Several of my twitter friends have expressed curiosity about the origins of my moniker “Numb Nuggets.” So, staying true to myself, I throw caution to the wind, refuse to consider the potential social ramifications of what I am about to share and press on with the story. Important Preliminaries
I used to scuba dive and free dive (snorkel) a lot. It can be an incredible experience. One of my favorite things to do, especially when free diving, was to spear fish.
My tactic was to swim along the top of the water between stands of brown kelp. Once I got close enough, but not too close, I would dive straight down the fifteen or twenty feet to the ocean floor, pause a few seconds looking through the kelp to see if there were any nice fish hovering around on the other side. Very often the fish would not be as deep as me and I could kick quickly through the kelp, surprising them from below and catch my dinner.
Now, we had a neighbor named Brad who also loved to spearfish. We had talked a number of times about a place he knew of that he claimed was the best spearfishing around. It entailed about a 45-minute drive up the coast and a mile-long hike along cliffs and down to the water. One Saturday Brad, one of his buddies, and I jumped in my pickup and headed north to do some ocean hunting.
In Which I Make A Few Mistakes
When we get in the water, it is beautiful. Cold, but beautiful. Lot’s of boulders, small ravines, and kelp all teeming with fish. My “goody bag” is hooked to my weight belt (even when free diving I always wear a little weight to help with quick descents) and as I kick through the water, the bag drifts along my left leg allowing me to keep both hands free.
This particular day, I couldn’t find my big, canvas goody bag. Instead I have my old mesh one.
That is mistake number one.
I’m kicking around in the water enjoying the deep blue of the unusually clear coastal waters, the crisp chill, the abundant sea life, the soothing feel of the fresh saltwater on my face.
I see a couple of nice Opaleyes and bag them.
Then I spy a rock fish and think, I’ll see what he tastes like.
That is mistake number two.
I spear it, bag it, roll on over and keep kicking with the familiar sensation of a goody bad sinking slightly beneath me with the weight of the fish in it.
On to “The Incident”
As I am exploring the boulder-scape of the rocky point we are at, I sense a shift in the water movement that indicates to me I am closing in on shore and will soon be contending with waves. No problem. I own waves. Body surfing, boogie boarding, surfing, snorkeling – I was meant to be in the water.
Just before I reach the breakers I decide to turn back toward open water. As I turn a large swell begins to peak just in front of me. I kick up its frontside like I have done a thousand times before and as I drop down the backside I feel a stab between my legs, followed immediately by a burning sensation.
I look down and the water current has twisted the goody bag around my left leg and up into my crotch. A spine from the rock fish has found it’s way through the mesh bag, through the tiniest hole in the seam of my old diving wet suit and into my family jewels!
At first it doesn’t hurt too badly, so I unravel the bag, lean over and begin kicking out for some more spearfishing fun. But, I get about ten yards and the pain is not just going away, I am really beginning to ache. I get about another ten yards, the whole area is aching and now the pain is spreading down the inside of my right thigh. It is really beginning to hurt.
I decide I have to get out of the water. Maybe the warm air will help. So, I swim back around the point, grunting and huffing from the pain, hobble out of the water, tear my wetsuit off, and sit on the usually soft sand.
No luck.
The pain is getting worse and it has spread to my knee. I’m starting to get concerned.
Compassionate Friends
My buddies come back and naturally wonder why I’m sitting in the sand wearing my choners. They almost pee themselves laughing when I tell them what happened. They both look at the perpetrator of the crime and say, “Dude, that’s just a harmless rock fish.”
While they are getting out of their wetsuits, preparing for the hike back to the truck I go back in the water thinking the cold temperature will help. I am desperate. I had just left the water in which my pain was worsening. Why not give it another try just in case I was wrong the first time around? See, this type of reasoning is one indication of my troubled mind.
As you might expect, I have no luck there either. This is really no fun. I’m in a LOT of pain.
Finally Brad grabs a handful of ice from his thermos, puts it in a sandwich baggie and hands it to me.
“See if this helps,” he says, while chewing on the sandwich that just gave itself up for me.
To put it mildly, the walk back to the truck is uncomfortable. Any sympathy from my close buds, my dear friends, my brothers-in-spearfishing-arms? Heck no! They just make jokes and razz me the whole way back.
I can’t drive, so I let Brad drive. Half way home, while I’m grunting and gasping in pain, he asks me, “How they feeling, dude?”
“Numb,” I reply. They are, but they still hurt. Ok, that opens up a whole new barrage of jokes and insults. I assume they like me because they are really enjoying this!
Hot Nuggets
I get back to the apartment and first thing I do is call the emergency room. The nurse (I swear she is trying not to laugh) tells me I probably got stuck by a scorpionfish or sting ray and to soak the area that was pierced in water as hot as I can stand. The heat will break down the toxin.
I knew it was not a stingray. But a scorpionfish? In California? On the central coast? What?! How did I, who when I was in fourth grade became the walking encyclopedia of all Earth’s land mammals, flying creatures and much of the world’s aquatic life not ever discover there is a species of scorpionfish that lives in cooler waters? Right in our local waters?
Crap. I throw the ice across the room, hobble into the kitchen and fill a pot with hot water. When my wife arrives home a few minutes later, there I am, perched on the edge of the sofa, soaking myself.
She says if I didn’t look white as a ghost she would have died laughing. But, I am apparently in a bit of pain, and it shows.
Ahhhh…does that water feel good! Five minutes of that and the pain is all gone. I cook myself a nice fish dinner then and enjoy every bite.
Next, I set about identifying that fish. It was, in fact, a California Scorpionfish. I’ve never hunted rock fish, don’t pier fish or beach fish that much, so never bothered to learn all the different species of these little rock-hoveling tanks. Hence, my ignorance and my mishap.
The next day, Brad yells from his upstairs window, “Hey, dude, how are your numb nuggets?”
To this day, Brad denies it was a scorpionfish because by eating it I destroyed the evidence he needed to properly identify it. “Ah, you’re just a wuss, man.”
He was a good friend. We went spearfishing several times after that and enjoyed every minute.
I am sitting on the john at the office, just a-working away and notice a book of matches laying there on the toilet paper holder. Figure I would have some compassion on anyone who might come in while I’m doing my “paperwork”. So, in addition to the always polite courtesy flush I light a match, let it burn then blow it out. Good so far.
I’m not done yet and I’m sitting there holding the burned-out match and really want to get back to a riveting game of solitaire on my Treo. Takes two hands to do that. I got a freshly blown-out match in one.
Well, heck, carefully I scoot back just a tad and drop the match in the front of the bowl. Two problems: the match is still hot and I am not completely out of the way yet, if you catch my drift.
I think I have a blister. That might explain why I’m having a difficult time concentrating today.
True story. And I’m stupid enough to write about it!
The Big Blur
(If you have time, please read part one of this story here and part two of this story here)
I took the news in stride, instead focusing on Jessica. She persevered through the exam with a facade of strength. Afterword, she broke down. She didn’t care about the lump in her breast.
Her baby was dead.
I tried to comfort her as best I could. As many know, there is only so far one’s compassion can reach into another’s grief. However, I did my feeble best. It was difficult for me to watch her endure the following several days. Would her body release the baby on its own? Or would she need a D & C procedure? Only after the baby was taken care of could we concentrate on the lump in her breast.
The next week was a blur. The baby apparently was further along than most are when a miscarriage occurs and it became evident a D & C was needed. During that same week, an attempt by the surgeon, Dr. Reed, to aspirate the lump by needle failed. It was definitely not a cyst or clogged milk duct.
We know D & C procedures are common. We know miscarriages happen, unfortunately, fairly often. What was especially difficult for Jessica, though, is her deep, abiding love for children. It is her calling, her destiny, her very fulfillment to be a mother. From the minute she found out she was pregnant, there were many times I would catch her in moments of reflection, gently rubbing her tummy, a faraway look in her eyes and a tender smile on her face.
It was the same with each child she carried.
Momma’s Little Angel Speaks
July 25, 2002. We arrive at the outpatient surgery center and Jessica is admitted. We have the three boys with us, which provide a distraction for me while she is being attended to. A toddler, a 4-year old and a 5-year old vying for attention and something to do.
So, after running through planters, playing in the indoor fountains and generally keeping ahead of the only two hands I have, we visit the gift shop. I want to get Jessica something to help her with her grief.
I find just the thing: a three-inch tall little girl angel, made of crystal. The boys love it and I let them pick out a card.
Somehow, as if they all know, the boys settle down for me to write a note in the card. I am right-handed, so I use my left-hand in order to make it look more like a child is writing:
Dear Mommy,
I know you are very sad today because I had to leave you. My body is leaving you today and I know that makes you even sadder.
But I want you to know I am so happy here where I am. Grandpa is here and we play together all the time.
When you are done on earth I have the mostest hugs and the mostest kisses for you! And I want you to tickle me, ‘k?
Momma, I have three brothers who need you. When God asked me if I wanted to help I said, “Yes!” He gave me to you for a short while to make sure you would go see the doctor.
So, guess what? Now that I have returned to our Heavenly Kingdom you don’t have to decide between your life and mine. Because I know you would pick mine. That is just the way you are.
Go raise my brothers and love every moment you have with them!
Love,
Dani
Your Littlest Angel
P.S. Poke ‘em in the ribs for me when they are not looking!
DNA tests later revealed the baby was a girl.
The Final Diagnosis
After Jessica’s mastectomy, the doctor was pleased to report the cancer was at Stage 2. Pleased because no lymph nodes were found to be involved. That gave us a little better hope that metastasis had not yet occurred.
A few nights after her surgery, when the kids had gone to bed, I sat out on the front porch and looked out over the beautiful countryside we are blessed to have a small piece of. The magnitude of Jessica’s illness came slamming down on me and I began to sob. Our always gentle, always happy Australian Shepherd, Chip, sat in front of me with one paw on my knee as my tears fell and I absentmindedly stroked his head with my hand.
Then amidst the gut-wrenching reality of the moment and all the uncertainty that had invaded our lives like a nasty vacant wind, the words of Dr. Reed echoed loudly in my mind: “Had we not found this cancer when we did, I’m afraid Jessica would not last another six months.”
It was then that I realized with new clarity several key points:
We had not sought medical advice when we first discovered the lump.
Jessica would not have had a breast examination if she had not become pregnant.
Had Dani survived , Jessica would have refused all but the minimal treatment to save the life of her unborn daughter, thereby ensuring an early death for herself.
But, because of that precious little girl, Jessica got herself to the doctor, received the cancer treatment she needed and is alive today.
Dani truly is her Momma’s Littlest Angel.
Afterword
To any mom’s or women who struggled to get pregnant and suffered multiple miscarriages, I hope this story was not hard to read.
To those who cannot understand how some can love an unborn baby as much as we do, I request your patience. This story is not written with any political, moral or religious overtones. I simply wanted to share a bittersweet turning point in our personal lives that preceded one of the most difficult periods we have had to date. Honestly, we are still recovering.
To those who have lost loved ones to cancer or are facing a certain death from cancer, our hearts reach out to you. I lost my father to cancer when I was 13 years old. I know the heartache of watching the pain, the physical deterioration; and the difficulty of trying to hold back tears at the funeral. Even greater is the gaping wound in the soul that remains afterward. Over time it becomes easier, but it is never gone.
This story is a celebration of survival and hope. And a reminder, I pray, for all women to self-examine and see the doctor if anything even slightly suspicious shows up.
In Jessica’s case, we didn’t do that. It is only by a shear miracle she is with us today.
Whence the Lump Was Discovered…and How it Was Ignored
(If you have time, please read part one of this story here)
I recall the first indications of a lump. During an intimate evening in early May of 2002, I felt something out of the ordinary in her left breast. A definite lump about the size of a pea. I did not say anything at that moment, but it was very, very difficult to keep my interest in our love making after what I had just felt. It scared me, but I did not want to ruin the moment for Jessica nor worry her unnecessarily.
Our youngest boy, Aiden, had just had his first birthday and was still breast feeding. I was concerned that if I worried her, he might sense it and it would stress his little soul. Maybe it was a clogged milk duct. I tried to convince myself of that.
For two days that lump weighed on me. I confessed my find to a close friend who advised telling Jessica.
“As well as you know her body by now, she still knows it better,” he said. “She should be able to tell if it’s out of the ordinary.”
That night I sat down on the bed with Jessica and told her what I found. She examined herself and said, “Oh, yea, that’s just a clogged milk duct.” This was her third breast-fed baby. She’d had clogged ducts before, so she knew what it was.
Good.
Phew.
Sort of.
I still did not feel right about it. But, I trusted her knowledge of her own body and put it out of my mind as best I could.
A Wonderful Surprise
With that scare basically behind us, we continued on with our daily routine. I had been considering making a parallel career move that would have required finances and additional schooling. Jessica continued taking care of the children, volunteering at the school (translation: spying on the caretakers of our middle boy, Spencer, who had recently been diagnosed with Autism).
I had been blessed with a great contract at a great company and, for a short few months, we had some extra money to play with. Hello, Six Flags season passes! Water park, amusement rides. Fun, fun, fun!
With those season passes, Jessica started taking the children into the park several days a week and I would meet them there after work.
One hot Thursday afternoon in the third week of May, I got off work early and arrived at the park before they did. I changed into my swim trunks, bought some Dip-n-Dots and camped out at a table.
I’d hardly sat down when I heard “Hi, dad!” Christopher ran up to the table, threw his towel down and ran into the water. Spencer, stayed with his mama.
“Hi, hon,” Jessica said, balancing Aiden on her hip and handing me a greeting card.
There was more than a card in that envelope. Naturally, I was curious. What was the occasion? What was in that card?
Being a typical guy, I cannot remember what the card said. But, I do remember what else was in that envelope: a positive EPT test! Jessica was pregnant with child number four!
I stood up, smiled, gave her and hug and a kiss and said, “I guess that answers our question about a career change for me, huh?”
Everything at the water park seemed to shine with extra clarity that day as a warm glow settled over us. We both are from large families and love kids tremendously. One more was going to be fantastic! If we end up being especially blessed, the boys would get the baby sister they hoped for, I remember thinking.
A doctor visit confirmed the pregnancy and everything was rolling along. Life was pretty good. Just the normal ups and downs we had always had.
The Exam
In early July, I joined Jessica at her OB/GYN visit. For us, it was as exciting this time as it was for our first one: getting to hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time. We knew Jessica would soon begin to feel the little flutters of the baby’s first noticeable movements.
Whenever we had been asked if we wanted a boy or a girl, we had always said, “One or the other.” It didn’t matter to us, and still didn’t matter. We just hoped for a healthy child. Again, I found myself falling in love with the little one still in Jessica’s womb, whatever its gender.
We had also been going in circles trying to decide on a boy’s name. We already had named three boys and had given them each two middle names! We have large families, but which relatives to name him after? Or should we forget the relatives and pick something else? Well, we had a number of months to work on it and knew we would find the right name when the time game.
However, a girl’s name was easy. Jessica wanted to name her after her best friend: Cynthia. I had always wanted a Danielle. Cynthia Danielle. I began to fall in love with the idea of having a darling little Dani.
Dr. Brower began the exam as she had so many times when Jessica was pregnant with Aiden. We knew the routine. She is always very thorough. This time, that thoroughness would pay dividends beyond our ability to repay.
The Storm Gathers
“Sir, your wife is out of surgery and doing fine,” Dr. Reed told me over the phone.
“Good, good.” I replied.
“However, there are a few things you’ll need to know.”
Damn. I knew where this was headed and tried to steel myself for the blow.
“We ended up having to do a lumpectomy and I’m sorry to say that it is cancer.”
Like so many others who have heard this type of diagnosis, I went numb.
“What’s next?” I asked.
She gently described the process:
Wait for the final results from the lab on the tumor.
Tests and more tests. Bone scans, blood tests, tests out the wazoo.
Options we will have to discuss.
Decisions to be made.
Almost definitely chemotherapy.
“I know a wonderful oncologist,” she said. “We will wait until you are here to tell Jessica. She is still asleep in recovery.”
I thanked the doctor again and clicked off the call.
Now what? I had just grabbed a few things from the house and was heading out to the carport. Had just finished taking the kids to school. It is what she wanted me to do today, after all that she had been through so far.
I was ready to jump in the car and drive the thirty-five miles back to the hospital to be with her when Dr. Reed’s call came through. My mom was in the car waiting for me as I leaned against the cedar post at the corner of our carport. Racing thoughts, yet somehow seriously zen.
Breaking the news to Jessica was hard. But, she took it well.
“Okay, doctor,” she said. “What do we do to kick this thing?”
A Decision is Made
At our first follow-up appointment, we spent an hour and a half learning all about breast cancer, motility, mobility, nodes, sentinel nodes, lumpectomies, mastectomies, radical mastectomies, modified radical mastectomies, restorative surgery.
The news got worse. On a scale of 1 to 9 in terms of the tumor’s aggressiveness, Jessica’s tumor was a 9. Not good.
“Had we not found this cancer when we did, I’m afraid Jessica would not last another six months,” the doctor said. It felt like a bowling ball repeatedly slamming into my gut.
Then it got a little better. Dr. Reed was tentatively staging it at between 1 & 2, with it more than likely being stage 2 due to the size of the tumor. In 2002, the information we had indicated about a 65-75% five-year survival rate. It is better nowadays, thankfully.
Despite Dr. Reed’s desire to lift our spirits, I did not care how full that glass sounded statistically. It seemed so empty at that moment that every memory Jessica and I had shared – good, bad, indifferent – echoed in the bowels of that damn empty cup.
“It betrayed me. Cut if off,” Jessica interjected, with a laugh. A little levity, added to Dr. Reed’s compassion and careful optimism, lightened the mood a bit.
Then she got serious. “Modified radical, if possible. Radical, if necessary. I want to live for the children.”
For me, the loss of her breast was no loss in exchange for keeping her alive. Good-bye breast. See ya’. With no apologies, I was being damn selfish. I’m gonna keep my girl.
“We’ll be able to more accurately stage it once I’ve been in there to do the mastectomy.”
At least that decision was made.
I honestly don’t remember our drive home. I know I got Jessica settled in bed, with pain medications, crackers and cranberry juice (her favorite). Then I went and picked the boys up from school. We just told them the doctor was looking at something in momma to find out if she needed more medicine.
That night we cried, together and separately. Our passion for each other released itself through our tears. I fell asleep like I had done so many nights before: on my side with Jessica spooned up behind me, lightly rubbing my back. Even with all she had been through, she still thought of the one thing I love her to do more than anything else. Amazing.
I fell asleep, not asking God why this trial had been added to our recent loss. Rather, I accepted the reality and just began asking how are we going to get through this one?
And despite my best attempts to rein them in, my thoughts returned to where this journey toward breast cancer began; to how much worse it could be if it were not for a precious little girl.
You just finished drinking battery acid during a hallucinogenic funk
Your head is being forced through the birth canal of a tse-tse fly
Every muscle fiber has been flattened like a pancake under a Mack truck then loaded up with valium, minus any pain-relieving benefits
You have no stomach.
Then, the Benefit Phase (some doctors mistakenly call this the “Recovery Phase”) during which
One’s ability to melt into the bed mattress is unparalleled. And, look, I’ve been through college. I THOUGHT I’d had some stuff that could do that pretty well before. Nope. Not even close.
There is no need to wonder about narcolepsy. It may feel like it, look like it, sound like it. But, it ain’t that duck. Look at the money you’ll save on neurology visits and sleep studies!
No one, not even your kids, wants to drink out of your cup. You FINALLY get your soda all to yourself!
If you exercise, you puke. One more reason to lie on the couch and watch movies! (Sorry, this doesn’t last throughout this entire phase, so milk it while you can).
Depressed appetite = less eating Less eating = less pooping. Loss pooping = more time for sleep! Yea!
Benny grew older and
