Facing the Bridge

April 9^th has stood out in my mind for a long time. To me, April indicates that spring is just around the corner. April 9^th also happens to be the birth-date of a dear friend of mine, someone I’ve known since high school. This year April 9^th took on an entire new meaning. That date would mark the first of two surgeries that I would need to keep the dreaded word, cancer, at bay.

Shortly before April 9^th, I was diagnosed with a type of oral carcinoma that had settled in my tongue. Three doctors teased me about discontinuing chewing tobacco, thinking they were funny. But I guess that is what usually triggers this sort of thing. In my case, we’re still trying to figure out the culprit. I do have an autoimmune condition (Lupus) which can cause all kinds of adventures. And a genetic wild card—my paternal grandmother suffered from a type of oral cancer. Regardless, something I thought was just an annoying canker sore, morphed into a condition that was alarming.

As the doctor who would be performing the surgery explained the ins and outs of what I would be enduring, phrases like: “It may be difficult to speak.” “You may not be able to swallow for a while.” or “You may need speech therapy to restore these two abilities,” haunted me. Until they were in the middle of the actual surgery, they wouldn’t know how much of my tongue would need to be removed. So we told family members, friends, and neighbors what was going on, and asked for their prayers. We weren’t sure what else to do.

April 9^th came all too quickly. My tongue was already sore from a biopsy that had taken place a few days before. If that was any indication of what was ahead for me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through with the surgery. And yet I knew my best chance to survive this ordeal, was to obediently submit to all that lay in store.

So on April 9^th, we arrived in a timely fashion for surgery. And it wasn’t long before I was whisked away for the procedure.

As all of you know, in the middle of all of that, the Covid-19 virus was rearing its ugly head. Many precautions had to be taken before my surgery could take place, including a test to ensure that I didn’t have this disease. When my test came back negative, the surgery was scheduled.

Kennon was allowed to be with me on the 9^th, but he had to remain in my designated hospital room until I could leave the hospital that day.

And because they didn’t want to keep me in the hospital any longer than was absolutely necessary because of the Covid risk, I was released to go home later that same day. In the words of my sons, “Leave it to Mom to develop cancer during a world-wide pandemic!”

In many ways, this adventure was like standing near a precipice. Far below lay a deep, scary canyon. Ahead was a tiny, swaying bridge that didn’t look very sturdy, and I was being asked to trust it to get me to the other side. I wasn’t sure I possessed the courage or stamina to do so. And then I was flooded with peace. I don’t know how else to describe it, but I knew it was a direct result of the numerous prayers that had been offered on my behalf. I’ve always known that prayer is a very real gift—it’s how we communicate with our Father in heaven. And I’ve known that prayer on behalf of others works—I’ve seen it before—but never in my life have I felt as carried as I was the day I had to cross that scary canyon alone. And yet, I wasn’t alone. I could literally feel the love of so many, and an assurance that no matter what, all would be well.

So, when the time came, and I was wheeled inside the surgical room, I slipped down from my gurney, and hopped up onto the surgical table, ready to face what was ahead. Shortly after that, the anesthesiologist did his job and the lights went out for me.

When I came around in recovery, I was relieved to still be in mortal mode. That is always a big risk for me—since I tend to throw blood clots. Yet another family gift. But all seemed to be well, aside from being unable to say much of anything. We were told that they had had to go deeper into my tongue than they had figured, but they had left my lymph nodes intact, thinking all was well.

After a bit of time, Kennon was permitted to take me home. And then the adventure truly began. Swallowing was not my friend. I had to really work to drink liquids, and for a few days, my diet consisted of mostly Gatorade, water, and milk shakes. Kennon did a fantastic job as my nursemaid, and I owe him big time for all that he did while I was recovering. Our sons and their wives and offspring also did a wonderful job of keeping my spirits up as well as providing answers to the questions we had about the medical world. And I appreciated my siblings who stepped forward to take care of our mother while I recuperated.

 My ability to talk was slightly impaired and as I’ve told people, for a couple of days, I sounded like a combination Julia Child/Cindy Brady.

I’ve always believed pride is a bad trait to possess, but that is what propelled me into a determination to improve my new voice. Not only had the left side of my tongue been carved on, but the stitches went down into my throat, indicating that a piece of it had been taken as well. We were just told that they had removed anything that looked suspicious. And the fact that I now had the worst sore throat of my life spoke silent volumes about what had taken place during the surgery.

It took me about two days to figure out that if I held my tongue at a different angle, I could talk quite normally. This took some practice, and at first, my tongue and I went the rounds over this new position, but as time went on, it became second nature to me and my ability to speak improved.

And something else took place that boosted my spirits. I currently serve in the Primary organization of our ward. Daily, we found cards and artwork created by the children of our ward. Eventually a scrapbook was dropped off to store all of these creations that are dear to my heart. I will be forever grateful to the leaders and children who took part in this endeavor—as well as to all of those who sent cards, flowers, etc. as we faced a daily battle of pain, healing, and hope.

My doctor soon called with the news that the pathology report revealed just how deep they had carved into my tongue, and because of that, I would need a second surgery to remove the lymph nodes in my neck. Somehow they had seen that at least 2 of them were enlarged, (possibly compliments of a recent CT scan) and they wanted to make sure that they had removed all of the cancer cells, fearing that some had strayed into the lymph nodes. And so, about a week after my first surgery, I found myself back in Logan for round two. Only this time, the restrictions in place against the Covid virus prevented my husband from coming with me into the hospital. He had to leave me curbside in the hands of a very capable, awesome nurse. Fortunately, we have family in the area (one of our sons and our daughter-in-law and their cute kids live fairly close to Logan) so my husband had somewhere to go while he waited. And this time, they were keeping me overnight—it would be a long time to just wait in the car. Most of the businesses in the area were closed—aside from drive-through restaurants and gas stations. I was relieved that Kennon could just stay with our kids.

As it turned out, I had some of the same surgical nurses that day that had been part of my tongue adventure. They were stunned by how well I could already talk. One of the nurses told me that the doctor had written in my chart that it would be a long time before I would be able to communicate because of the first surgery. When he was told that I was talking already, he had to step inside my hospital room to see for himself. He was impressed. That’s when I reminded him that I possess stubborn Scotch blood that helps me through adventures like I was facing. I also had the comfort of a recent priesthood blessing (I was promised that I would recover quickly from all of this—good thing—my husband and I are currently serving as service missionaries/housing coordinators for the missionaries who serve in our valley), as well as the numerous prayers that were being offered on my behalf. Once again I felt total peace of heart as I faced surgery number two.

I was told that depending on what they found with this second surgery, I would possibly need radiation treatments to ensure that the cancer was gone. The thought of that made me feel a bit sick. As a Type 1 diabetic, I’ve learned that everything affects my blood sugar. It had already been bouncing a lot compliments of surgery number one. I was sure it would continue to do so as I healed. Learning that I might be facing radiation, too, was almost overwhelming. But once again, my heart filled with peace as I faced this second string bridge across a daunting canyon.

Surgery number two went well and I was later told that twenty lymph nodes had been removed. They had done a quick inspection of the last lymph node during the surgery and it was cancer free. But it wouldn’t be until the pathology report came in that we would know if any of the others contained cancer.

I was wheeled back to my room where I received excellent care from a very compassionate nursing staff. And I need to pay a tribute to these brave women and men who daily face the Covid virus. Most of my nurses bore war wounds from wearing protective gear—especially the masks over their faces. Their noses were nearly raw from this requirement. My heart went out to them—they are putting their lives on the line to help others through this trying time. I have two sons who are also on the front lines of this disease and it is a worry, and one of those things that I put in the Lord’s hands each day. We need to be forever grateful to the men and women who are courageously facing this battle.

I did well after my second surgery—it seemed like a piece of cake after what I had already endured after the first one. I made jokes with my nurses about various unfunny things, and I was told by one of them that my positive attitude would get me through all of this. I should admit that there might have been a time or two when I didn’t feel so upbeat, but for the most part—I have tried very hard to keep a positive spin on things. And it has worked, as we saw two major miracles take place.

The first I’ve already shared—I was able to speak quite well in a matter of days and without speech therapy. I invented my own therapy—with help from above. The second took place about a week after the second surgery. I’d had an appointment with my doctor for a surgery recheck, and removal of an uncomfortable drainage tube. However, the pathology report hadn’t come in yet. It was hinted that I would likely face radiation as a precaution. We left that appointment feeling a tiny bit worried over what lay ahead, so we headed to our kid’s abode, since “Grandpa” had promised that this “Grandma” would put in an appearance after she felt better. It was a much needed break in our routine. And it was while we were surrounded by family that we received the welcome news that my lymph nodes had been cancer free and I would not need radiation.

My doctor heard all of the cheering in the background from our kids and grandkids, and possibly myself, and he laughed, telling me that I had quite the cheerleaders in my life.

He’s right—I really do! Thank you to everyone who fasted, prayed or sent positive thoughts my way throughout this adventure. I continue to do very well! It has taken me a bit to regain my strength, but that is improving daily. I know this battle isn’t completely over yet—I will be making monthly visits to my doctor for at least a year to make sure the cancer doesn’t return. But I know I’m still here for a reason, and I plan to make the most of my time in mortal mode.

Having this adventure in the middle of this world-wide pandemic has helped me keep things in perspective. I still feel peace—I know that as we place ourselves in the Lord’s hands, miracles can take place. I also know that we will be watched over and guided as we face the days ahead. We aren’t crossing this scary canyon alone—there are those who are at our side, some unseen, who continue to love us and help us through this perilous journey we call mortal mode. And someday, we will reach the other side as we take things step by step across the bridge of faith.