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.
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