Of Drains and Dressings and Freedom from Them

[In my next few blog posts I plan to summarize some of the things I’ve learned over the past many months of dealing with cancer. Of course the learning will continue for the rest of my life, but alas! This blog post won’t! I’ve always said “Once you stop learning, you may as well be dead.” Well, I’m not dead yet, so here goes…]

But first an update on my health, since that’s long overdue (both update and health, that is). It was a few weeks ago that the drain, along with all its attachments, was removed from my upper left leg. I had no idea what the hidden part of this thing would look like. How thick was it? How long was the part that was actually inside my leg? What did it look like? What was it made of? 

Of course I could see the tubing coming out of my leg, leading to this little plastic bulb that when expanding from being squeezed, produced a suction, but what of the rest? 

So when the surgeon removed it within just a few seconds, well… Five weeks of discomfort! Frequent emptying and measuring of all the liquid coming out and wearing ugly clothes (sweat pants that were just one step up from a hospital gown only because they were closed at the back!). All that dealt with in the space of a few seconds of no pain? It was anticlimactic in a way. Oh well, I’ve long ago concluded that no pain is good.

So Dr. Granger just pulled out the drain and threw it in the garbage. But my curiosity (and let me assure you, Sharyn’s too) got the better of me. After all, that thing had been an integral part of my life and body for far too long. How could I just let it be dumped unceremoniously in the garbage can without a close inspection? Some Pomp and Circumstance, perhaps? At least a drum roll?

It couldn’t be. So after he walked out of the room and after I’d reassembled myself—minus the drain of course—I pulled that contraption out of the garbage can for a closer look. The section that had been inside my leg was at least eight inches long and kind of a rectangular tubing, about a centimeter wide and half as deep. Made of something soft and smooth, but foreign to my body nonetheless. No wonder it was uncomfortable!

But it’s gone now. “My drain is gone! I’ve been set free!” (Someone should write a song like that, don’t you think?) I didn’t keep the drain thing, in case you were wondering, although in hindsight maybe I should have. I could have preserved it somehow, perhaps placing it in a nice frame and setting it on the mantle. Just like some people do with a loved one’s ashes in an urn. It could have served as a reminder of the parts of me that I got to keep and that aren’t dead yet. Just thinking.

Now, a few weeks later I’m up and walking around. At least a bit. Not too far yet and not too fast. In fact, because I’m not yet able to stretch out my left leg as far as I can my right, and to avoid looking like I have a limp, I just take short strides with both legs. That’s called a “two-legged limp.” Lots of old people do that—probably for different reasons than mine, or maybe because they have two short legs. Also, my variety comes with a lopsided component because of the one-sided tummy tuck I had done a couple surgeries ago. (Remember? It was done to provide nice skin for grafting onto my lower left leg.) 

So now when I walk with Sharyn down the aisles of the grocery store (seldom) she goes ahead and carries the grocery basket. I try to keep up but can’t. (I wonder how much longer I can milk this situation? As soon as I am able to carry the grocery basket, I think I’ll have other things I need to tend to. Somewhere else.)

“Gramma? This is Isaac. We have a problem. Grampa’s stuck!” That’s what my seven year old grandson said when he phoned Sharyn from his house a ways up the hill from ours last week. I had gone for a walk around the block. Won’t be long. (That’s what I’d told Sharyn.) But I took a different route and when I got up to the top of the hill, I could almost see Heidi’s home. At least I could almost imagine that I could see it. I was sure I could make it. I’d just drop in and surprise her and Isaac. So I headed for it.

But as I walked on, it seemed to get further and further away, and I soon realized that it would be further to turn around and go home. I was past the point of no return! Without my phone. And now I was certain I could not get there and make it all the way back home. Too many parts of me were getting sore, and this poor (not too) old and kind of chopped up body was running out of steam. I’d bitten off more than I could chew.

So, feeling a bit embarrassed, yet at the same time pleased that I had actually been able to walk that far, I dragged myself up to Heidi’s house, where I was met with hugs and a batch of blueberry muffins fresh out of the oven. (What perfect timing!) That’s when Isaac called the troops to come and rescue me.

Crazy Grampa! Life’s good! And I’m happy to be alive. Never before has it felt so sweet. Cancer, surgeries, dressings, pain (and the meds to endure it), having to rely on friends (I’m blessed with an abundance of caring ones) to do things I usually take care of myself. All these things have affected my perspective on life. It’s like I’m tasting spring once again for the first time. I can hear the birds singing in the trees around me. I’m really hoping it will last. I’d like it to.

I’m grateful for God’s grace that’s been enough for me through all this, for his help with patience and provision of peace, and for the prayers and encouragement from many friends and family. My health is being restored—sometimes at a rate much slower than I’d like, but with certainty. As someone pointed out to me a few days ago, “I’m better than I was last week, but not as well as I’m going to be next week!”

So, until next time, and with sincere apologies to Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832 – 1898) as he put it in his classic tale, Through the Looking Glass, I leave you with these words—a promise of more talk of many things, of lessons learned:

        “The time has come,” the patient said,

            “To talk of many things:

        Of lumps—and legs—and surgeries—

            Of dressings sewn to skin—

        And why I feel so privileged
            To be alive to sing.”

Selah