The Search for Answers and Air

My steps find a familiar rhythm as I walk this familiar hallway. Its long corridor leading me away from the main hospital to a different building where the hallways become narrow, winding, and the tile on the floor makes me feel like I've gone back in time half a century. But this time I don't venture into the winding world of labs, office doors, class schedules, and what I can only glean are prestigious and notable faculty name plates. This time, instead of passing through an open threshold I come to a new set of closed doors. There's a sign posted that says access now requires a badge and entry is limited. A painful familiar feeling washes over me. It is like the air is being pulled from my body. My mind wishing to wander but held back by the physicalities of this body. A stinging reality - my world suddenly and seemingly smaller. 

Only a mere decade ago, before Covid and before the all-to-common reigning threat of public shootings I'd lose myself in the maze of hospital halls and tunnels across campus. My IV pole a lamp unto my feet and my hospital bands a passport to belonging. In those moments was a sense of freedom that CF couldn't touch. I'd move from decade to decade as I'd pass through halls of histories. I'd imagine what it would be like being a student at UofM and studying medicine from my own care team - impassioned by a purpose of simply helping people. In many ways, fighting for and dedicated to returning a freedom forgone by disease, illness and unchangeable circumstance. A world paved with vast possibilities.

A year ago while in-patient at the UofM, after being away for many years due to circumstances of insurance, I set out one evening with my IV pole to walk the familiar and comforting halls I'd come to know so well. I was soon stopped, however, as a once open entrance was now a set of closed double doors with key card readers. The doors had a small window in which I could see the walkway I once would follow. I remember a familiar sting of sadness. Shut out. My world made a bit smaller by closed doors and forbidden pathways. 

Since coming home from the hospital in mid December, I regrettably found myself getting worse instead of better. I was struggling with continued lung function decline, fluid retention, and dangerous oxygen saturations when I was active. The day after Christmas I was admitted through the ER at the University of Minnesota knowing that if things continued as they were I not only wouldn't be cleared for surgery to remove the cancerous tumor on my pancreas but I'd be facing the progressive realities of CF's wrath. 

The world isn't becoming smaller, just my place within it is. Shut out by my own body. So, here we sit with many unanswered questions and a goal of simply getting me to and through surgery. As we search for answers along with air, we are also racing against time. Upon completion of my decided final round of chemo there's an optimal window of time to undergo surgery. The body needs time to recover post chemo to be in the best shape for surgery, but we can't wait too long otherwise we risk losing any headway that was gained. 

So, on January 16th I will be undergoing a Whipple Procedure. This invasive surgery involves removing the head of the pancreas, the first part of the small intestine, bile duct, and gallbladder. To put it simply, much of my GI system will be removed and reconstructed in hopes to remove as much of the cancer as possible and give me the best possible outcome long term. My world is feeling a bit tunnel visioned and myopic right now - a collection of narrowed unfamiliar hallways and closed corridors left in the hands of hope and a team of providers for whom I am so grateful. Today, I will follow wherever these winding halls and passageways are willing to take me - making the most of any and all thresholds that I am free to cross.

Love to you all.