and decision-making

And, what distinguishes it from hospice care is simply the time in which it's given. Hospice care, the term more people are accustomed to hearing, is for end-of-life care. Whereas, the care I'm grateful to be currently receiving allows me to live as best I can before I approach the need for hospice.

My care team includes my therapist (the brilliant and compassionate V💜), Dr. L and his team of RN's (who manages my medications that support the relief of various symptoms due to the cancer, and the treatment I'm currently receiving), and has a host of other services and groups that I can take advantage of. 

I look forward to sharing more about the mentor/mentee program I'm going to be part of soon, for example. 

The best part of this team and these people are they help me to know I'm not alone and they are right there when something doesn't feel like I was told it should, or I have a bad couple of days mentally. And as time goes on, I can lean into these experts and unbelievably kind people for reasons I don't even currently know I'll need. 

We will have established a relationship for the expected and unexpected turns and twists of this journey.

Which is why I wanted to call attention to what this all is. I hadn't even heard of this before I needed it. And I am lucky. I have incredible healthcare. It was handed to me on a silver platter. 

But anyone, regardless of circumstance in terms of healthcare benefits, should look into this if needed. There are so many services, pieces of information, and access to care that I didn't know I'd need when this all started and that I certainly didn't know existed. 

One thing I've come to understand in these last six weeks or so, is I am carrying tremendous grief. But so are others who are in my life. Friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and even those who I see only occasionally* such my hairstylist or the nail salon I go to.

So know if you are experiencing grief or sadness because of someone else's diagnosis, there are services and resources out there for you too. 

One of the most early lessons from V💜 was how everyone reacts, processes, feels differently and at completely varying paces with this sort of diagnosis. And that is perfectly okay. 

Not knowing what to say - it's okay.

Not knowing how to react - it's normal.

Not knowing how to help - that's real.

And when you're ready, and only when you're ready (patient or person in supporting role), you'll seek out answers, options, and solutions to how it all feels, and what you're supposed to do with it.

I know for myself, I can't always answer those things (what to say, how to react, or how to help myself) so I for sure do not have any expectations on those around me to have figured it out. Which is why people like Dr. L and V💜 and millions of other people who provide Palliative Care are such extraordinary souls.

*okay, okay - pretty regularly :)

'Get busy livin' or......'

 We've all seen the movie and heard the infamous line a million times.

These are wonderful and beautiful ideas and if you can truly live the answer, I admire it. 

A number of people have asked me a question that aligns with these concepts. 

Not everyone asks it quite like this...but essentially they say 'So what are you going to do now?'

A member of my Palliative Care team asked it a little more realistically, for me, just last week. They said 'What matters most to you. What are three things you've quickly realized you need to feel like you.'

Because this girl doesn't have an expensive backpack waiting in a closet for the adventure of a lifetime through the mysterious and romantic countrysides of foreign lands.  

If you know me, well, it's a big deal when I get on an airplane. 

No, I'm not afraid to fly. I'm just a homebody.

And I am not leaving Oliver. 

(I have at least 2,000 to choose from - this won't be the last one you see)

The trips I want to take involve spa appointments, sand, salt, and sun. An overwater bungalow with a person in a canoe delivering breakfast for one is not exactly my idea of fun. 

But I dread breakfast less than I dread dinner. 

I'm single. 

I don't want to eat my amazing meal and drink my mojito by the light of a Tiki torch, alone.

That said, if you know me well you know my favorite place on earth - 

Seabrook, WA. 

(I have at least 500 to choose from, this won't be the last one you see.)

So why did the question from the Palliative Care team resonate more?

Well, because when you have Stage IV cancer in the liver that metastasized from elsewhere there's a lot of pain, nausea, and other symptoms that make getting from sunrise to sunset a big deal in and of itself.

 (Though to be clear...I never see the sun rise and soon, once the sun is setting later, I probably won't see that either.) 

Because one thing this girl loves is sleep. 

I do promise to keep you posted on what I'm doing with what's left of 'this one precious life.'

The Elephant in the room

I absolutely have. 

I'm thinking it right now. I've been thinking of it for over a month. Or maybe a lot longer than that, to be honest. 

Maybe you're also (rightfully) thinking it right now (about your own life, not mine.) 

My original appointment with my oncologist was always scheduled for the third week of February. And so what I honestly did between the day I learned I had cancer (which was a phone call, February 4) and the day I knew I was going in to meet with the doctor - in person - was purposely live in a little bubble. 

I guess I figured if I didn't know everything it meant I did not truly have to face it all yet. (this concept would come around again in a different way but we will get to that another time). 

This isn't to say that I didn't do anything at all. I picked up medications, made some important (and F*ing hard) phone calls to people in my life, scheduled other appointments. But I didn't really feel it yet. I admittedly didn't make any effort to.

So when the phone rang mid-day on February 12 with an invitation to move up my original appointment - that should have been the following Wednesday - to later that day it felt like someone had taken all my balloons* and popped each and every one of them.

In some cases, one might be thrilled. 

Fantastic. I can get the information I'm waiting on sooner. 

Brilliant. I don't have to sit in limbo another seven days. 

I would have happily sat a few more days without the whole picture.

This seems like a very obvious statement, so it is said with no intention of insulting anyone's intelligence. 

While cancer CANCER is this big, bold, hard, life-changing, never-good-news word, the experiences and outcomes vary greatly. 

Some are caught early. Some are slow growing. Some are local. Some are small. Some are well-known, well-funded, well-researched mother f'ers and some are not. 

I'm not going to categorize mine via a revisit of each of those words or terms. 

But here's the highlight reel: it has not been caught early, it's not local, it isn't small, and it is -by definition- rare. 

The type of cancer I have is a sarcoma, which makes up less than 1% of all diagnosed adult cancers each year. 

So what's the elephant in the room, I suspect you're wondering. 

To date, no cure has been found. There are treatments meant to help slow the growth of and shrink the tumors, as well as to lower the chances of spreading. But there is no one with this form of cancer who has yet to be cured of it and enter remission. 

And the first line of defense, the first option for treatment, has a relatively short efficacy. 

What's relatively short? 

If you spent the average four years in college earning a Bachelor's degree, this medication would get you an associate's degree. 

If you hurry. 

*I hate balloons

If only it was just drama

A month ago I had (and probably still have) very little knowledge about how to navigate this (cancer). Not so much medically. I have really, really great doctors.

More so, I'm in unfamiliar waters emotionally.

The actual news seemed to feel like it came in slow motion. 

First there was a CT scan. It turns out, everyone in the medical community associated with this CT scan knew immediately this was probably cancer.

Then there was more blood work and a PET CT scan. Everyone involved medically definitely knew at that point I had cancer, but I still didn't yet.

And two days before I was scheduled to have one more procedure, I learned it was in fact cancer. 

But even before most of that, members of the care team were suggesting I should have narcotic pain medication, anti-nausea meds, and even needed to go to a full-time work from home arrangement. 

I'm not kidding when I tell you I thought they were being pretty dramatic. 

But, as it turns out, they were not crazy. 

This might be the time in which a member of my immediate family (who shall remain anonymous) might remind me that I do not, in fact, have the letters MD behind my name. 

They'd remember the ceremony. 

I've heard stories about how long things like this can take. A day feels like a month, a month like a year. It didn't feel that way to me. February 2025 was a bad month don't get me wrong. But it blew by like it almost didn't happen. Because on February 4, 2025 I learned I had cancer. And on February 12, just eight days later I learned what would change everything about everything. 

My apologies if you are someone in my life (or by extension you're in my life) who is going to learn this for the first time by reading it on this blog. I've done my best to talk to so many people either by phone, text, or in-person. 

I have stage four metastatic GIST cancer in my liver*, which originated from the GIST that heartbreakingly returned from the original tumor in 2019 and became cancerous and metastasized (aka moved) to my liver. 

There's a lot more to unpack, and I think that's enough for one day. In part because of what I said...one of the strange (to me) emotions at the beginning of all of this was that (again, to me) it all felt so dramatic. Including telling people. To be very honest, I feel dramatic writing it.

Perhaps though, at least something to chew on for further consideration, is that I just do not want it to be real. Five weeks in, there's a large part of me that still doesn't want to acknowledge it is.

*to avoid confusion, it's important I emphasize while there is cancer in my liver, I do not have liver cancer. That's a very different diagnosis. I'll explain more as we go. 

Some call it fate.

 

I know. Not everyone believes in Fate. Or luck. Or that everything happens for a reason. 

Not everyone believes in meditation or plant based eating either - though they do exist for sure, even if you don't think it'll do you any good, so that might not be a valid comparison...

For the purpose of this conversation, and the sake of your sanity and mine, if you are not a believer in fate, luck, or the universe having more control than we do, you could skip this post. 

No doubt there's a Netflix show to watch or some endless scrolling to do. 

Or a delicious burger calling your name.

(this is like when something you don't want to see is about to come on television and you're warned to leave the room.) 

You were warned.

I am definitely on the side of things where I think the universe has more control than me. That there's roads presented and which one I select will determine all kinds of things.

In a past life I was a college admission counselor (both as a representative for colleges/universities and later as a counselor on what we call 'the other side of the desk.') and I would tell students that no matter what they would find a place to go. That where they ultimately selected to go to school would NOT ruin their life if they didn't get into University X (some of my fellow friends and colleagues know exactly what the X(s) represent).

But it might change who they are lifelong friends with. Or the career path they take. 

Or even who they marry.

So I think I might have been giving less than sound advice, it turns out. Since I married someone I went to college with and would never have even dated him had I not, and we all know how that turned out (if you're up to speed about my membership cards.)

So is having cancer my fate? Is it happening for a reason?

I can't be sure. 

But I do know this. We've all faced hardships. Some of us more than others. I've been handed my fair share .... some might say mine + a few more shares that belong somewhere else.

In the past, I turtled. I pulled myself into a carefully crafted hard shell to keep as many people as possible away.

What for?

Probably to avoid more pain, heartbreak, embarrassment, and my own insecurities. 

And likely to avoid further disappointment, too.

But this time, this journey I'm on demands something different. 

My cancer is a metastasized cancer that almost six years ago was just a small, benign tumor that was found because I was going to have a surgery to correct my deviated septum which was going to cure my mild sleep apnea. A frustrating problem I'd been diagnosed with years before, with a recently discovered solution after complaining about my CPAP machine to someone I barely knew who had a friend with a similar situation. 

I had standard pre-op blood work done about a week before the scheduled surgery in July 2018 and two days before the surgery was told that I couldn't be operated on because of severe anemia. 

Because of that anemia, iron infusions for months (which thankfully resulted in a rescheduled ENT surgery in November 2018 - no more CPAP!), and a Hematologist that was paying enough attention to realize the anemia wasn't going away - I had an endoscopy/colonoscopy in the spring of 2019 to locate the internal bleeding (the cause of the anemia). 

Which is how they found the 4 cm benign tumor in my stomach. 

Sitting right underneath a bleeding ulcer (hence, the anemia).

A tumor, which if you haven't yet picked up on my subtle (not-so-subtle) reference to fate, would have not been found for who knows how long had there not been the previous sequence of events.

That story had a seemingly easy ending. 

Few people heard about it because I wasn't willing to share it back then. 

So why tell my story now....because this story is not going to have an easy ending. And by being alongside on the journey with me, you're going to help me in ways I may never be fully able to articulate. 

And I actually suspect you may gain something too. 

Or at least I very much hope so.

The membership no one wants

 In the spring of 2018 I received a membership card* to a club no one really wants to join. No one begins a relationship, invests in someone, spends special occasions, hard-earned dollars, well-deserved time off, or significant time with a person, and then marries them thinking 'well, this probably won't last, but why the hell not.'

Well, most of us don't.

So after close to a decade of marriage, it was almost surreal (for me at least) to go through a divorce. Shocking...no, not exactly. But surprising, yes. And despite it not exactly coming out of the blue it was still a huge blow. And my recollection of the entire first year is blurry at best. And now, years later, I occasionally tell the story or reflect on the situation as if I'm telling someone else's story.

This membership card* is completely different for one very important reason. I didn't see it coming. At all. I knew I didn't feel well. I know something was off. And it's not that I thought 'oh that (cancer) can't happen to me.'

I must have sat for two or more hours, on the floor, next to (or more likely in) my dog's big, soft bed just petting him and staring blankly into space after I got the call. I don't remember feeling anything, other than his fur running through my fingers. Even now, more than a month later, I still do not really have the words to articulate what that moment was like for me. Or the hours and days that followed.

I heard someone else, who has gone through this, once say that it's a whirlwind of noise and silence. There are suddenly so many people needing you to pay attention - to your calendar for appointments, tests, results, medications, options, and decisions that need to be made. 

When someone would say to me 'does 1:00 p.m. next Tuesday work or is Thursday at 10:00 a.m. better?' for an appointment part of me wanted to be like 'I have absolutely no idea. What day is it today?' 

And then when the medical offices close for the night and the phone calls stop, and everyone goes to sleep, there is silence. Except for the whirlwind of noise in one's own head. 

And for me at least I often thought I was managing someone else's calendar of appointments, looking at someone else's test results. It was truly jarring to occasionally see paperwork on a surface in my home with information about my diagnosis and realize it was my name on them. 

In the beginning, it's almost as though I couldn't feel a thing or think straight. 

But I know I'd like to decline the membership.

*they don't really give us cards. It feels more like a tattoo on your face.

What does vacuuming have to do with it?

When I was a little girl we lived in a one-story house, some of the house had hardwood floors (to my recollection, it was mainly the hallways, kitchen, etc.) But the rooms had carpet. And it was the best carpet to vacuum. It was a craft, I thought, to vacuum those carpets - particularly our living room - perfectly. 

I would get the lines just right, making it look exceptionally clean and neat. I could not have been more proud of myself. But inevitably, the lines would eventually disappear under the footprints of our golden retriever, my younger brother and my parents. Sometimes they appeased me for a little while, promising not to step foot in the room. But most of the time, despite my pathetic pleas, they would roll their eyes and walk right in. 

I loved keeping my room perfect too over the years....I worked hard making things look just right. Even though my closets and drawers were a disaster (no one could see those). But when my need for cleanliness really kicked in was college. Especially due to the messiness of my freshman college roommate - the bassoon-playing, Eeyore-loving, Elton John worshipping* roommate - and her inability to keep things clean. Disaster. For many, many reasons.

Eeyore (just in case I wasn't clear on this)

My best friend has heard the stories about this interesting girl. She knows what I'm talking about. They are good stories for when the conversation at the dinner table has died down. Anyway. Even now, I wish carpet after being vacuumed stayed that way just a little longer. 

So that's the literal meaning.

Metaphorically - no matter how much we try - life (and all that is thrown our way) is coming whether we want it or not. We can't control it. We can't always use a really expensive vacuum cleaner to make it look better. We can't always hire someone to fix it.

Since early February I have, more than ever before, understood what it means to have almost no control over what life is throwing at me. Because life is throwing me cancer. 

*for the record, I really like Elton John and his music. I just don't worship Elton John.

I still feel funny

 I started in a new position this past summer, made a big move, and I'm at the point in my career where it was an investment on both sides. So it wasn't exactly popular and amazing that I had only been on the team for about three months when I had to take a couple weeks off to recover from a surgery I didn't see coming prior to the move. 

Despite that, I think we all assumed a couple weeks at home recuperating plus a few extra slower ones to truly recover and get my strength back was about all that would be necessary, and we'd soon all move on with our lives.

No one likes to hear that they don't look good. Most decent people don't like to say you don't look good. So when a colleague gently asked if I was feeling okay about six or seven weeks after the surgery, I knew she wasn't simply being nosy or the least bit rude. Because no. I didn't feel well. And yet again, all I could say is "I don't feel all that well, but I can't explain it. I just feel funny. But don't say anything to anyone. I don't want to make a big deal out of it."

That couldn't have been much later than early November 2024. 

Listen to the Whispers (you can keep reading or you can watch this first. My recommendation is you watch this first. But I'm not going to boss you around.)

You know how it is. Some of you know far better than me. Birthdays. Holidays. Family visiting. Plans. It's inconvenient to spend time after work or to take time during during the work day to go see a doctor. My brother and his girlfriend were traveling to see me at Christmas. I didn't want to mess up plans that were months in the making. 

It wasn't until a weekend in mid-January I finally hit that extreme pain threshold again that I heard my body saying to me 'ENOUGH.' 

So I made an appointment with Dr. K. I figured he hadn't done anything wrong, and that even if it was taking me longer to heal, there might not be much he could do. But you've heard the stories - you never know. Someone might have left a cotton ball behind. It happens.

I think upon examination he knew immediately my pain had nothing to do with his excellent work in repairing my hernia. But it is thanks to that recent surgery, and thus our established relationship, that he got the process moving. 

And it has been a complete and total blur ever since.

I feel funny

 Haven't we all had those moments where something just feels...funny. Not 'haha' funny. More of a 'something just isn't right.' In the fall of 2024 I was uncomfortable, tired, at times weak, I wasn't working out as hard as I was accustomed to. And there was definitely an increase in the size of the hiatal hernia I'd known about for at least a decade, which was now noticeably visible (to me at least) in the upper abdomen. 

But I also just felt funny. I suppose it would have been more adult of me to find a better word. At this point, I hadn't. I was too tired to think of something more specific. 

One weekend I hit the pain threshold I could no longer tolerate. And if you're reading this and can identify, you know what I mean when I say I can handle pain. 

Discomfort - absolutely not. My throat hurts? I'm probably going to miss work. A pounding headache? Not gonna make it through the day. But pain in my abdominal area...I had been feeling that for months. It's slightly possible I was personally keeping the OTC drug Tylenol in business. But this time, it was enough to get me dressed ("dressed") and into the car for a drive to the nearest Urgent Care with availability on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. 

The doctor on call acted as though I was directly responsible for the reason he was there rather than on the ninth hole of his neighborhood golf course - as opposed to the calendaring efforts of the medical administration staff. 

Despite the (thankfully) brief amount of time we spent in each other's company, he was able to identify that I should see a surgeon and sent me down the hall to have some blood work drawn before my drive back home where I could return to the couch and my pajamas. 

I made a mental note to send my best wishes to his spouse (well, assumed - he was wearing a ring on that finger) for having to spend more than a few minutes with him as I had. And to be grateful someone as grouchy as that was not waiting for me at home. 

A week or so later, surgeon #1 (who was much nicer than cranky urgent care guy but plays a small role so shall just be known as S#1*) agreed it was important to get a scan, which determined that yes it was time to surgically repair the hernia. And shortly after that he referred me to Dr. K (who plays a leading role, but will be known as Dr. K for privacy) who would be the better person to handle said repair. 

As I sat recounting my life's health history, and explaining my pain to Dr. K I remember telling him "also, I just feel funny." And though I cannot remember much of that conversation, I remember him saying 'well, I can't guarantee this (hernia surgery) will fix that but we'll give it a go." 

And so in late September 2024, to the operating room we went. The hiatal hernia was repaired. My mother spent an entire week caring for me (which, God Bless Her, goes from I need you (me) to you're bothering me (me) to it's probably time to go (her.) She offered to stay longer. And she really did mean it. But still. I need my space. And she needed to get back to her own bed. 

*truth: I don't remember his name.