Once I get over the shock of seeing the staples and incisions, I try to convince myself that it isn’t as bad as it looks. The incisions are long. Much longer than I had even imagined. Mainly because one of my BFFs (I have several) had just gone through this same scenario (lumpectomy, removal of a lymph node, spacer…etc.). I’ve seen her scars. So I figured mine would look the same. Nope. Not even close.
Since the surgery, I’m spending most of every day in bed. Sleeping. Watching the boob tube. The electric one, not the actual one. Doing nothing makes you tired. Which really doesn’t make sense. But I figure I’m also still recovering from anasteshia. Yes, I can spell pneumonia, but not anasteshia. I’m not even going to look up how to spell it. I like it. That’s how it should be spelled. I’m getting really tired of the staples under my arm. Every time I move they pull my skin. It’s painful and irritating.
As I said before, daytime television is boring. I can’t tell you how many episodes of House Hunters I watched. Do people really expect to purchase the perfect caviar house - one that has everything they want, including granite countertops - on a macaroni & cheese budget? Get real. There are also the endless marathons of American Pickers, Pawn Stars, Auction Hunters, and Storage Wars. I think I might have watched a couple of episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras. I was desperate. I’m also old school. I love watching Matlock, In the Heat of the Night, Walker Texas Ranger, LHOP, The Waltons, and Murder She Wrote. I’ve always been skeptical of J. B. Fletcher, though. Everywhere she goes, someone gets killed. Very suspicious. I was very pleased I got to watch some college soccer. I LOVE soccer.
While I’m lying around doing nothing, my/our amazing friends bring us food. Lots of food. It’s awesome. The husband is less than a month out from shoulder surgery, and he’s still in a sling. Between us we have two good left hands. With both of us being right-handed, though, that’s not much consolation. That fact he doesn’t have to cook makes his days taking care of me so much easier. Not that I have much of an appetite. The kids step up and help more around the house, too…laundry, dishes, waiting on me. Our friends ask, “What do you need? What can I do for you?” Heck, I have no idea. I’m pretty pleased how I’m getting through each day, getting better and better. It’s been a cake walk. Stop on the winning square, win a 3-layer chocolate cake. Whoop! Little did I know that Hell was waiting on the other side of my euphoria.
Surgery was November 10, 2011. The first post-op visit with the surgeon was November 15th. Thank goodness my BFF (the one who just went through this) told me to take a pain pill. She’s actually also the one that told me what would probably occur during this first doctor visit. Dr. P. sure didn’t tell me. I like Dr. P., but he’s like a car that’s been smashed in a wreck. You have to pry information out of him with the Jaws of Life. So the husband (you know, he’s actually The Best Husband) drives me to the appointment, and he comes in the room with me. Maybe not the best idea, but we didn’t know that. The chick in charge (is she a Nurse an Assistant or ???...I’m not sure) starts taking out the staples. OUCH. But I am so glad to get the staples out from under my arm. The CIC then hooks up a big ass syringe to the plastic tube sticking out of my boob and withdraws sixty (yes, 60) cc’s of saline from the balloon spacer that was inserted during the surgery. The pressure subsides, and I’m thinking, ‘hey, that feels a little better.’ Then all of a sudden, without warning, she pulls the balloon out of my boob. PAIN. My mind is screaming OUCH - OUCH - OUCH. I don’t remember if that’s when the water works started or if I was able to maintain some dignity. The CIC asks if I’m alright. Well, I’m as good as I think I can be, I guess. She says she’s going to insert the brachytherapy device (BD) and asks if I would like a numbing shot. A little late to be asking that, dontcha think? I told her no, let’s just get this over with.
Now, the BD kind of looks like an kitchen whisk. You can search the internet for a picture. Over the next week, The Best Husband and I will call it an assortment of different names, not all of them pretty. The CIC inserts the BD (more excruciating pain). Then she takes a key and OPENS it, while it’s inside my boob. I’m openly crying now. The Best Husband is holding my hand. I know he’s probably sorry he came in the room. It’s a very difficult thing to see your spouse in pain. I now have a different plastic device with eight separate catheters sticking out of me. The CIC sits me up. She mops my face with some Kleenex. I’m thinking ‘how am I going to get a bra on with this octopus in the way?’ She must have read my mind because she says I won’t be wearing a bra. She cuts some surgical mesh (I guess that’s what I’d call it - at the moment) and proceeds to have me wiggle into it (over my head) and it becomes my bra. This is getting weird. And scratchy. And itchy. And uncomfortable. And did I say weird? Does she really think this mesh bra is going to hold my twin 12-pound bowling balls? In your dreams.
