Just a Tuesday

I really don't know where to start. It's been eight days since my bilateral mastectomy and I've been composing posts in my head, unable to make my arms or brain work well enough to type anything. It still blows my mind that this all started with a group of errant cells no bigger than the size of a pea. 

The night before my surgery we went swimming and just had fun. CB stayed home from Cub Scouts so we could have a family night. We wanted to keep everyone close, not knowing when I'd feel well enough to do that again. We put the kids to bed that night and ran through the same script we'd been running through the past few days: "Mommy's having surgery and will be in the hospital for a day or two but if she feels good enough you can visit." SJ had already taken to being quite literal about the ordeal, telling friends and family that "They're going to cut Mommy's breasts off" and using pretty direct hand motions to demonstrate. CB was more emotional, sad that I had to leave the next morning before he got up for school. I promised that I would sneak in and give him a kiss and leave a note before I left. He was okay with that consolation. 

After the kids were in bed, BHE and I made an ice cream run in his Jeep. He'd already been off work for a few days and had taken to easing the stress with binge-watching "The West Wing", trimming trees, and rigging a system to remove the Jeep's hardtop. So we took a drive in the open Jeep and had some time alone. It was an odd feeling -- trying to prepare for either a mastectomy or a node biopsy & scratched mastectomy followed by months of chemo (see previous post for explanation). I'm usually not comfortable with that level of uncertainty but we'd been functioning at that level for two months so I'd gotten used to it.  

That night I organized my hospital bag and stash of things I'd need within arms reach post-surgery. I had plenty of button-up pajamas & shirts, wound care gear, reading material, etc. I didn't think I'd get much sleep that night but I had been so busy getting things ready in the days before that I just crashed. My alarm went off at 4:45 and I got in the shower. I had already done my break-down-crying-in-the-shower bit the previous morning so I had that out of the way. I got dressed and gathered my things, remembering to kiss the kids and leave them notes like I had promised. Then BHE, my twin sister, and I drove to Outpatient Surgery at the hospital. My report time was 5:30 and there were plenty of others already there waiting to be called back to pre-op. It's an odd feeling in the waiting room. Who knows why each of us were there? Knee replacement? Heart cath? Nose job? It's just a cattle call. There was a cute, bubbly, young nurse taking a few people back. I was hoping she would call me back, my rationale being that I'd be less likely to lose it and ugly cry if I had a nice nurse. I wasn't that lucky though. The nurse who called me back wasn't amused to be up at 5:30. She was brisk and unaffected by this thing I was about to do. She did this every morning. To her it was just a Tuesday. To me it was everything but it seems that she either forgot or just didn't really care.

We ran through the usual mandatory questions before she gave me a gown and socks and instructed me how to wash with these cloths covered in antibacterial soap that I was supposed to cover my body with and let air dry. I asked if I could wear my own socks (cute ones with grips I found online) and she very abruptly said, "No. If you wear socks they have to be our socks." I understand the need to control things in a hospital setting, and I understand (having just been in the waiting room) that not everyone shows up showered and wearing clean socks. But it's not as if these over sized raggedy brown socks that the hospital provides are sterile. I think I started cussing while in the bathroom wiping that soap all over and then dressing in the brown and green hospital gown and brown socks. It reminded me of my dad. In fact, I was doing all of this on his exact birthday. He's been gone for four years and I saw him wear this exact thing during his hospital stays. I'm almost glad he's not here to see his daughter go through this.

This would be a great thing for the local breast cancer groups to get in on -- providing mastectomy patients with pretty gowns and cute socks to wear into surgery. After all, we're already being stripped of so much of our womanhood. You'd be surprised at how much better just wearing a feminine gown and socks would have made me feel pre- and post-surgery. It sounds ridiculous but I'm serious.

Stepping off my soap box...
After I was changed, two older nurses came in to ask more questions and put in my IV. They were complete angels! I wish I remembered their names so I could thank them. Even though I knew it was just a Tuesday to them, as it was for the first nurse, they were gentle and calming and understanding that this was a huge deal for me. They apologized for rushing me through the pre-op process because they usually like to sit and visit a little longer. Although I didn't mind the lack of waiting I loved that they said that. A surgery resident came by to run through the final consent and made sure we were all on the same page. She had a New York accent so she was immediately in my good graces because she seemed like a kick a** surgeon in training. 
Soon after my IV was in they wheeled my bed down a few long hallways to the pre-op staging area -- the big room with bays separated by curtains where anesthesia comes to say hi and run through all the questions again.
At some point I started crying. I'm sure the people in the other little bays wondered what my deal was. I would have. It wasn't long before my twin started crying too. She kept me stocked with tissues and held her head close to mine. We weren't supposed to be there dealing with that, not until we were old and gray together. Certainly not at thirty six. It was all surreal. BHE stood on the other side of her while the nurse anesthetist ran through more questions. Kick A** Surgeon (KAS) came by and was wearing a black hoodie with pink writing. I don't know why I even remember that. It occurs to me now that she probably sneaked in and kissed her own kids before they woke just as I had done with mine. And there we were, meeting up at 7:30 so she could get to cutting. What a crazy job. I asked her if it was too late to cancel the surgery. I was joking but it didn't really help to lighten the mood. There just wasn't much to laugh at. 
The anesthesiologist came by soon after and she was so gentle and caring. She "got" it. The nurse said to me, "You're upset already?" and the anesthesiologist responded, "You would be too if you were about to have this surgery." Yes! Someone gets it! I was so thankful for that. It was time to go to the OR so I hugged and kissed BHE and Twin and I was on my way. I think I had stopped crying but everything is kind of a blur from that point. I remember being wheeled into the OR where there was a flurry of people setting up. It didn't look like it does on "Grey's Anatomy." It seemed much smaller and crowded, but what do I know? I was on some powerful meds by that point. The last thing I remember was KAS holding my hand and I said, "I like your hat." It was a floral (or paisley?) print scrub hat. And then I woke up mid-afternoon in my hospital room in the Family Care Unit (postpartum floor). I don't remember being in recovery for several hours, nor the trip to my room, nor much else until the next morning. I remember Twin and my younger sister being there and I remember being in pain. They said that a few friends and my mom came by but I was out of it. I do remember thinking that the kids shouldn't come see me like this and I guess everyone else was thinking the same thing because they didn't bring the them by. At some point I realized that all of this meant that my lymph nodes were clear of cancer. Logically I knew I should be happy about that but it was overshadowed by the pain representing the fact that my breasts were gone.