Friday. I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t think
Colleen did either. We were out the door at 8:30 this morning to catch the bus.
We took the subway to Toronto General Hospital. We got breakfast in the food
court and then rode the elevator to the 10th Floor respiratory
clinic. I barely had time to finish my coffee in the crowded waiting room
before they called my name and led me off to do the various components of the
pulmonary function test. This was my fourth time, and each time so far has
shown a slight decrease in lung function. The first time I did it, two years
ago, I scored a 97. This means my blood contained 97% of its optimal oxygen
level. About a year later, it was 90%. Eight months after that (today), it was
84%. That’s a decrease of 13% over two years. 6% in the last eight months. Dr.
Lau was concerned, concerned enough to schedule my next test in four months instead
of the six month interval we’ve been following. He also strongly recommended I
submit to a lung biopsy.
“It will specifically identify IPF and give us strong indicators of the exact type of pulmonary fibrosis we’re dealing with. A definitive diagnosis will also help us map out a treatment strategy. We can’t stop the scarring, but there are drugs available to help slow the progression of it.”
I’ll be hearing from a surgeon soon to schedule an appointment to discuss the biopsy. And at Colleen’s insistence, I’ve agreed to attend the pulmonary rehabilitation programme at Toronto Western. They work with adults with chronic lung disease to improve their ability to care for themselves. The clinic teaches skills such as stopping smoking, exercise, coping strategies, proper nutrition and ways to control fatigue and shortness of breath. Patients attend weekly sessions for a maximum of 3 times a week or a total of 36 sessions. The fun will begin next month, I think. Oh well. At least I’ll have something to do after I retire.
At the Swiss Chalet across the street from the hospital, Colleen dipped a French fry in a small bowl of gravy and took a bite. When our eyes met, she raised her perfect eyebrows.
“So?” she asked. “How do you feel?”
“Scared,” I replied.
“Me too,” she said. And then she cried.
I’m glad I’m retiring. A shit storm is coming. And I feel so sorry for Colleen.
***
“It will specifically identify IPF and give us strong indicators of the exact type of pulmonary fibrosis we’re dealing with. A definitive diagnosis will also help us map out a treatment strategy. We can’t stop the scarring, but there are drugs available to help slow the progression of it.”
I’ll be hearing from a surgeon soon to schedule an appointment to discuss the biopsy. And at Colleen’s insistence, I’ve agreed to attend the pulmonary rehabilitation programme at Toronto Western. They work with adults with chronic lung disease to improve their ability to care for themselves. The clinic teaches skills such as stopping smoking, exercise, coping strategies, proper nutrition and ways to control fatigue and shortness of breath. Patients attend weekly sessions for a maximum of 3 times a week or a total of 36 sessions. The fun will begin next month, I think. Oh well. At least I’ll have something to do after I retire.
At the Swiss Chalet across the street from the hospital, Colleen dipped a French fry in a small bowl of gravy and took a bite. When our eyes met, she raised her perfect eyebrows.
“So?” she asked. “How do you feel?”
“Scared,” I replied.
“Me too,” she said. And then she cried.
I’m glad I’m retiring. A shit storm is coming. And I feel so sorry for Colleen.
***
I'm so sorry you have this to deal with, Dale, sorry for you, Colleen and the rest of your family. You're in my prayers.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jenny. You two remain in ours.
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