January 2011: Tammy Shaw

Featuring and Written By:
Tammy Shaw 

 

Hi, my name is Tammy, and I’m an RCC patient.

(Now you say “Hi Tammy”)

 

I’m 42 going on 25, married, mother of two, and a grandmother.  I buy emergency and disaster response equipment on the clock, and I paint, draw, and take pictures (and volunteer with the local CERT—Community Emergency Response Team) when my time is my own.  I’ve also returned to school to finish my management degree.

In June 2010 I went to my doctor’s office with stomach pain.  My primary care physician was on vacation that week, so another physician in that office (an OB/GYN who looked to be about 12 years old!) saw me. I was admitted immediately to the hospital, suspecting pancreatitis or an ulcer.  I was in the hospital 48 hours, during which I had blood tests, ultrasounds, and CT scans with contrasts.  I was on a zero intake diet, and fentanyl for pain (which made me very nauseous, so they augmented with a nausea medication). The first day, after the first CT scan, I was ordered another CT scan and ultrasound.  They called in the night radiologist, and these tests were done about midnight.

I don’t remember much about the stay, except that my veins kept collapsing (I had 17 sticks in 48 hours).  They decided I likely had an ulcer, and prescribed ulcer medication.  Someone did mention in passing that there was something on my kidney they were looking at, but nothing more was said, and I didn’t think anything of it.

I was sent home with the ulcer medication, and an appointment with the substitute physician two days later.  

I went, with the idea that I would be asked how I was feeling, and if the medicine was working.  That subject was all but ignored; instead, the 12 year old doctor was saying things like:  solid mass, kidney cancer, renal cell carcinoma, surgery, kidney removal. 

I left with an appointment with a urological surgeon. I was reeling.  I made it through the appointment, and went to my car and wept.  Then I went home and cried my eyes out all over again. I waited until my husband came home so I could tell him in person, and so I could pull myself together.  It was such a hard thing to do, as his mother died of cancer in 2001 ... the long, ugly, hard way.  He was his calm self, and said "Whatever happens, we'll get through it."

I had one more ultrasound the next week, and was scheduled for a needle biopsy the day after that.  I took off work, my husband took off, my father came with me, I fasted, and showed up for the biopsy.  I was all registered, had my hospital bracelet on, and was waiting for my turn.  The radiologist came out, and said “Didn’t someone tell you that your biopsy had been cancelled?”  "NO......" 

So I called the 12 year old doc, who said “Well, we don’t really like to talk about this over the phone.”

“No problem, I’m here in the building anyway; I’ll come right up”

“I can’t do that right now, the nurses are all at lunch.”

“Then you’d better tell me over the phone.”

So, sitting in the waiting room of a hospital, in front of everyone, I was told over my cell phone that my mass was confirmed cancerous, and thus the biopsy was cancelled.  My husband held me while I cried … again.

Fast forward to surgery scheduling:  the first surgeon I was set up with was not in my network (so I found out after the surgery was scheduled).  So I started over, this time with a urological surgeon who specialized in renal cancer.  He was well published and recommended, and the surgery was to be done at KU Medical Center in Kansas City … all good developments in my mind.

August 9, I was admitted for a 3-4 hour (deep breath) laparoscopic robot assisted partial nephrectomy.  It turned out to be a 7 hour surgery, due to: internal scarring from a previous gall bladder removal; being overweight; position of the tumor.  My entire left side was so swollen from being on my side all day that they had to cut off and replace my hospital bracelet.

The recovery has been much worse than I anticipated.  I was in the hospital for 5 days.  One of the 7 incisions was stitched so tightly to my (back?) that it made a depression, and resulted in a burning tearing sensation whenever I moved or stood up.  I wore a strapped compression garment for about a week to keep everything held in, and that helped some.  I couldn’t get up or down or shower on my own.  I slept in a recliner for three weeks, as I couldn’t lie flat in any position.

I was off work for 3 weeks, part time for two more.  My husband literally did everything.  He doesn’t cook, so we had every fast food and drive through in our town for a month.  He has been an angel.  Patient, helpful, gently pushy when necessary. 

It’s four and a half months later.  I am on a heavy Ibuprofen regimen for 30 days to relieve/reduce some continuing inflammation and swelling.  I still cannot wear regular waistband pants like jeans in my old size, but am now in my regular size in other pants.  I still tire easily, and have pain nearly every day. I can't move or lift anything heavy without cramping pain. But I'm feeling better each day.

My first set of post-op bloodwork / xray / ultra- sound came back last week clear (woo hoo!), and I think it was a turning point for me.  I feel now like a survivor, like I’m not in the middle of a life-threatening crisis, but more like the victor in a battle.

I’m back to painting and photography, and looking forward to taking a vacation in 2011, since we missed it last year.  Other items on my to do list: become an EMT this coming year; go to the beach in a two piece (ok maybe that’s a stretch); dance all night without tiring out.

Here is where cancer has taught me a very valuable lesson:  My attitude has changed considerably.  I was (and still am) a dyed in the wool, textbook Virgo.  I’m anal, detail oriented to a fault, nearly always annoyed about something, high strung, and am no good at being “idle”.  But now I take everything with a grain of salt. I don’t let work stress me nearly as much as I used to.  I play more and laugh harder.  I smile more.  I have even cooled a few relationships with people who just drain my energy. In short, I don’t waste moments.  I can’t get them back, and one never knows how many are left.

It is a work in progress, and the new zen of my existence doesn’t always show.  But each little moment treasured is a moment not wasted, and each day ended with a smile is a victory.

Tammy Shaw
Kansas

 Tammy and her man

Tammy's Son

 Tammy and daughter