Chapter 5: The Surgeries.

On April 28th, David and I had our Motorhome set up the night before at a little RV park. It was within about 30 minutes of the Presbyterian hospital where I would be having my surgery.

I was scheduled for 8 am surgery but had to arrive at the hospital at 5am making wake up time to get there on time about 330 am. David and I were both in for a very long day.

I was in pre-op with my permits signed, IV in and ready to get radiated. I vaguely remember being wheeled back to the OR.

The next thing I remember was anything but vague, it was vividly horrifying and very real. I could see the light blue scrubs above my head and the needle coming towards my eye. I tried to scream but nothing would come out and I was secured to the gurney so I couldn’t reach up and pull the needle away. The needle kept descending and I started sobbing and crying because I could feel it going into my eye and touching the back of my eye socket. The pain was blinding, no pun intended.

When I awoke in the recovery room I asked David if they had said anything about me crying during the surgery. He looked at me a little puzzled. He assured me they had not.

I don’t remember much of the rest of that day as it was hazy from sedation and I was sleeping for much of the next 3 days.

I was supposed to stay 20 feet from everyone and that included pets. We were in a 33 foot motorhome so staying 20 feet away was nearly impossible. I was not able to stay away from Yoda, my Yorkie/Chihuahua mix. She snuck in and on the bed every chance she got. The best I could do was keep her at the foot of the bed. She seemed very concerned about me and wouldn’t leave me unless David took her outside.

Our other dog, actually, David’s dog, Duke, was far less interested in the goings on. He just stayed close to Dave and made sure his man didn’t get away. I am technically his owner since I bought him and brought him home. He chose David as his person right away.

He has a neurotic, if not psychotic, attachment to him. He goes into respiratory distress and his trachea collapses whenever David leaves him for more than a few minutes. He sounds like a child with croup. He has to be with David. Whenever the Jeep leaves he is in it to prevent airway collapse. He is 13 years old and like most little toy breed dogs he is prone to all sorts of crazy ailments.

I had to keep the eye patched and change the dressing three times a day. I applied Tobradex eye ointment and followed my instructions until Monday, when the gold dome holding the radiation seeds was to be removed from my eye.

I spent most of the time sleeping. I was able to listen to some audible books. I watched a bit of TV but found it made my head ache. I quickly gave that up.

Monday came quicker than I thought it would. We returned to the hospital that morning.

When Dr. Fulton came to see me in pre-op I asked him about my memory from the first surgery. Had I been crying during my first surgery? Was it something I dreamed?

He looked a little sheepish. He told me that I had, in fact, not been thoroughly sedated when he started the biopsy on the previous Friday. He assured me that as soon as he noticed my distress he had them give me more sedation.

I was pretty miffed that he didn’t come clean about that before I was discharged on Friday. I gave him a pass since Ocular Oncologists are not exactly a dime a dozen. I felt comfortable enough with him to hold him accountable.

“Make sure I am out this time, I admonished him, I could feel that needle going all the way through my eye!” I'm thinking Etomidate and Succinolcholine. I think I got versed.

“I promise you will be sedated before I start anything today.” He assured me.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

True to his word I remember nothing about the removal of the plaque. The entire process had been a 10 on the dread scale, but only about a 4 in reality.

It was kind of uncomfortable when the plaque was in because of the weight of the gold. I assume because of the location of the tumor it was sitting right on top of my sinuses on the left. I had a vague sinus headache the whole time it was in. This continued for about a week to ten days after the plaque was removed. It wasn’t debilitating. It was annoying. Tylenol helped and an ice pack was probably the most important item for controlling the pain. I got round ice packs before the surgeries as many of my fellow OMies on the support group had advised me.

I think the most difficult thing for me was the cosmetic effect that placing and removing the plaque had. The left eye was swollen and I could not open it all the way. Muscles had been cut in order to place the plaque. Even after three weeks when it was time to go back to work, I could barely open the eye half way, and it looked horrible.

I started working on keeping the eye open. I forced myself to open it even though it was uncomfortable. If I didn’t do this, and do it often, the eye would never look “right”. I am ten weeks out as of the writing of this chapter and It is still noticeable, but not nearly as severe as it was right after I stopped wearing the patch.

I have some vision in my affected eye but it is only in the bottom corner of the outer aspect of my field of vision. Everything else is a black curtain. When I look through only my OM eye (OM is short for Ocular Melanoma in my OMie support group) the small area of vision I do have is very distorted. It is like looking in a fun house mirror, where objects are further than they appear. Even solid straight objects appear to curve and bend.

Going back to work was a milestone. I had to use my patch at least part of the time. I was able to drive with care. I was advised not to drive at night, and to drive routes that I was familiar with.

I have to be at work at 0600 so it is still dark when I leave. I only live about 4 blocks from the hospital and there is almost no traffic at that time. I drive slowly and the only problem is a left hand turn that is required when I take my usual route. I have to turn my head all the way to the left to be able to visualize the road. I make it without incident and get to the office 20 minutes early. I am ready to get back to some semblance of normal.

I can make it to the grocery store. I can make to to my favorite past time, BINGO. I try to route my trips with only right-hand turns. It makes for longer routes that go in big circles but it is safer by far. I really hope my State Farm agent isn’t reading this.

I fall back into my usual routine though nothing seems to be as it was. I feel out of step. I cannot help but feel I am not able to perform at the same level I did before my eye became such a focus. I obsess over every ache and pain.

“Is that you Mets?” No, it’s just a zit, or a wart, or gas.

Once you get this diagnosis the idea, and the fear of metastasis, is never far from your mind. I don’t think I am alone in that. I use all my willpower not to think about it. I never have been big on willpower.

I particularly love it when someone advises me to, “Just don’t think about it.”

My life goes back to a sort of normal pulse for a while. I work. I help my Mother in law. I try to keep David from hovering too much. I maintain an illusion of normal.

Just as my vision is distorted from the cancer, my life is distorted as well. No matter how hard you try to get back to where you were before the diagnosis, you really can never be that person again. You can’t keep yourself from going down the rabbit holes of worry. You can’t help doing that internal scan of all your body’s normal feelings and functions. If anything feels even slightly off…

“Is that you Mets?”

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