I Cried Until I Laughed: Now Stop the World, I’M Getting Back On!

By B.J. Derton

In January of 2000, at the age of fifty-two, author B.J. Derton underwent a fairly simple surgery to remove fibroids. She came out six hours later without fibroids but with a diagnosis of ovarian cancer stage 3c. A very rare typeaggressive, high grade, with no protocol for treatmentDertons doctors gave her from six months to five years with no forecast on a quality of life during that time.

In I Cried Until I Laughed, Derton shares her journey, finding humor in the thing that frightened her the most. Upon being released from the hospital, she mapped a wellness plan and tracked her medical tests, blood draws, CT scans, x-rays, and surgeries. Derton became her own health advocate and gave herself the right to have hope. Hope to track, control, and fight with everything she could.

After a twenty-two-month journey, she was pronounced NED on September 11, 2001. She kept her catheter in for two and half years for a just-in-case moment, and then for a Christmas present to herself, she had it removed in the surgeons office. That day she knew she had made it. With a sense of humor, I Cried Until I Laughed narrates how Derton accepted her positive attitude, her plan, and the self-control to not let cancer define her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496973603

B.J. Derton

B.J. Derton attended the University of Texas, Austin, and is the founding president and owner of AP&D Services and Away Wee Go. An advocate for women’s health issues, she also assists the young and elderly who have health difficulties and few resources. Derton and her husband live in Round Rock, Texas.

Book preview

2015 B.J. Derton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7360-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction —

1. What’s The Matter With My Bladder?

2. Kidney Tails, Orwhere’s That Ureter?

3. Bad News, Surgery And Death,But Not In That Order.

4. Chemo, Meds And Beds,In That Order.

5. Cancel That Cut And Curl And The Lost Art Of Vacuuming.

6. If The Counts Are Low,To The Hospital You Go.

7. Cat Scan = Blood Clot =New Direction.

8. Stalled Out On The Freeway To Remission.

9. New Chemo = New Hair, Everywhere And My Choice Of Chest Ornaments.

10. Just Lying Around Eating Bon-Bons.

11. New Direction = Another New Chemo = Different Views.

12. Christmas Will Always Be My Marker.

13. Happy Birthday To Me =Surgery And Pain, In That Order.

14. Radiation And All Those Bathrooms.

15. Bonus Trip To Vegas – Land Of The Normal People And Back Home - Land Of The Shingles.

16. 9/11/01 And 9/12/01And By The Grace Of God Go I.

17. Into Remission And Acceptance.

18. Now Stop The World,I’m Getting Back On!

About The Author

About The Book

This Book Is Dedicated

To

Robert Allen Fritsch

[August 2nd 1947 – November 6th 2006]

And his Caregiver and Loving Wife,

Jo Hannah Fritsch

Robert and Jo Hannah redefined the definition of friendship, courage, determination, strength, and love.

The angels needed Robert more than we did.

And

To all cancer patients, past, present, and future.

Hang in there, this is the most difficult test you will ever have, it’s called living.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Frank Lassiter Melvin for his constant encouragement and devotion to me and assistance in writing this book, keeping track and updating my overflowing files of continuous paperwork while working full time; my son, Dennis Wesley Derton and his wife Robin and my son, Steve Thomas Derton, for being on-call night and day for my many requests, for running my never ending lists of errands and re-reading my continuous re-writes; to Jo Hannah and Robert Fritsch for their constant support, readings and feedback during their own journey; to Rose Vincent for her feedback and encouragement to continue when I grew tired and wanted to not finish this book. . . or anything; to J. Jody Kelly, my editor, who took time from her hectic schedule to edit me while training for the Women’s Triathlon and teaching at the local college; to my doctor, Dr. Mark A. Crozier, who put up with my humor, sarcasm, and constant list of questions while never rushing me; to all of his nurses, especially, Lori and Penny, who were on constant call for me and a source of unending information and positive input from a medical and personal side; to the patience and persistence of David Pussman for designing my cover over and over and over; to our dear friends Dr. John and Carole Alsup who kept us from falling apart by bringing us food, watching over us and setting up prayer groups around the world; and our accounting staff manager, Daniel Peña, III, for his unending loyalty in keeping the office up and the doors open during this long and difficult climb.

INTRODUCTION —

What if you were told by your doctor you had Cancer? What if he said you had a very rare, aggressive, high grade, don’t-know-how-long-you-may-live type of ovarian cancer? Seems to me I’d already seen this chick-flick-made-for-TV-movie and probably used a whole box of tissues. It certainly couldn’t be a real life story with someone I might actually know. It certainly couldn’t be about me because even though I’ve been called a drama queen, I’m a healthy, middle-aged, informed woman. I read extensively, I watch the news, I’m careful about my diet, I have regular check-ups and I exercise ... occasionally.

But all of a sudden, it was all about me. In January of 2000, I was diagnosed with Stromal Sarcoma of the Ovary and even though I type medical transcription for a living, I would have just seen and heard the words ovarian cancer. After my initial diagnosis I would Google ovarian cancer and get tens of thousands of hits. It ranged from curable to deadly. Which category was I in? The more I read, the more I became confused and wondered if I was even on the right disease. If ignorance was bliss then I was laughing out loud. I continued my search but was unable to locate any study, trial, or actual information on a female currently living with my particular type. I went to the bookstores and tried just finding anything on ovarian cancer, written by anyone telling their story. At that time, there were just two books I could find on this subject and I bought both. The problem was although it detailed their life and they were famous, it didn’t hold my interest. It kept bogging down with theories and minute details regarding medical information or on their personal life which was so much more exciting than mine or anyone I knew. In trying to read these books I learned all about their lives, their chemo, their infertility problem, their families, but never felt I learned anything I could relate to my type. This was their life. Nothing, including their chemotherapy and other treatments were close to what I was being told I would take. While reading their stories I could feel their personal terror and it was frightening. It was then I felt the need to be as fully informed as possible about these very scary words. However, my concentration level was hindered due to chemotherapy sessions and medication so I would read as long as the book held my attention and then I’d put it down. I tried using the time between readings to digest my latest readings to see if I could apply it to my own cancer. But so often all the medical terms, the chemical makeup of their treatments, the terror they were suffering, it was all too much. So I began skipping pages until something would catch my attention and I’d start reading again.

When I was told there was a possibility I may not make it past six months, I stepped up my researching and started digging faster and deeper. I started notebooks for keeping all my chart notes, copies of all tests for comparison, and everything I could find that was even closely related to my type. I now had a timeline, or so I was told. I was told it would also help if I joined a women’s cancer support group. In my research I’d found most women felt one of two ways; you had either found your missing sister who understood it all or it was all too depressing and you never wanted to go back. So I joined the only support group in our area that involved women having many different types of gynecological cancers at different stages. I would go full of hope of finding sisterhood and more knowledge about this silent killer but would come home depressed with no further knowledge about mine or theirs. I thought I was supposed to feel better and instead I only felt worse. So after several meetings, I decided I would become my own support group. My group was composed of whoever was sitting next to me during my chemotherapy treatments. I found sitting in a chemo chair for five hours every few weeks can be very exhausting and very lonely so if I had to be there why not try to see the bright side; there had to be one. I’d find some humor or interesting side to the person sitting next to me just by asking, What are you in for? and it would break the ice. Out would come their story. Different from mine, but yet the same. Not Why me? but more about the things they missed or things they never got to do and wished they’d never put off. Little things to others but not to us; the family outings, trips they were always going to take later, going to a crowded mall to see Christmas decorations or just to walk around, grocery shopping, exercising, staying up later than 9:00 p.m., trying to remember things, being able to comfort or even be around sick grandchildren, and the list went on. But even though they missed parts or all, they really missed the ability to laugh or find any humor connected with their own cancer or any cancer. Very understandable. So I would tell them about my own lack of concentration, my new found increasing hearing loss, my out of control appetite, my car that would turn into fast food restaurants on its own as if possessed, my weight gain and my wigs. We talked about cellulite and renamed it hail damage. Being bald became a symbol of strength. The time seemed to fly by if you had someone to talk with who understood exactly what you were going through. It seemed finding humor in the thing that frightened you the most, well, it just seemed to help. I then started looking to see if I could find any books written with a humorist twist about this deadly subject. It didn’t have to be a children’s book but just not the depth of rocket science.

Several of the books addressed different areas such as how to find a wig or having a no-hair day, but none that talked about the whole experience of going through a cancer journey that could cause you to break out in a smile or a chuckle. That’s when I decided I needed to write my own story. I know humor, I know chemo, I know radiation, I know needles. I’ve had it all including a fifteen-inch-blood-clot in the center of my chest, all the problems with having a chest port, blood transfusions, shingles, and it goes on. But I got through it. How? Was humor the cure? Not by itself, but I really believe it helped. I believe we all have a sense of humor, but when you are hit with a cancer diagnosis, it is hard to find any humor in anything, especially anything medically connected. In the worst of times, in our darkest hours, I found some people are willing to try anything, do anything or go anywhere to get relief, to find hope. I made up my mind I wasn’t going to chase diagnoses, change doctors, or fly to Europe for the newest cure. I just decided my contribution for whatever time I had left was to put as much a positive spin on all this as was humanly possible. Wait, not just try, but do it! I had gone in for a fibroid operation and came out with the diagnosis of Ovarian Cancer, Stage IIIC - Stromal Sarcoma of the Ovary. I tend to associate most things with food so I thought my tumor was attached to my pelvic wall like dried egg stuck on a hot frying pan. My doctor told me he would describe it as being rock hard and had to chisel it in his attempt in removing it since it was so firmly attached. It seemed this rock hard tumor could not easily nor totally be chiseled out. My type had all bad points; advanced stage, aggressive, high grade and was very rare. There was some doubt I would make it six months, maybe as long as five years. And if I did, there was no assurance of my quality of life during that period as there was at this point in time, no treatment protocol.

After lying in my hospital bed for five days, I made my decision; that was their diagnosis, not mine. Even if I only had six months, I would fight. I would make the most of my time and use it as wisely as possible. Although I had just met my gynecologic/oncologist doctor, I knew I had to trust him to do the best he could, to help me do the best I could. My protocol treatment didn’t exist even with all the advancements of today’s new drugs so trust was everything.

We forged together, dancing around the edges sometimes, testing by fire, making our own protocol as we went and I found humor was the easiest way to deal with all the ups and downs, of which there were many. I always tried to find humor even in the most delicate of situations and it wasn’t always easy.

My husband was my greatest support. He told me those numbers on the charts were already five years old, that the newest drugs out did not have any numbers yet. Even if I only had a 10-15% chance of making it for five years, someone had to be in that number; why not me? Why not manage it as a chronic illness and if nothing else push it out there until there was a cure?

There is no test just for ovarian cancer at this time, so most cases are found in the advanced stages. This is why it took on the name of the Silent Killer. Even a yearly physical can miss it as the symptoms are so easily explained away. There are over 26,000 cases of ovarian cancer diagnosed each year and statistics state about 16,000 women will die from ovarian cancer each year. When I heard the odds, it would have been easy to just give up, put my total trust in the system and take whatever drugs offered. But I knew for me, the route I needed to take was to try and understand what drugs, what course of treatment, what exactly was going on in my body. So thanks to the modern age of the Internet, I researched. After my diagnosis, I found I was rare, I was unique. Not many of us around, not many alive in which to compare notes. I felt an obligation to all women: younger, older, daughters, sisters, aunts, cousins, complete strangers. Cancer is something that will touch one out of every ten people this year alone and others need to know there is hope, there is help, and they are not alone. There are others going through very similar treatments, very similar problems, emotionally, health-wise and financially.

My doctor told me at the beginning, The feisty ones seem to do better. And so I became feisty. I began researching and sharing. Some women told me after meeting me and hearing my story, they scheduled an exam for themselves. I got up on my soapbox whenever possible and told groups why it was so important to be your own health advocate. Get involved. Try to understand. Believe me, it’s not easy and way more than I ever wanted to know about myself. But yet to overcome such hurdles and still have a sense of humor, I amazed myself.

A wise man told me cancer is just a word, not a sentence. You start with that and then move forward. You’re not going to die everyday, just one day. So meanwhile, get involved, become your own health advocate. It’s your life and no one knows you better than you. Don’t give up, because it’s not over until you say it’s over. I CRIED UNTIL I LAUGHED

1.

WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH MY BLADDER?

"No… it, no, don’t transfer me again, please don’t put me on hold, no, wait, wait… and then I was drowned out by the holiday elevator music. Who recorded this music tape? The music kept clicking off as though someone was going to answer and then back on. What if I was dying? Would they put me on hold then? Please hurry! This music may kill me! Now it’s a blaring commercial on health care I’m forced to listen to as I have no control over the volume. Now an announcement stating: Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us and will be answered shortly." Great. Oh wait, another click…

You’ll have to come in. The doctor won’t prescribe anything without seeing you first, the nurse-person said with that I-don’t-want-to-be-here-anymore-than-you voice.

Come in? Can’t he just prescribe something over the phone?

No, she answered in a tone that must have said that word a hundred times before I called that morning. We’re booked until around two, can you come then?

Well, I guess. So that was that. Now I had to go in and wait with everyone else to be fit into the schedule on the day after Christmas just to see a doctor. Couldn’t I just drink cranberry juice or suck a lemon to get relief? Besides, it wouldn’t even be my doctor.