Okay, that's the good news.
"We've never seen this before," is not something you want to hear from your surgeon, especially when it's backed up by your oncologist.
Surgery today, delayed by several hours, but it was for a liver transplant, so hey, Me No Bitch about that. They removed the nodule -- still don't know whether it's tumor or nephrogenic rest.
And there was a large "patch" near it, that looked like a blood blister, according to the surgeon. They couldn't just remove it, as they would have had to just remove the whole kidney. So ... they surrounded it with sponges, removed the top, and captured the liquid inside for pathology. Underneath, it looked like clean, healthy kidney. We're holding on to that.
If it's tumor, then that means tumor spillage, so we'll have to do radiation.
So now we have two areas to worry about. Two different pathologies to be done.
I'm not trying to be hopeful. It does hurt more to get your hopes up, then have them dashed to bits upon the sharp rocks.
I'm not trying to not be hopeful. There's no reason to grieve and moan before we know what's what.
I'm just trying to be. Just trying to stay in neutral.
Meanwhile, I'm looking at Little Warrior. She seems to be resting peacefully. I have my ipod with a speaker near her, playing a loop of a Brandenburg concerto that she likes to sleep to for some odd reason. Pretty up-tempo for sleeping music, but hey, this is Wild Child. She's breathing room air, no canula or anything. She's Octopus Girl, with a catheter, monitors, kidney drain. And an epidural, so she doesn't seem to be in any pain.
I have to admit, that I get occasional irrational flashes of anger. As I wrote the sentence about the epidural, I flashed back to a recent Ethics class in which a young classmate of mine did a presentation about euthanasia. In her presentation, she talked about how suffering brings you closer to God, and so you should be willing to suffer, even to the point of not turning to pain relief.
I wish she were here. For just a moment.
The anger fades. The music seeps back into my consciousness. The Husband, feeling edgy, has gone in search of a milkshake, his comfort drug of choice.
But I'm not cold, I'm not wet, and I'm not hungry,
So, classify these as good times.
I'm not quite ready to classify this as a good time. But it's all relative. If the spots they removed turn out to be a big Something, I'll look back on this teeny period of innocence as good times, a brief honeymoon from upcoming reality.
If the spots turn out to be a big Nothing, I'll look back on this period as one of anxiety and stress. Not memories of good times.
I'd prefer the latter. I have tons of memories of good times. This doesn't need to be one.