My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 5

It’s been a while since I updated my blog. Sorry, I’ve been a little busy.

Still surgery day. I’m done with all the pre-cutting fun and return to the husband so we can go back to the private pre-torture room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Finally Dr. P. shows up. Then the anasteshiologist (whatever). It’s the guy that puts you to sleep. You know who I’m talking about. We chat, I kiss the husband, and I’m wheeled off to the operating room. Kinda weird, they had me get off the bed at the door and walk in to the OR. But it kinda makes sense. I’ve been sitting/laying for a while. This gets the blood circulating. Probably two seconds after laying down, it’s lights out.

I’m just going to speculate about what happens while I’m under anasteshia (I know..get over it). I’m sure someone (hopefully the surgeon) inevitably says, “Scalpel” and away we go. I wonder if anybody comments on the size and density of my floppy 49 year old boobs. If I was awake, I'm sure I'd tell them, "Hey, these are Neiman Marcus boobs!" Do they talk about the weather…a recent bad date…the bottle of wine that was consumed at dinner last night.  I wonder if they listen to music. Rock…Country…?  Maybe Brian Adams, “Cuts Like a Knife”..?? LOL. Sorry, can’t help myself.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up gasping for breath. And I mean I can’t breathe. I pull the oxygen mask off my face, someone puts it back on. I pull it off again. Someone says, “I can’t breathe with this thing on my face.” It might have been me. After several fights over the oxygen mask, I win. That’s a relative term since, uh, duh, it’s oxygen. Meant to help me breath. But I’m not in my right mind, again. I don’t hear anybody speaking Mandarin Chinese this time though.  I finally open my eyes. Just enough to see the recovery nurse standing over me. She says, “Welcome back. You gave me a run for my money.” I said, “Oh?” She proceeds to tell me that I’ve had two breathing treatments and a couple of shots. “I used skills I haven’t had to use in a long time,” she says. Well, at least I’m getting my money’s worth. I’m starting to breathe a little better. Enough that I get to sit up and look around. The man in the bed next to me keeps trying to get up and go home. The nurse has to keep pushing him back down. I find it comical. I don’t know why.

Finally, I’m wheeled back to the private pre-torture room. The husband and a BFF come in or they’re already there. I don’t remember. Still in a fog.  They were told they could see me in an hour. And it’s been two hours. The husband thought maybe they wheeled me to the curb without telling him, and I’ve been sitting outside waiting for him for 60 minutes. That would have been a hoot.  I’m told that Dr. P. told the husband the lump of lotion was larger than he expected. That’s not good. But he thinks he got it all. That’s good. He also said that the lymph node was negative for cancer. That is good. So very good.  The husband and I had a discussion prior to surgery that if Dr. P. came out of the operating room during surgery with news that it wasn’t good, he would be instructed to just take the boob. I’m glad it didn’t come to that, but if it had, I can live without a boob. I have two more anyway (snicker). Inside joke.

We get after surgery instructions to remove the bandages and shower tomorrow.  We both wonder how that’s possible, but okay. Whatever they say. Take the pain medication before you need it (that’s very good advice). I’m told I have a “spacer” in my boob with a plastic tube sticking out in the cavernous area between the girls. It’s not for draining. There is no drain.  I know I heard them say I could shower. I ask, “Are you sure it’s okay to shower?” Yes, they’re sure. They give me this plastic breathing device. Use it 5 or 6 times an hour to prevent pneumonia. Great, something else I have to think about. I get dressed, and someone wheels me out to the curb. The husband brings the car, and we head for home. I’m not in much pain at the moment. Just still very groggy. I don’t recall much except getting home and passing out on the bed. Later, another BFF comes over to check on me, and brings food for the family. My family and friends are the best. I’ll say that again and again before this is all over.  I don’t remember if I tried to eat soup that night. I do remember praying to the porcelain god a couple of times. It’s all a blur. Sorta like a hangover, just without all the fun. Although I can’t be positive, I’m pretty sure there aren’t any secret photos that need to be destroyed before they get into the wrong hands.

As instructed, we remove the bandages the day after surgery. OMG. I look like the bride of Frankenstein. Nine staples and several sutures across the boob. Eight staples and several sutures under the arm pit. The incisions are long…barbaric looking. This is 2011, right? You’d think technique would be a little better at this stage of the game. Although I’m very shaky, the shower feels good. It’s great to wash off the hospital smell and put on clean jammies. Back to bed. Sleep. Watch television. It’s true….daytime television is so boring.

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 4

So the surgery day is here. I know, I’ve jumped about a week, but nothing interesting happened except for a bunch of worrying, crying, hugging, talking and internet surfing. I started a new college class - not sure at this point if that was a mistake. Guess I’ll find out later. Anyway, we’re up at the butt crack of dawn. Anybody that knows me knows I’m not a happy camper. I hate getting up at the butt crack of dawn. I shower and wash my hair. Brush my teeth, but can't swallow any water. This is tough for me because usually the first thing I do when I wake up is drink about 16 ounces of water. I lotion up (against the rules) and put on comfortable clothes that I just bought the day before - nothing like waiting til the last minute. No makeup. No jewelry. I feel naked.

We arrive at the hospital and there’s a computer check-in to be completed, although I was just here a couple of days ago and completed all the pre-op stuff (which consisted of a gazillion papers and computer stickers) and donated blood. “Do you want to pay your deductible?” it asks. Of course I don’t. Who would? So, I say no. The hospital lady doesn’t seem to care. I consider it a win for the little person.

There are quite a few people here at the butt crack of dawn. We’re herded to the surgery waiting room like a bunch of sheep being lined up for the slaughter. I wonder why the other people are here. Anybody have breast cancer? Of course I can’t tell just by looking at them, and noone's wearing a sign. It’s not long before I am called to the back and placed in my own private pre-torture room, where I have to get butt naked and put on the surgery gown. This is no ordinary gown. It’s really thick, soft paper with lots of plastic lined holes where heat or cool air could be pumped inside. I could use some cool air. The shoulders have Velcro at the top so you don’t have to get half-naked for the medical staff to examine the upper part of your body. It’s one of the nicest “the opening goes in the back” gowns I’ve ever worn. Plus I get cool purple socks. I know. Doesn’t take much to make me happy. The nurse starts the IV. She's good. I hardly felt it. She tells me I’m going to another area for two medical procedures, then I’ll be brought back to my private pre-torture room. Medical procedures? Today? As if there isn’t enough going on already.

I don't really remember, but I think we (me and the husband) walk over to the other medical area the nurse told us about, where we sit and wait. We’re both pretending to be interested in the television. A lady sits across from me, in the same surgical gown and purple socks. But she has on makeup….a lot of it…and clog shoes. What part of no makeup, lotion, gel, etc. did she not understand?  I know, I have on lotion. But it’s not something that can be seen like makeup. I find her makeup really odd looking…almost like it’s been tattooed on. I stare, hoping I’m not too obvious. When a technician comes to get me I feel bad that I’m leaving the husband sitting across from her. Scary.

The technician explains that she’s going to smash-o-gram my boob so a doctor can insert a needle that will be used by Dr. P. to find his way to the blob of lotion. Kinda like using a map so you don’t get lost driving from one place to another. What, Dr. P. too afraid to ask for directions?  So the technician smashes me...don’t move, she says. Good thing eye rolling is silent. The doctor gives me a numbing shot, and inserts the needle. Unfortunately, the needle decides it doesn’t want to find the blob of lotion and it goes astray. “Oops”, he says, “gotta do it again.” Oops? Did he really just say oops? With twelve pound bowling balls for boobs, gravity is not my friend. So the technician has to re-smash me. The doctor tries again and declares victory. But there is more smashing to be done. More films. Some debating whether one last picture should be taken. In the mean time, my face is still pressed up against the machine, my arms up in the air like I’m calling to the heavens. I’m like, “Um, hello?” I settle the argument. “Oh, why not. Let’s take one more film. We’re all here and dressed for the occasion.”

After I’m finally released from the machine, the technician tapes a fashionable, not to mention highly technical, Styrofoam cup over the needle sticking out of my boob. I ask her if there is a toy bin. After all that, I think I deserve a toy. She laughs and hands me two breast cancer pins. She then walks me over to the nuclear medicine section where I’m going to get a shot of radioactive blue dye in my boob. Does the fun never end? She drops me off, and a voice from around the partition asks me to lie down on the table and remove my gown from my right breast area. Okay. I’m used to being half naked in front of a bunch of people I don't know. I look up, and there is a gorgeous, built young man standing next to me. I swear he has a golden halo around his head. Must be the light. I’m mortified. My 49-year-old, flabby boob hanging out for all to see. Sheesh. He couldn’t be ugly and fat? Give a girl a break…just one…that’s all I ask. The directional needle doctor comes in, and I ask if he’s here to hurt me again. Unfortunately he is.  Luckily he freeze sprays around my nipple before he sticks me. It still hurts. A lot. He tells the young stud to rub my nipple area with a gauze pad to circulate the dye.  “I can do that,” I tell him, with my nicest smile. “No worries.” He might be able to see my flabby boobs, but he ain’t touchin ‘em.