...of the rest of your life.
I know you have heard that saying before. I think the phrase was made quite popular years ago in a cereal commercial - maybe Total cereal?
(Picture: Ed resting in bed with cat Longlegs resting on top of him!)
Ed had an MRI of his brain on Monday, January 18, 2010. My office was closed for Martin Luther King Day, and I was able to help my brother get Ed to the Physician's Imaging Center in Athens, Georgia. He is now unable to walk and unable to stand unassisted and unsupported. The imaging center was unequipped to handle someone as disabled as he is, so me and my brother had to put him onto the MRI table and assist the technician in getting him situated to be able to have the test done. She told us that he would initially be inside the machine for 20 minutes, she would then bring him out of the machine to start an IV to inject dye, and he would go back into the machine for another five minutes. I determined he would be in there about a half hour. After 40 minutes I was beginning to get nervous. But she came to get us soon after that.
Of course, you do not get any type of results at the time of the MRI. Even if the technician does see something, or knows something, they are not allowed to discuss the readings in any form or fashion.
With today's technology, we are able to get these results so much sooner than ever before. The next afternoon me and my brother again loaded Ed into the car to head to see Dr. Splichal, Ed's oncologist, to get the results of the MRI. I think I prayed all the way to his office, as I'd been praying all the days before. Please God, let Ed get good news.
Ed had already decided to take his break from chemo, two chemo treatments earlier than planned, due to the overwhelming toll the drugs were taking on his body. He has become so weakened by the chemo, that his right side is almost totally useless. He cannot lift his right arm some days, and the hand does not cooperate either. If you place your hand in his right hand, he can squeeze your hand, and quite hard. But it is not helpful in such tasks as holding on to anything to lend support or in feeding, bathing, etc. His speech has worsened to the point that there are few words he can say that can be understood. Thank God, his left hand is still functioning.
We did not have to wait long to see Dr. Splichal. He came in and greeted us as usual. And then he just said it. The tumor has grown.
He explained that the tumor had grown enough to once again push the mid-line of the brain a half inch off center. He said that Edward had outlived his expectations for him, that they never believed he would live beyond six months after the surgery to remove the tumor. He stated that additional chemo would only worsen Ed's weakness and he felt like it would not help him anyways. He then told us that due to the aggressiveness of Ed's tumor and the size of it now, and the deteriation of his body, that he expected Ed to succumb to the brain cancer/tumor anytime between two weeks and two months. He said to stop giving him coumidin, that he was in more danger of bleeding to death than of a blood clot. He also said to up his steroids from 1 mg a day to 16 mg a day to reduce swelling in the brain.
I know me and my brother were momentarily stunned, and sat in silence. Then my brother asked him something, and Dr. S repeated his prediction. Then he told Ed he had fought hard and good and shook his hand. Ed was smiling up at him. Then Dr S shook my brothers hand and I hugged Dr S and thanked him for trying so hard to help Ed.
Before he walked out of the examining room, Dr. S told us there would be no follow up visits, but of course to feel free to make an appointment if we needed to come back to him. That seemed so final.
We held it together until we got in the car. Then I had to bury my head in the back seat to try to cover up my sobs. My brother put on his sun glasses to try to hide the tears coming down his face. I don't know if Ed knew we were crying. He was quiet all the way home.
Once home, we got Ed out and took him inside, greeted by Mama who wanted to hear the 'good news'. But the news was not good and she did not take it well. Her crying and questions really brought it home and finally, Ed cried too. I am not even sure he was totally aware of what was going on until we got home and we were all crying.
As usual, Ed was trying to console us; trying to make us feel better and feel like it was all going to be okay.
So. How do you think you would feel if a doctor gave you an estimate of how much longer you were going to live, and it really wasn't that long? I don't know how I would feel. Do you think to yourself, 'Today is the first day of the rest of my life'?
I know you have heard that saying before. I think the phrase was made quite popular years ago in a cereal commercial - maybe Total cereal?
(Picture: Ed resting in bed with cat Longlegs resting on top of him!)
Ed had an MRI of his brain on Monday, January 18, 2010. My office was closed for Martin Luther King Day, and I was able to help my brother get Ed to the Physician's Imaging Center in Athens, Georgia. He is now unable to walk and unable to stand unassisted and unsupported. The imaging center was unequipped to handle someone as disabled as he is, so me and my brother had to put him onto the MRI table and assist the technician in getting him situated to be able to have the test done. She told us that he would initially be inside the machine for 20 minutes, she would then bring him out of the machine to start an IV to inject dye, and he would go back into the machine for another five minutes. I determined he would be in there about a half hour. After 40 minutes I was beginning to get nervous. But she came to get us soon after that.
Of course, you do not get any type of results at the time of the MRI. Even if the technician does see something, or knows something, they are not allowed to discuss the readings in any form or fashion.
With today's technology, we are able to get these results so much sooner than ever before. The next afternoon me and my brother again loaded Ed into the car to head to see Dr. Splichal, Ed's oncologist, to get the results of the MRI. I think I prayed all the way to his office, as I'd been praying all the days before. Please God, let Ed get good news.
Ed had already decided to take his break from chemo, two chemo treatments earlier than planned, due to the overwhelming toll the drugs were taking on his body. He has become so weakened by the chemo, that his right side is almost totally useless. He cannot lift his right arm some days, and the hand does not cooperate either. If you place your hand in his right hand, he can squeeze your hand, and quite hard. But it is not helpful in such tasks as holding on to anything to lend support or in feeding, bathing, etc. His speech has worsened to the point that there are few words he can say that can be understood. Thank God, his left hand is still functioning.
We did not have to wait long to see Dr. Splichal. He came in and greeted us as usual. And then he just said it. The tumor has grown.
He explained that the tumor had grown enough to once again push the mid-line of the brain a half inch off center. He said that Edward had outlived his expectations for him, that they never believed he would live beyond six months after the surgery to remove the tumor. He stated that additional chemo would only worsen Ed's weakness and he felt like it would not help him anyways. He then told us that due to the aggressiveness of Ed's tumor and the size of it now, and the deteriation of his body, that he expected Ed to succumb to the brain cancer/tumor anytime between two weeks and two months. He said to stop giving him coumidin, that he was in more danger of bleeding to death than of a blood clot. He also said to up his steroids from 1 mg a day to 16 mg a day to reduce swelling in the brain.
I know me and my brother were momentarily stunned, and sat in silence. Then my brother asked him something, and Dr. S repeated his prediction. Then he told Ed he had fought hard and good and shook his hand. Ed was smiling up at him. Then Dr S shook my brothers hand and I hugged Dr S and thanked him for trying so hard to help Ed.
Before he walked out of the examining room, Dr. S told us there would be no follow up visits, but of course to feel free to make an appointment if we needed to come back to him. That seemed so final.
We held it together until we got in the car. Then I had to bury my head in the back seat to try to cover up my sobs. My brother put on his sun glasses to try to hide the tears coming down his face. I don't know if Ed knew we were crying. He was quiet all the way home.
Once home, we got Ed out and took him inside, greeted by Mama who wanted to hear the 'good news'. But the news was not good and she did not take it well. Her crying and questions really brought it home and finally, Ed cried too. I am not even sure he was totally aware of what was going on until we got home and we were all crying.
As usual, Ed was trying to console us; trying to make us feel better and feel like it was all going to be okay.
So. How do you think you would feel if a doctor gave you an estimate of how much longer you were going to live, and it really wasn't that long? I don't know how I would feel. Do you think to yourself, 'Today is the first day of the rest of my life'?
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