DAY SIXTY-FIVE

Where do I start—the eve of surgery maybe?

The night of March 6th I did everything I was supposed to—I didn’t eat after dinner, I didn’t drink anything after midnight, I took all my piercings out, cleaned off my makeup, and scrubbed off every bit of nail polish that remained on my finger and toe nails. I was a bundle of nerves and had to take an Ativan only to manage a few hours of sleep. I woke around 3:30AM to take a shower and dress in the required “comfy clothes”. I choose a white and brown Teddy-hoodie, black leggings and brown beach boots, and then, bleary-eyed and with a stomach full of butterflies, my husband drove me to the hospital. My surgery was scheduled for 8:30AM, though I was to be there at 5:30AM for check-in.

Check-in went smoothly—there was hardly any wait time between taking a seat in the waiting area and being called back to Pre-Op. The nursing staff was lovely, explaining to me in great detail how the next few hours leading up to surgery would go. I met the anesthesiologist as well, who was also very kind. My husband was then allowed back to wait with me in my room, and I’m not sure I can adequately describe how incredible Sean is when I’m at my worst. Sure, we get stressed and fight sometimes, and other times we can’t get away from one another fast enough. But when it counts, he’s always there, and ten times out of ten, he’ll forgo his own comfort to ensure mine. He’ll tell me I’m beautiful even in the midst of a hormonal acne breakout from hell, or after having just vomited my guts up. He would sit with me through anything—a tornado, a stampede, an alien invasion. He’ll do anything to make me laugh, and he’ll wait by my side as long as takes, for whatever it is that we’re waiting for. This year…it’s my health.

At some point before surgery, I was taken to radiology where I had to have my fifth mammogram just this year, only this time during the mammogram a doctor inserted a needle into my breast where the cancer was—this aids my surgeon in finding the tumor and removing it and the surrounding margins more easily. After the needle was in place, a cup was placed over the needle and I was sent back to Pre-Op. And when I say cup, I mean an actual cup—an actual styrofoam freakin’ coffee cup.

“Oh,” I said, dryly, staring down at the cup taped to my breast. “When you said cup, you really meant a cup.”

“Yes,” the nurse laughed, “everyone says that.”

😑

Back in Pre-Op with Sean, the surgeons arrived to my room one at a time. My breast cancer surgeon showed first, and he arrived in scrubs with handfuls of paper, and a furrowed brow. He muttered aloud, while skimming his paperwork. The plastic surgeon doing my reconstruction was next, and he arrived in street clothes, a ski hat, and an easy smile. I’m guessing they’ve worked together many times, as it was the breast cancer surgeon who’d recommended the plastic surgeon, but the two men couldn’t be more different, and the dichotomy between them would have been almost comical at times if I hadn’t been so nervous. The next half an hour was spent with my gown around my waist while both surgeons marked my breasts with lines and arrows and circles that affirmed their surgical plan of action. Then, I put my gown back on, got back into bed, and a nurse arrived to place inflatable leg wraps around my legs—these are placed around the patients legs during surgery to keep the blood flowing. Once the surgery begins, the wraps inflate and deflate to massage the legs and move the muscles around to help prevent blood clots. Normally, when we are asleep in our own beds, we move our legs around. In surgery I was in the same position for several hours, hence the need for the wraps.

I don’t remember kissing Sean goodbye, but I must have. He wouldn’t have allowed me to leave without doing so. Although I do remember crying a little as I was wheeled down the hallway and feeling so overwhelmed that I was dizzy despite already lying down.

The operating room wasn’t far from Pre-Op, and I was soon moved from my bed to the operating table. I recall being asked to place my arms on table extenders, answering a few curious questions from the nurses regarding my tattoos, and then asked to breathe deeply into a mask. I don’t remember anything else after that.

Fast forward several hours and I’m waking up in Post-Op. I’m nauseous, shaking, my throat is sore and my nose is bleeding. I couldn’t even sit up without feeling dizzy or experiencing another wave of nausea. The nursing staff was different in Post-Op—busier, more frazzled, and seemed to have little patience for me. Thankfully, Sean was soon there, helping me to hydrate and slowly begin sitting up. Not long after that I was helped into a wheelchair and wheeled out front where Sean was waiting to drive me home.

While I’d been sleeping off the anesthesia, the breast cancer surgeon had informed Sean that he’d examined the tumor under x-Ray and that he stood by his original diagnosis—stage one, grade two—yet it would still have to be sent to pathology for conclusive results. Visually, he’d said, he’d examined the three lymph nodes he’d removed, stating that they looked good, but adding that those too would have to be sent to pathology, and that I should expect a phone call within 7-10 days with the results. Conclusive results mean next steps will soon be laid out, and next steps will be either radiation treatment and tamoxifen or chemotherapy and radiation, or some other configuration that I’m not yet aware of.

As of today, I’m still waiting.

In all honestly, cancer feels less like the battle everyone makes it out to be and more like something that just happens to you—against your will. And I don’t feel much like a warrior either, just someone who desperately wants her life back and is willing to go in whatever direction her doctor points her in, in order to get it. I suppose everyone is different though, and maybe I tend to be more morose than most. I’m a reluctant warrior, I guess, only wielding this metaphorical sword because I want to squeeze every drop of life that I can from this body of mine, and if that means I have to endure painful procedures…then that’s what that means.

Speaking of painful procedures, the pain was minimal on Thursday following the surgery. I think the biggest shock after waking was the extent of the bandaging on my chest, and the drain tubes taped around my bellybutton. My range of motion was severely depleted as well, and I just ended up just sleeping on and off until Friday afternoon.

Then came the pain.

Mostly it was just intense soreness, but there was quite a bit of burning, too. Even today, exactly one week from surgery, I’m still very uncomfortable. I was offered pain pills but I opted not to take them for several reasons, the most important being how easy it is to become addicted to opiates. I lost a great friend at the age of twenty-four to an opiate addiction turned heroin addiction, all because of back pain. So it’s just been me, my pain, and some Tylenol. 😂😂😂 But in all honesty, it’s been manageable. The worst pain seems to be in my right armpit where my lymph nodes were removed, and on the outer sides of both my breasts where the drain tubes are sutured in. But, again, it’s manageable, and easing with each passing day.

This coming Friday—tomorrow—I have my first post-op appointment with the plastic surgeon. I’ll have my dressings removed and changed and my drains taken out, and I’m honestly dreading it. I have no desire to see my “Frankenboobs”, as I’ve not-so-fondly been calling them. Maybe I can keep my eyes closed for the entire appointment? My next appointment will be another post-op on the 20th with the breast cancer surgeon. Hopefully I’ll have gotten the dreaded results-phone-call by then. 🤷🏻‍♀️

As for how I’m feeling emotionally, mentally… not so hot. Cabin fever has for sure set in. And I’m more than a bit sick of everything—sick of the cold and the snow, sick of not being able to work, sick of not being able to work-out, sick of not being able to go out, and just plain sick of the word cancer. I just keep telling myself, one day at a time, and eventually my life will come back to me. It’s hard to envision it though, when you’re currently trapped in the thick of it. And I tend to to focus too much on the “when it’s over” instead of trying to appreciate the still noteworthy moments to be found among the “getting there” stage.

Yes, yes. I am a forever work in progress.

My advice to those who are also in the thick of it…remember to enjoy and appreciate the little things.

XO- until next time.