If I am absolutely honest, this is a truth I am grappling with right now.
As I mentioned before, the internet is my primary care doctor. And that's no joke. I'm so guilty of self diagnosing everything with Google as my guide.
When my lymph nodes swelled up like a small pile of marbles with one oddly placed golfball in my throat, Google said wait two weeks and see a medical professional if they do not go down.
Sometime around Christmas-
The cat scratch puncture in my jawbone just wouldn't heal. And now it was surrounded by some very unsightly masses. There was no way I could avoid the doctor anymore. If you know me, you know I just don't do doctors. I really don't. I saw one after I got married: because I was pregnant. I saw way too many of them during that pregnancy. I've been to get a well check on rare occasion so I get that little discount on healthcare, but some years I just forego the discount. And now I needed to find a doctor so that I could see a doctor. I couldn't get into any practices as a new patient in anything that resembled a timely manner. But, I found a nice little urgent care hidden behind the local McDonald's.
Looks like cat scratch fever.
Ugh. Blast those little assassins! Now I had to take antibiotics, which is so uncool with me. So, I prepared myself with probiotic and prebiotic purchases to reload my gut as soon as I was through with that nasty stuff. Seven days in I reacted to the antibiotics and got a rash all over my arms and across my back. The golfball (seriously...a golfball) under my chin did not go down. And a bizarre red knot in the side of my neck arose. But, mostly the nodes subsided. Google suggested it might be mono, and not cat scratch fever at all! But, by the end of the ten days Google said I needed to return to the doctor. Yeah, ok, Google... I'll get around to that. And another week came and went.
Then, my parents saw the nodes.
My sister and the lymphoma. She probably doesn't like me mentioning that, by the way. She is a very private person. I'm not sure she would have told a single soul if it were possible. As you can tell, we are very different. I have no secrets. None. If I tried to keep one, I would be the one that would accidentally blab. About my own secret. So, I just say it all to avoid confusing myself. I know it's not always appropriate. Noted.
With the family history, though, I hadn't mentioned the nodes to my parents. No need to worry about things. But while visiting their house to borrow my mother's extensive sewing setup for a project, the scarf I had carefully wrapped around my neck just did not do the job.
I would NOT hear the end of this until I returned to the doctor.
February 5th
Dr. Nguyen at urgent care is adorable, for a doctor. I mentioned I'm not generally a fan, but he's really nice. And his staff t-shirts say "All I ever do is Nguyen." It kind of makes me want to work there.
I returned and let him know of the family concerns.
He felt confident the antibiotics had done their job, and that the nodes would continue to decrease in size. But, for peace of mind we would run some blood work.
Sweet.
Everyone will be happy.
Follow up is on the 12th, unless anything funky shows up and then they would call.
February 6th
The phone rings early in the morning. I see the number. Tears well up as I answer. Tears, because, well...lymphoma.
The lady asks if I can come in and see Dr. Nguyen to discuss my lab results.
"Sure, I can come tom... "
"-or today"
"Or, today... I can come today. Yeah. Let me get ready and head over."
Crap.
I get Eli dressed and ready. Get myself ready. Get animals taken care of and head out.
Crap.
How is this going to work? What will we do? I mean, James works in Atlanta during the week. He works 90+ hour workweeks. Eli and I are alone on the mountain most of the time. I know what treatment looks like. How will this work? I don't like antibiotics. Chemo? Aw, man.
Crap.
Watch your face!
You know those conversations you have with 3rd- 5th graders about tone of voice? It's not what you said, but how you said it, conversations?
I didn't do that as a kid. I thought it all on the inside and said nothing. But, my mom would constantly tell me to watch my face. Evidently my face had an extensive vocabulary. And it was a traitor. Always giving away my innermost thoughts. Betrayal at its worst.
At 42, I'm embarrassed to say I still have to 'watch my face.'
I will say, it's oddly an asset in the elementary classroom. The kids can 'watch my face' and I don't have to say a thing.
As I sat in the room and listened to Dr. Nguyen explain that the nodes were not a concern-
'My white cell counts were only slightly elevated. To be expected... mwa -mwa- mwa. Blah, blah, blah.'
Wait, what? We don't think lymphoma? What!? Ok. So what's the deal here?
My hemoglobin is low? Ok, Science teacher...what does the hemoglobin do again? Aw, man...I should know this. Hemoglobin, hemoglobin...
Somewhere amidst these thoughts, Dr. Nguyen felt it necessary to let me know this is serious.
My face was obviously relieved and shouldn't have been.
He proceeds to tell me I should be unconscious.
6.7 is VERY low. Do I understand?
They needed more blood to run more tests. I needed some referrals. Do I understand?
So 6.7 hemoglobin and family history equal a lot of very frantic people making appointments for me with gastroenterologists, hematologists, oncologists, ENTs, and hospitals.
All this was stuffed into a week. A week that was already stuffed. Stuffed with government deadlines for a small business of James'. Stuffed with Eli's schedule. Stuffed with my mom's busiest sewing week of the year (a costume seamstress is round the clock the week before showtime.)
Mom took Eli from Sunday to Friday. During 'crunch week.'
Our sweetest friends, Alan and Kay took her Friday and got her fed and taken to her school opera.
I started Monday morning with doctors. I finished late Friday evening just in time to make it to the opera. Like, just in time. I wore the ugly clothes I wore to radiology, didn't fix my messed up hair from having a CT scan, and still had a bracelet on and was too tired to care. Thank GOD for a shawl in my car.
Because the sweet, sweet school called me UP ON STAGE. They gave me flowers for making costumes. So kind. It really was.
Blood transfusions.
I truly do know how weird I am. Bear with me, here. It may shock some of you who mistakenly took me for sensible. But major heebie jeebies set in at the mere suggestion I get a transfusion. Put blood in me. Put NOT. MY. blood. in me? Yeah, thanks. I'll pass.
But you'll feel better, they said. I don't feel bad, I said.
Need a better motivation.
Then they compare me to an engine with no oil. Describe hearts with no blood. Tell me I could easily have a heart attack at my now 6.5 level.
Well. D@#*. I guess that's motivation.
Thankfully, I know some really great people.
People who know what to say. Like - your new blood will come from some awesome person. Someone who gave blood to help you.
Gah, I'm SO ungrateful. Of course she was right.
Someone GAVE UP their blood for this. Blood.
The Bible told me that blood was life. Blood was sanctification.
And it was being given to me.
Well, sold to me actually.
Sold for $1,300 per unit. I got two.
James Frick nearly had his own medical emergency as he tried to "shop" blood prices and found that's not a thing you "shop." He thinks craigslist needs a space for that.
I also had friends that seriously put their own hectic lives on hold to sit with me on transfusion day.
I really do know the best people.
All was well at my gastro visit. Everything was scoped and scanned. I have a nifty little photo album of my insides. Crazy, because I don't generally keep photos of my outsides.
I was really hoping he would find celiac disease. I would seriously be the biggest gluten free weirdo the world has met. I'd be all over that mess.
But alas, all is well with my digestive system.
The next day, though, I thought I was having a heart attack. As I drove to sign Eli up for horse riding lessons at a new farm, my chest felt like I was like wearing that lead jacket from the dentist. And my neck was all tight. It was a pinch hard to breathe. The kindest woman ever sat across the table as I filled out the form. Why did she mention she worked at an ER once? I don't know. But she did. I asked her about how I was feeling and this lady loaded Eli, her girls, and me into her car and took me to the ER. The mountains have a number of these amazing people I have found.
She then took my daughter to the park with her girls to keep Eli calm and occupied. And then fed her while I was in there. Then she came back to get me because James' truck decided to break down as he was on his way to get to me from Atlanta. Of course it did.
By the end of that day, I learned my EKG was not normal. But my heart scans were. My D Dimer was elevated. But my lungs had no clots. And I left with some very expensive aspirin.
The past couple of weeks have been full of concerned looks and overly kind medical professionals. Some even shared their personal stories of terminal cancer with me. My mind was spinning. So many questions about things I hadn't yet connected.
It was becoming clearer that
my swollen ankles might not be from twisting them while gathering wood
my funky elbows might not be from the heavy laundry baskets
my lasik might not need adjusting because I'm old
the horrible nosebleeds might not be because of a moldy cabin
my midsection might not be expanding because of age
my headaches aren't because of my cycle
this is not menopause
Google is a God
Google has a diagnosis for that. Google says I have acute myeloid leukemia. Google says it's advanced to my brain. Google says the D Dimer makes the prognosis worse. Google gives me a few more months to live! Months!
Heart stops.
A million things become all panicky in your soul. Your gut wants to make every preparation necessary right now to make sure Eli will be fine no matter what. I need a will. Should we even sell the monster house? The mountain will not work.
I see the underwear she's left in the middle of the floor. It doesn't matter what room you're in. You will find a pair of Eli's underwear cast to the floor. She changes them all the time. For no reason. And leaves them all over. It's annoying.
I don't want ANYONE ELSE to pick her underwear up off the floor. No. I want to do it. Me.
Epiphany
Google is not God. Google isn't. As the grand thought is being woven out of a million little threads of thought and my brain begins to process the magnitude of this truth- God himself interrupts.
He picked up David's slingshot and lobbed a great big truth-ball at me. Now, sometimes truth-balls hit you and explode into butterflies and fill you with warmth and comfort.
This one was carved out of granite. And it hurt.
Google is not your God. But make no mistake, Google is a God. And right now, you worship the wrong God.
I know you read about blood and the body in your Bible. But where did you go first?
Google.
Primary care doctor? Why is it the internet when your own father is the Great Physician?
You ask Google all your questions. You trust her all knowing power. You even fear her omniscient way of knowing things that were spoken in personal conversations and throwing instant ads about those things into your feed. Creepy Google.
You worship Google, but want favor from God.
Ouch.
Not for favor, not for any other reason than it is commanded of me: I purpose to make God my God. My only God.
FYI: Google wasn't right. She wasn't far off. But she's not God and the outcome of everything is in His hands.
Lymphoplasmacytic lymphoma waldenstrom's macroglobulinemia.
We are waiting on the biopsy results to confirm or refute the blood work and scans.
Google away.
(Unless you're my mom. Then stay away from Google.)