The Best Worst Thing: Entry 3 | Scan Results

Be sure to read in order:

Diagnosis
PET CT Scan
Scan Results
Radiation
Eadem Mutata Resurgo

Scan Results
___________________

It wasn’t so bad and it was over before I knew it. I got dressed and went to the building next door to wait in doctor Reiner’s office for the results. I found Tracy. And Sarah. My eyes filled up with tears when I saw the two of them sitting there waiting for me. Sarah told Tracy the night before that she was taking the morning off to be there with us. Seeing her sitting there reminded me of the years I’d climbed onto the school bus and saw her waiting.

Darrell had told me to wait to eat anything in case they decided to do more tests. I was starving and nervous. Had he seen something on the scan that implied I’d need more tests? An older, black woman and her daughter walked into the waiting room and sat nearby. She had on a bandana – at the cancer care center, it’s safe to assume what’s going on.

They told me Dr. Reiner was still in surgery and it would be another 20 minutes. Sarah and Tracy talked and I sat silently for what felt like an eternity.

“Is that him?” Tracy asked. I turned around and saw Dr. Reiner walk by.

A few more minutes passed. A man burst into the room and screamed, “You’re clear!” Sarah and Tracy rejoiced. My back was against the front of the room. I turned around. “Who?” I asked. “You!” and Dr. Reiner pointed at me. The three of us stood and hugged and the woman and her daughter cheered.

“I need to change out of these scrubs, but I wanted to get the waiting over with. It’s the worst part. I’ll be back to get you in a few minutes.”

“Cancer can suck it!” Tracy shouted.

The woman said, “I love that you just cursed while you’re holding your Bible. Cancer CAN suck it!”

I turned to her and we locked eyes. “I just found out I’m clear, too,” she told me. “I want my butt and my hair back!” I reached down to touch her hand and she pulled me in for a hug. It was one of the most intimate moments I’ve ever shared with a complete stranger.

Dr. Reiner took us back into a room to look at the scan results. I had no idea what we were looking at. I was just so thrilled with the news. I started texting my family and my friends. My brother’s response, “Katie, I’m so happy and relieved. I haven’t been able to get out of bed waiting to hear. Love you!” The knot he had in his chest since Thursday finally released.

The night before, Tracy told us a story about a priest she’d heard talk about how we “should on” ourselves too much. I’m notorious for shoulding on myself. As we walked to our cars, Sarah said, “Let’s get brunch to celebrate.”

“I should get back to work,” I said.

“Katie, don’t should on yourself,” she said with a smile.

She was right. This was something to celebrate. We enjoyed brunch and I text all the people who’d been cheering for me, including my friend Joe in MN who had sent a video of his twin 4-1/2 year old sons praying for me that morning. I text him, “Scan was clear! Eye only. I got this thanks for the prayers. Keep ‘em coming!”

His response, “#$%& YEAH! I actually just cried just a tiny bit and there are two other guys sitting with me at a conference table who haven’t even noticed. So pretty much we can say PHEW on a couple totally awesome fronts. Oh my gosh I feel so relieved and happy and thankful for little boy prayers that God clearly likes so much. Okay, now I had to leave the conference table because I was being all blinky when a tear escaped. You TOTALLY got this!”

I went back to work for the rest of the afternoon. It’s safe to say my team collectively gained some lbs because of all this. We kept going to get yogurt. Katie has cancer – we should get yogurt. Katie’s scan was clear – we should get yogurt. Remember when Katie’s scan was clear yesterday? – we should get yogurt. I had 9 days until my radiation treatment. It was business as usual. I started to tell some clients who had become close friends over the years, but for the most part, I was trying to keep it private/quiet at work.

My client Brandon, a good friend who shares a similar faith (clearly I was hoarding prayers!), was surprised by the news and offered I talk to his brother, who went through the same thing some 20 years ago. In talking to his brother Dustin, I learned that he received the same treatment from Dr. Hovland, the father of my Dr. Hovland. He didn’t remember much about the radiation, which gave me hope that maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. What gave me the most hope was that Dustin is now in his mid-30’s, happily married with two kiddos. He still struggles with his vision, but his quality of life is in good form.

I look forward to the day that I can be a resource for someone like Dustin and other survivors were for me. In all, I was able to talk or write with 4 ocular cancer survivors, and I heard of 20 or so friends and family who knew someone who had been through it. I only heard of one person who didn’t survive.

That night, I had a mental-dental health night. This is when my therapist, Kalliope (we’ll call her Kalli for short, and yes, this is an alias), my dentist, Jen, and I get together for wine. It’s as fantastic as it sounds. Two bright, beautiful women who are major influencers in my life, joining me for my favorite beverage. We toasted to my good news and I learned Kalli was a cancer survivor, too. She gave me fair warning on what to expect. I only see her on occasion for tune-ups now, but she offered my next session for free – when I was ready. I had a feeling I’d need it.

That weekend was Memorial Day. My brother was in town to meet our niece Kirstin and my dad was back again for a trip that had already been planned. My sisters live in Littleton and Parker. When family visits, I trek to the burbs. This time, I asked Chris and my dad to join me and friends for happy hour in Denver. I wanted my dad to see my world.

I left work early that Friday and by 4p was enjoying a glass of white wine on a hot rooftop bar with my boys. I got to talk with my dad about all that I’d been going through. I told him about the scan and woman in the waiting room. I told him about my friends and how they’d all rallied around me. At one point, he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He got to meet some of my closest friends, and he certainly threw a few back! We all did.

Sarah and I had tickets that night to Les Miserables – a show I’ve seen countless times. My mind was racing as I watched and listened to music that makes me so nostalgic. I’d been trying to think of a way to keep people informed. I wasn’t ready to do a blog, but I didn’t want to post anything on Facebook.

Suddenly, I had the best eye-dea. I would create a private Facebook event and invite only my friends and family who were in the know. I’d ask them to wear eye patches the day I had radiation inserted and encourage them to post photos on the event wall. It would be an easy way to keep my support group informed. My favorite song at the time, ironically, was Kenny Chesney’s Pirate Flag. At a barbeque at my sisters that Sunday, I saw a pirate flag in my nephew Peter’s room.

“Pete, can I PLEASE borrow this? Just for a week?” I asked. That’s a lot to ask of a 6 year old. But Peter has a very sweet soul, and he knew something was wrong. He said yes.

I hadn’t seen my brother-in-law Ron since my diagnosis. He has known me since I was 14 years old, so he’s always seen me more as a kid sister than a sister-in-law. We finally had a moment on the back patio to talk over a drink. He asked how I was doing. He told me, “Katie, it is what it is.”

The Best Worst Thing: Entry 2 | PET CT Scan

Be sure to read in order:

Diagnosis
PET CT Scan
Scan Results
Radiation
Eadem Mutata Resurgo

PET CT SCAN
___________________

The next morning, both sisters met me at Dr. Reiner’s office. Julie with my godson, Tommy, who gave me the best hug. I know he didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew I was scared. Nicki was with her 9 day old newborn. Monica, the nurse, took us back to get us setup in a room. She was so kind. As we walked out of the waiting room, I noticed a wall of angel ornaments. It was refreshing.

For my 30th birthday, my sisters took one for the team, left their families behind and accompanied me to Mexico. As we waited for Dr. Reiner to arrive, Julie announced that we would not, as planned, be waiting for her 40th birthday to take our next rendezvous. We were going to face this, then celebrate in Mexico. They are so good to me!

Dr. Reiner came in, impressed with my crew and so happy to see the young ones. He drew some pictures, talked about the radiation plaque, and tried to tell me what to expect. The next big hurdle was the PET CT scan. If it’s nowhere else in my body, the treatment is straightforward. They’ll take a biopsy during my procedure and we’ll later learn the types of cells we’re dealing with – low or high risk. If there is cancer anywhere else in my body, that will change the game plan.

He was confident, based on my current health, that it wouldn’t be anywhere else. I was certain, based on my inability to retain information at work, that it would be in my brain. He told me that his front desk hates when he does this, but to let them know when it gets scheduled. He’ll make sure to be available for me to go over the results. He didn’t want me to have to wait.

When I walked out, Monica was waiting for me in the hallway. “Can I give you a hug?” she asked. When she hugged me she told me she’d be praying for me.

I went into work that day after my appointment. My sisters asked if I was sure I wanted to do that. Yes! My team was shocked to see me. I walked in and got awkward, silent, head-tilting stares. Eric said, “Okay, you let us know. You want to talk? We’re here. You want to just work, we’ll leave you alone.”

I told them I just needed to get lost in something else. An hour later, three of us grabbed lunch and I filled them in. We have a tight-knit team. I felt fully supported by them. Each one had reached out to check in on me. I knew it was hard for them to know what to say. Eric loved my jokes, “It was a real eye-opener.” I think we made some colleagues uncomfortable with our humor.

That night I drove to the Tech Center to have dinner with Nicki, her husband Nick, baby Kirstin, Julie and my parents. Seeing them made me feel like a little kid. Those are two hugs from my parents that I’ll never forget. We enjoyed wine and good food. I still couldn’t believe that we were all there that night because of the news.

I picked up Jen to meet up with some friends after. That was hard. I was far too sober and some of them were far too festive for that to be a good match. I was tired of talking about it. I felt like people were talking about me. Mostly because I overheard one friend say, “Katie just found out she has cancer.” I was sitting right there. I knew they all meant well, but I was just overwhelmed.

The next day was spent with my family, at Peter’s soccer game and hanging at Nicki and Nick’s house. It was the right company and the best company. I caught up on some phone calls and was still thinking of people I needed to tell.

There was a big fundraiser/party that night. I decided I wanted to go and I informed my friends prior, “I’m going. We’re not talking about it.” I was a great evening. I got some killer hugs and gave the look – don’t even ask. It was respected.

Sunday morning I went to church. I love my church and have a few connections there. I didn’t want to be sitting alone, so I was trying to spot someone I knew. Brigette walked by and said hi. I asked if I could sit with her. I started to cry. She sat down with me and stayed by my side the whole service. Her husband was on the other side of the church. She prayed with me after.

They always invite people to talk to the pastor and elders after the service. I approached Dave, the Associate Pastor. I started to cry. I told him what was going on and he sat with me and prayed with me. He asked for my contact information and emailed me the next day to check in, one of several check-ins.

I really wanted to see Bambi. She’s one of the elders and just a sweet, petite woman with whom I’d served with at one point. I spotted her talking with a girl, Katie, who I also know. I said, “I have something to tell both of you and I’m hoping for your prayers.” They listened. Katie informed me that she was celebrating 10 years of being cancer free that day. This was a whole new bond for me. And it was powerful. They prayed with me.

I received a voicemail during church from Christina, my best friend since first grade. She and her husband and son live in Ohio. “Ortman, it’s Graney. I’m coming. Either the weekend you get the radiation or the weekend after. You just tell me which you prefer. But I’ll be there.” I listened to that message and knew I wasn’t going to argue with that.

The next couple days were a blur. The anticipation of the PET CT scan didn’t bother me until it got scheduled. I received word on Tuesday morning that it was cleared with my insurance finally. It was scheduled for the following morning. I’m sure my team noticed my mood change. I became quiet and nervous for the rest of the day.

In September 2008, I had flown to Denver to interview with a couple companies. As I killed time in a nearby store before one interview, I spotted my future haircut. I approached her immediately. “Hi, I’m trying to move to Denver and one of my biggest concerns is breaking up with my hair stylist of 6 years in Minneapolis. I need to know who cuts your hair here.” I still have the card she gave me with Tracy’s information.

I’d moved here by December that year and on December 17, I reconnected with my dear old friend Sarah at a Neil Diamond concert with her sister. Sarah is one third of a best friend’s necklace from the 90s; Christina is the other third. That night, my cell phone hopped out of my front pocket and into an automatically flushing toilet. Sarah waited for me. I finally opened the stall door and told her what happened. She rolled up her sleeve at the Pepsi Center and dug in to get it. The phone was long gone. In that moment, I realized even though we lost touch for a couple years, this friendship I’ve had since kindergarten hasn’t skipped a beat. She told me the next day that she’d stick her hand down the toilet for me any day.

Tracy cut my hair for the first time the next morning. Sarah wasn’t too far behind, and we soon became regular clients. It didn’t take long for that professional relationship to turn into a priceless friendship. She was our hairapist.

The three of us had dinner on Tuesday before the scan. In the past year, we’d picked each other up when Sarah’s mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and then Tracy’s mom, and now me and the nipple tumor. We all share a similar faith and are able to talk about our challenges with God, our fears in life, what we’re most grateful for, everything. They were angry at God. Why was this happening to me? Again, though. Everything happens for a reason. I know God put Tracy in my life on purpose and that Sarah came back in for a reason, too.

As I crawled into bed that night, I cried tears I’ve never experienced before. Complete fear. I prayed to God and all my angels – mom, Wally, my grandparents. Be with me. Get me through this. I’m not sure if I even slept.

My sisters both had obligations on Wednesday morning. I had asked Tracy if she’d go with me to the scan. She wasn’t working and I knew she’d be happy to be there for me. I drove myself to the hospital and, in rare Ortman style, was actually early for this thing. The lady at the front desk checked me in. We were almost finished and her computer froze. She apologized for having to start over. I winked at her and said, “Hopefully this is the worst thing that happens to both of us today.” She smiled.

I walked down a long hallway and checked in with another person. Then I sat in the waiting room. I picked a chair and put my purse on the floor. I looked over at my mom sitting next to me. I squeezed my hand in a fist to feel like she was holding it.

Darrell came to get me – a tall man, with long gray hair in a ponytail. He was so nice. We walked down another long hallway together and I continued to squeeze my hand and picture my mom walking by my side.

I changed into a sexy robe and was instructed to drink a shake that Darrell promised wouldn’t be that bad considering it was ground up rocks. Yum. He let me know what to expect when we got into the scan. I had to let the shake settle so I watched the news in my room for forty-five long minutes.

It was time. He got me all tucked in and put on some ocean sounds. I have to pee a lot when I’m nervous. I shouldn’t have picked the water noise. I didn’t realize how much they tuck you in for those scans. In all, it would last about 30 minutes. I’m not claustrophobic. Good thing because they tied me in like a straightjacket. My hand was still in a fist. I kept thinking of my mom. She’d been down this tube.

The Best Worst Thing: Entry 1 | Diagnosis

Thank you for reading my blog! On May 16, 2013, I was diagnosed with melanoma in my left eye. I started writing about my experience as a way to process the emotions. In this blog, I will recount the moments from diagnosis to survival.

Be sure to read in order:
Diagnosis
PET CT Scan
Scan Results
Radiation
Eadem Mutata Resurgo

Diagnosis
___________________

On the way to my ophthalmologist appointment, my left bra strap unhooked and I said to myself, “Well…hopefully that’s the worst thing that happens to me today.” In less than two hours, I’d be diagnosed with melanoma in my left eye.

In the last month, I had noticed my lower left peripheral vision was disappearing, and I was starting to see more floaters than normal. It was different than the bright rings that caused me to see a specialist a couple years prior. I was always diligent about my annual eye exams, mostly because I needed my contacts prescription. I called my doctor’s office on Wednesday to describe my symptoms, and they had me come in at 8:15 the next morning.

Dr. Roe did a thorough exam and noticed a bump on my left retina. He thought it was a tear and said it could be serious. My specialist sent me to another specialist. He recommended I go in the next day or two. I said, “How about now?” They called and got me in right away. Hindsight is always 20/20 (one of several puns to come). I suspect he knew it was more serious than a tear.

I called my sister and my boss. “Hey, Jules. Just wanted to let you know I’m on my way to an eye specialist. They think I might have a retina tear, hopefully nothing too serious.”

“Oh, Kate. I thought you were going to say it was something serious like macular degeneration.”

Macular degeneration affects my dad, uncle, and two distant Irish relatives who are brothers.

My boss’s response, “Well, we have a lot going on here, so hurry back. And don’t freak out about anything until you have all the facts.”

It was sound advice that got me through the first few days of this process.

I saw a young doctor first who looked like he was 18-years-old. He seemed almost excited at what he discovered and let me know he wanted to get another opinion. Several minutes passed and I began to get nervous. In walks Dr. Hovland, the head of the clinic. He reviewed my eye ultra sound results and confirmed with the Doogie Howser that he was right.

“Right? Right about what?” I asked nervously.

“You have melanoma in your left eye.”

“Like…cancer?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I remember the day my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I was thirteen. I vividly remember walking through the hospital parking lot, behind my dad, with my sister Julie. I remember mustering up all the courage I had to ask the question, “Dad, is mom going to die.” His answer was, “I don’t know, Kate.”

My next question to Dr. Hovland took a lot of courage, but I had to ask, “Can this be life threatening.” His answer, “It can be.”

Phase I – Shock. He started speaking to me and I finally said, “Honestly, I can’t hear you right now.”

He asked if I had a significant other with me there. I wanted to give him the bird. Thank you, for the reminder right now, that I’m alone. But I knew I wasn’t. I said, “No, but my sisters are here in town.” He instructed me to go home and get some lunch and come back in a couple hours with someone. We’d go over next steps then.

Again, I called my sister and my boss. Julie is a nurse and mother of two boys. She was in the middle of her kindergartner’s fieldtrip. I cried to her, “I have cancer in my eye. I’m so scared right now. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this alone. I need you. I need you here by my side today.”

The motherly instinct she’s always practiced with me kicked in. She said she’d be there. Of course she would. She’d figure something out with her boys.

The silver lining of the diagnosis was that I was officially off the hook for a panel I was to be speaking on that afternoon. Public speaking causes me to hold my breath and get very awkward. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Eric answered and I cried to him, “I have cancer in my eye.”

He said, “We’re okay. We’ve got you covered. Do what you need to do today. I’ll sit on the panel.” He called back thirty minutes later to say he wasn’t sure if he’d said the right thing. What did I need from him? I asked him to tell my team, who was starting to text me to see where I was.

Meanwhile, my sister Nicki called to say that Julie would be dropping her 4-year-old with her and that she wished she could be there with me, too. I asked her to call my parents and brothers. I thought about my brother Chris a lot that day, knowing that it pained him not to be there with me. I wondered what it would be like to be experiencing this in MN. Denver had never seemed more like home.

I spent the next couple hours force-feeding myself and calling friends. I called Mrs. Durbin and her dad (actually her husband, but I confused easily as a child). They were my neighbors growing up. We met when I was in my mother’s womb. Mrs. Durbin had promised my mom on her deathbed that she’d always look after me. I’m pretty sure she started making a quilt for me that day, because a signed healing quilt arrived in the mail a couple days later. She had run all over town to get it signed by friends and family.

Mr. Durbin had ironically just had lunch with an old friend who reminded him that it had been 8 years since his diagnosis of ocular cancer. His name was Tom Martin, and I was able to call him to hear about his experience. He wasn’t eligible for radiation, so he had a prosthetic eye inserted and was back on the golf course one week after his diagnosis. It was so helpful to talk with someone who had received the same news and know he was back living a normal life, sans depth perception, in no time.

I called my best friend Christina. She later told me that when I told her, I have melanoma in my eye, she wanted to scream, “Well! GET IT OUT!!!”

I knew I needed all the prayers I could get, so I asked for them. I also knew I couldn’t contact every single person important to me, so I went recreational soccer on people and implemented several phone trees: Denver friends, college friends, Omaha friends, family, MN friends, Ireland.

I had text my friend Shane earlier in the morning knowing I might need a ride because they’d be dilating my eyes again. He checked in, “How are your peepers?” My response, “Eye have cancer.” That was my first joke. It felt so good. I later declared that I was blindsided by the news.

My brother texted me, “Hey, just talked to Nicki. Love you!”

I responded, “Thanks, noid. Love you, too. Definitely freaking out.”

“You can’t be scared,” he responded. “Because I always tell people my little sister is fearless.”

Fearless. I needed to hear that. I knew this was going to be a process. I knew this was going to change me. I’ve always admired cancer survivors. Here’s my chance to join ‘em. Was I thrilled with the opportunity? No. Was I freaking out? Yes.

There are some cliché phrases that I hate. Like, “As soon as you stop looking, you’re going to find Mr. Right.” But there are two that I love. My brother-in-law Ron’s favorite – “It is what it is.” And “Everything happens for a reason.” Both phrases raced through my head all day.

The phone calls and texts started pouring in. Some calls I answered, some I didn’t. I kept thinking of people to call. I pawned it off whenever possible. It was easier that way. And I knew people would understand.

My friend Todd took me back to the hospital and waited with me until my sister arrived. I knew I was a special case and that I was being squeezed into an already chaotic day for Dr. Hovland. They dilated my eyes for the third time that day and sent us back to the waiting room. They finally called us back.

My sister sat in a chair while I climbed into the center chair with all the equipment. She set her purse on the floor and pointed to the empty chair next to her. “Mom’s sitting there,” she told me. Yes, she was.

Dr. Hovland came in with his assistant Lauren, a young, bubbly girl a little younger than me. They were both full of such compassion, knowing how scared I must have been. I later got her business card and learned her title is Tumor Coordinator. I needed to talk with them about that. Nobody wants a Tumor Coordinator in their rolodex. Is she a nurse? A physician’s assistant? Anything else will do!

Julie had the notebook and all the questions. In my shock, I’d heard, “It affects one in six million.” Well, turns out I’m not that special. It’s six in one million. We talked about the tumor. It’s shaped like a nipple. I laugh again. We talked about my options – a prosthetic eye, radiation. We talked about next steps – getting a PET CT scan to make sure it wasn’t anywhere else, taking the biopsy during surgery. We talked about timing.

“Dr. Hovland operates on Wednesdays,” Lauren told us. “How about June 5?”

Poor thing was so confused when I cried out and Julie did, too. June 5 marked the 16 year anniversary of our mother’s death. She offered May 31. I told her I’d prefer that, but if June 5 was the only option, I’d take it as a good sign.

With radiation as the next step, I was instructed to meet the next morning with a radiation oncologist, Dr. Reiner. They promised I was in good hands.

My sister drove me home. We called my dad. He was on the golf course and I heard him say, “Just pick up my ball.” Really? My dad was skipping a hole for me??? He later confessed that he was having a horrible round and particularly horrible hole when I called. We let him know the update. It’s hard telling your dad, who’s a doctor, you have cancer. He could tell I was scared. I could tell he was scared.

My dentist slash best friend Jen was ready for me when I got home. She came over with a $50 bottle of wine that she was saving for a special occasion. We declared it the worst special occasion – but necessary. We had a glass on the rooftop then put the rest in to-go coffee mugs for a walk to the nail salon.

First we stopped for cheesecake. I cried a lot with her. And she let me. I told her here I’d been planning my wedding in my head and suddenly today, I started planning my funeral. She said I wasn’t allowed to talk like that. I took her advice and stopped that immediately.

Next we picked up her dog Lucy to go for a walk around our park. Her roommate was home. I could hear her upstairs complaining to Jen about her third nipple on her forehead. I couldn’t help it. I had to one-up her! I went upstairs and she showed me the zit on her forehead. Then I told her about my third nipple. We laughed so hard.

I got home that night and my phone had blown up. I had a voicemail from Shirley, my stepmom, and my dad. They were supposed to be going to North Dakota to celebrate a 50th wedding anniversary of one of Shirley’s sisters. She called my dad after packing up the car and said, “Jim, we need to go to Denver.” He was so relieved. So was I. I needed them. They were on their way first thing in the morning. You know you have cancer when your parents drive 8 hours to give you a hug.

I crawled into bed, exhausted, scared, sad. I had some words with God. I wasn’t super impressed with His current plan, but I did feel stronger in my faith than I ever had. Morning came too quickly.