First Lung Biopsy Experience - More Emotional Than Anticipated

When Keith, Melissa and I arrive at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak just before noon for a biopsy of one of the dozen nodules discovered in my left lung, I am eleven days post craniotomy.  The morning was spent at the neurosurgeon's office and we are feeling pretty slick.  This can be attributed to the fact that despite being warned before we arrived that it was highly unlikely my incision would be healed enough to remove my surgical staples (especially for someone my age), my office visit turned out to be much more than an exercise in humoring my daughter who had insisted they give us an appointment to at least look at my head.  My incision was healing remarkably well and all 24 staples were removed.

We discuss reducing some of my medications with the neurosurgeon: No - I can't stop taking the anti-swelling and anti-seizure medications.  Yes - I can reduce the pain killers in an attempt to be more alert.  Being in a fog has been bothering me.  In addition, I am trying not to remain completely dependent on Keith and Melissa for what feels like an endless period of time.

Dr. Olson advises me that I need to accept there will probably be a "new normal" for me going forward.  I am not pleased to hear this but figure I will deal with it later.  I have a procedure to get through in the afternoon before I try to tackle every foreseeable hurdle.  There will be plenty of time to demonstrate I am NOT like most fifty-something women or other cancer patients.  Thank goodness I keep my mouth shut (or as my deceased father-in-law would categorize it: "at least I didn't let my big mouth overload my ass") since a short time later I crumple while at Beaumont for the lung biopsy.

In hindsight, I should have seen it coming.  The entire time this crazy situation was unfolding, a family member has been present to help me, assure me, support me.  I have never been left alone.  That is until I am taken to a changing room with lockers and instructed to get into a hospital gown.  Some one comes to take me to a holding area to prep me for my lung biopsy.  I ignore the inclination to ask if my family can accompany me.  Now that I am at Beaumont as an outpatient, I am dealing with staff I do not know and who don't know me and I begin to realize the value of some one in my family running offense for me.

I am led to a bed only for the staff person to find someone else already occupying it when the curtain is pulled back.  We begin to wander up and down an area looking for a usable bed (one that is clean and fresh looking if I may say) but there are either no empty beds or ones that appear to have been utilized already but not changed yet..  This does not help to assure me and I think to myself "You have got to be kidding me."

I decide to explain that need to sit down as I am still on Percocet and offer to go back to where I was sitting previously.   Three staff persons hold a conversation about what the deal is while I am still standing there thinking they do not have a very good handle on things.  My apprehension level rises and I repeat that I need to sit down.  I am led to a curtained area that has a chair but it is next to an occupied bed.  I give the gal an incredulous look.  When I suggest they are obviously not ready for me,  this elicits some one to roll a bed towards me and offer me to lay down.  Finally!

I am quickly surrounded by three different people: one who wants to obtain a medical history, one who wants to take my blood pressure and insert a catheter, and one who has some paperwork for me to fill out.  I mistakenly think the paperwork is related strictly to a release for the procedure and I indicate I would prefer to hear about it and sign the consent forms with my husband and daughter present.  I am informed that they are striving to insure that patients are not "over run" by their families and an effort to is being made to discuss everything with the patient independently.

A man begins to go over my procedure and it's possible risks.  My lung could collapse.  If it does, I will have to be admitted to the hospital.  However, once I have two x-rays two hours apart that demonstrate my lung is not collapsed, I will be able to go home - after I have had something to eat and drink and use the restroom.  Good, let's get this show on the road since it is past lunch time and once again I have not eaten since dinner the day before.  I sign the consent forms and the man leaves.

One nurse tells me my family will be brought back eventually before I head into my procedure but asks that I fill out her forms first.  After I fill them out, they are taken away and a third nurse attempts to insert a catheter.  She clucks over the bruises up and down my arms.  I encourage her to just "get it done."

The second nurse quickly returns to ask me to finish one of my forms which is incomplete.  She hands me a sheet related to pregnancy.  I show her how I have marked the form as "not pregnant".  She asks me how I know I am not pregnant and I reply that I am 52 years old.  She inquires if I am still menstruating and when I indicate that I am, she points to several questions on the sheet that appear in a "if x, then y format" that I have not answered.  I look at her in disbelief so she offers to "help" me fill the form out.

When was your last period?  "Ma'am, I am not even sure what day it is."  When was the last time you had sex?  "Lady, I can't even tell you how long I was in the hospital and exactly when I got out."  I attempt to express to her that even if I was pregnant (which I highly doubt), at this point in my life, I am uninterested in having a baby and I will sign what ever she wants to that effect.  She presses me by advising me that often in "these situations" when someone is faced with a terrible medical issue, people will frequently change their feelings about a new life.

I assure her that regardless of the current situation, I would never consider giving birth to another child as I carry a lethal gene disease - which by the way already took the life of one of my children.  Therefore, I would not plan on carrying any pregnancy to term, so would she please let it go.  She concludes the matter by informing she will handle this whole thing by simply running a pregnancy test!

I start to have a complete meltdown.  I try to reiterate that if I test positive or not, I plan to proceed with the lung biopsy and I will sign off on any possible harm to any potential fetus.  I add "Do you have any idea what I have been through recently?  I went to the emergency room with a headache and found out I have a stage 4 brain tumor.  I had that metastasized brain tumor resected via craniotomy recently and am now waiting to find out if my lungs are loaded with cancer too."  She indicates that she is aware since I am here today to have a lung biopsy.  She is merely trying to follow procedure.

Looking back, I  realize my distress was based on being by myself for the first time since I got on this crazy train.  I recognize that I had been putting on a brave front for my husband and daughter and a little show of emotion was long over due.  Of course I fight back the tears and tell them to bring back Keith & Melissa (which will force me to buck up).  They sit with me until I am called for my procedure at 1 PM.

In the procedure room, a new nurse introduces her self.  Her name is Kelly.  Really?  The tears start all over again.  Another nurse steps in and attempts to distract me.  She asks me polite questions about myself and my family.  It works until after talking about my wonderful husband Keith and my fabulous daughter Melissa, she inquires if I have any other children or is Melissa an only child.  Usually I can handle this question after all these years of practice with grace - but not today.  Regrettably, I start crying again.

In fact, I pretty much cry throughout the entire procedure.  The staff asks if I am in pain and if I need more medication.  I assure them I am physically fine and convey I am just having a rough day.  I am advised I will need to hold still for the biopsy and I convince them I can handle it.  The local anesthesia and twilight medication are effective and the needle aspiration is not painful.  Twenty five minutes later, the radiologist indicates he has obtained three samples and I am finished.  They take me for an x-ray and then wheel me back to the curtained area where I left Keith and Melissa.  Just their presence fills me with a sense of peace and I am able to fall asleep.

Two hours later, I am awakened for another x-ray.  It shows my lung is intact.  I am asked if I am able to eat.  "Yes, Ill take anything."  Around 3:30 PM, they bring me grape juice (ugh!) and a chicken salad sandwich on white bread (double ugh!) but I scarf it down as I am famished.  Once I manage to get up and use the restroom, I am released.  I can't get my clothes on fast enough.

I leave sporting only a band aid on my chest but emotionally exhausted.  Later on, I discover my melt down (which was over heard through the curtains) is being recounted amongst the families of other patients in a loud enough tone for my family to hear the discussion.  My husband and daughter would like to approach the person talking about me but restrain themselves.  They are relieved to learn I never heard anything that was said about me but they feel emotionally exhausted too.  We are happy to head for the peace and quiet of our own home for some rest and recuperation.

Thankfully, the next week is blissfully free of any further hospital or doctor visits.  Within a few days, I am ready to resume my more typical invincible persona.  Watch out melanoma - get ready for an ass kicking!