*Not* the Final Countdown

It's been six months and nineteen days since my breast cancer diagnosis, four months and eighteen days since my bilateral mastectomy, and twelve hours until my breast reconstruction surgery. CB started school yesterday so our summer is officially over. We packed in a lot of fun over the past few months -- trips & visits, waterparks and pools, camps, parties, and everything in between. I kept us busy on purpose. It meant less down time to sit and dwell on cancer, or medication side effects, or the weirdness that is my body right now.

I'm not sure what to make of the last six months. Suddenly I'm a member of this club full of great people, but the club that no one hopes to be in. It's an odd world of pink ribbons, sparkles, scars, and discussions of things that used to be intimate but are all too common and public because of our shared experiences. I've met amazing women and the people who love them. It's helped. I've gone to a few "survivor" events this summer even though I feel so weird identifying as that. I know I'm lucky to have caught my cancer early. I knew what to do and who to go see. I have insurance and a health savings account that's handled this well. Many, many women don't have such advantages. I've seen many who have waited, and those whose tests didn't go the way mine did. They've been through so much more than I have. 

My cancer was cut out of me four months ago. My lymph nodes were clean. People have been asking, "So, it's all gone?" or "You're cancer-free?". I just respond with, "As far as we know." That's the truth. As far as we know. That's not me being pessimistic, it's me being realistic. This deal isn't over. I'm taking a cancer medication for the next ten years to hopefully keep the cancer from coming back. I've talked about this more in previous posts so I won't go into detail now, but this drug has possible side effects raging from annoying to life threatening. It's not a cake walk.

**Detailed stuff here -- read at your own risk**

Phase 2 of my reconstruction process is tomorrow. Some would look at this as being closure to my cancer experience, a sort of last hurdle, a way to get my body back to normal. That's far from reality. My body will never be "normal." I'm not sure people understand what happens during a mastectomy. I didn't when this started. While there are different degrees and procedures according to location and severity of the cancer, every patient is left with prominent scars. Implants don't fix that. Currently, I look like I have two softballs attached to my chest. They look like circles with horizontal lines across the middle. Tomorrow, when the tissue expanders are removed and replaced with implants, things will be a little lower and softer. They'll still be circles with lines. No nipples. No feeling. Just numb mounds of skin to make things look more normal with clothes on. That's the literal technical goal of breast reconstruction -- to appear normal with clothes on. Some women get nipples reconstructed using skin tissue then have the surrounding skin tattooed to look like an areola. I suppose it's an attempt to trick the eye when they glance at the mirror. I've decided against that. I don't think having fake nipples that have zero feeling will make me feel better about any of this. What I'm getting at here is that breast reconstruction is not a boob job. It's not augmentation. There are no breasts left to augment. I don't know what bra size I will be because it doesn't compare that way. The implants will likely be much smaller than my real breasts. It's hard to recreate with implants what took me several years and fifty extra pounds to create on my own. So, no, I'm not excited about having implants. I liked my real breasts. They were pretty great. I'll be glad to have these tissue expanders out and to no longer look like I'm deformed from a bad boob job. I'll be glad to not be waiting for another surgery. That's about it. I'm not excited tonight. I'm just ready to get this phase over with, but I know it's just this phase. I've been off my medication for two weeks (in prep for the surgery) and I'll go back on it two weeks from now. I've had withdrawal symptoms that make me feel like junk and I'll get to experience all of it even more when I start the meds again. 

It's all annoying, frustrating, and depressing...if I let myself go there. In reality I know that there are much bigger and scarier things going on in the world and in the lives of those around me. Not that I'm minimizing this whole experience or that of others who've experienced the same, but when I look at the big picture I know that my life is still incredibly fortunate, cancer or not.

Milestones & Mother's Day

This week marked three months since my cancer diagnosis and one month since my mastectomy. I've had somewhere around one thousand different thoughts and feelings fly through my head and heart since then -- sadness, loss, thanks, joy, relief, anger, guilt, gratefulness, loneliness, fear, hope, and more. A lot of great things -- birthdays, vacations, holidays, etc. -- have happened since then and when I look back over the last three months I see a lot of joy and blessings. There's also been plenty of pain, both physical and emotional. Going from just a normal healthy person to having this cancer label has been a trip I didn't anticipate. Aside from the pain of surgery and recovery I have never once felt sick because of cancer. Mine hadn't spread. It hadn't interfered with any other body parts to cause problems or symptoms. It had to go though, so I had both breasts removed and I'm still recovering and having pain from that. Breast reconstruction hurts. The expanders are hard and painful. The chest muscles have been cut, sutured, and are struggling to work right again. Nerves are trying to wake up and regrow. I'm spacing out my expansions to two weeks apart so that I can have a "good" week after I've had a fill and that's helped. 

Technically the cancer should all be out of my body, as far as we know. I've begun taking Tamoxifen, an effective and proven drug that dramatically reduces the chance of recurrence. So far I've had no side effects. Because I have a history of blood clots I'm also taking a blood thinner in an attempt to avoid clotting while on Tamoxifen. I've been going to the cancer center for blood work twice a week while we get my clotting level stabilized. In a few months, whenever we decide to do it, I'll have my expanders replaced with silicone implants. If all goes as we hope, a few follow-up appointments here and there for med monitoring (for the next ten years) and screening exams will be all that's left of my breast cancer experience. Well, that and the scars and the flesh that's supposed to resemble new breasts. :/ I feel guilty that I avoided chemo. I never had to get sick and worry about bigger things like infections from a compromised immune system. I didn't lose my hair or have a port. It's an odd mixture of relief and guilt.

My biggest fear when I was first diagnosed was that I would leave my kids without a mom, so I'm beyond grateful that I'm not leaving them anytime soon. I don't know that there's any greater gift I could have gotten this Mother's Day. My mom's been here for almost six weeks. I have not touched a single load of laundry or dishes in the last month. She's cleaned, watched and entertained kids, welcomed visitors, and just "been here" all without once complaining. I know it's not easy seeing her daughter go through this but she has been a rock. It would've been much more difficult without her. My other rock? BHE. Well, he's my rock all the time, regardless of cancer, but he's been unwavering though I never would have expected any different. Getting to celebrate them and motherhood to our sweet kids was extra special yesterday. 

This will be my last post before I take a little break from this blog. Life is busy right now with the end of school and beginning of summer, and while I still have this recovery/reconstruction/med business to bother with I have so much more fun, excitement, and joy to experience. I feel like the rest of life has played second fiddle to cancer for the last three months but now while I have a little break in this deal I need to participate in "normal" while I have the chance. Out of necessity, I've focused on myself for most of the last three months, missing milestones and big things in the lives of friends and family. I've been selfish, warranted or not, while others took care of us. I need to get back to caring for others now. I'll only have a few months of that before I have my second surgery so I'll squeeze it in while I can. We can't thank everyone enough for all of the prayers, calls, texts, messages, visits, food, favors, etc. that have gotten us through this time. Although it's not quite over and there may be unknowns to come, we are so comforted by our network of friends and family who have shown us incredible love and care through this. I don't know how we would've done it without you. Thank you!

Out of my Hands

Last night I couldn't fall asleep. I had done some yard work and my muscles were mad, my mind was wandering, and I couldn't find my Kindle (CB had "relocated" it). I wanted to stay in bed, so I just messed around on my phone, making the rounds on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc. But around 1 am, my mind wandered a little too far and I started browsing You Tube for surgery footage -- mastectomies, reconstruction, etc. I found some good stuff, opting for the edited 5-10 min versions with the audio turned down as not to wake BHE sound asleep next to me. This stuff doesn't bother me. It's fascinating and it helps me make sense of things.

I used to be a control freak. There's a history behind it (as always) and maybe I'll write about that another time. Sometimes I look back at how I treated people in the past and cringe over the priority I placed on completely unimportant details. Having towels in the right place, the right brand of drinks at a party, the right look on my kids, and on and on. I credit BHE with saving me from that. He's the opposite and has modeled a better way of living to me over the past twelve years of our marriage. Certain events & situations will prompt that side of me to come roaring back though. 

I would have expected this whole cancer thing to send my need for control into overdrive, but so much is inherently out of my hands that I've been forced to just let most of it go. I've definitely had my moments -- and KAS, who gave me her cell number, can probably attest to that. Over the past few weeks though I've had this nagging feeling that I can't shake -- total loss of control, the unknown of both the crucial and the mundane. It's the surgery. The time under anesthesia. The loss of body parts. I cannot even begin to reconcile it. I realized last night that it's why I keep reading that damn surgery report. My brain is trying to piece together a cohesive picture of that day but it can't. I want a video. An account of what was done and said. Who did what, who said what. I want to see my intubation, the node biopsy, the mastectomy prep, the first cut, the final cut, my tissue placed aside and sent to pathology. I want to see and hear my time in recovery. BHE was there with me and I asked him what things were like during that time but he didn't say much. I'm sure it wasn't easy for him and that's not how he operates anyway. I just don't remember anything and it's unsettling. I want to remember the trip from recovery to the hospital floor. I want to remember my friends who came by, my sisters and my mom. I don't know why it's all bothering me so much.  

The reality is that there is no account of that time other than the surgery report I already have. There's not a video. There's no one in that place that would recount anything other than what they've done and said for any other patient. Why? Because I was just their first surgery on that one Tuesday a few weeks ago. They'd been there and done that and that's why they're good at what they do. I'm not saying that the docs, nurses, techs, etc. are uncaring. I've already written about what I do remember about that day and they were caring, just as I'd expect they are with every patient. At some point my brain will wrap around the truth that the surgery saved my life. The pathology report attests to it. There was more cancer than we knew about -- DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) -- cancer that hadn't yet spread outside of the ducts. It eventually would have. It would have reached the lymph nodes. It would have spread to other parts of my body. This surgery had to happen and I'm grateful that I found the mass when I did. It saved me from what could have killed me later. Rationally that all makes sense. I really shouldn't need to know anything more than that.

I suppose that these feelings are all normal. Processing emotional trauma is a difficult thing. Friends keep asking how I'm doing and they mean it. They really want to know and I so appreciate that. I just don't know how to answer. Logically, I know I'm fine. As far as we know, my body is healthy and in several months I'll feel more like myself again. My regular trips to the cancer center will taper off and I'll feel less like a patient. Those are all great things. I guess my answer to "How are you?" is that I'm doing fairly well...considering the muscle tightness and pain, considering the image in the mirror, considering my lingering fatigue and restless emotions.

I've been constantly posting and tagging and checking in on Facebook. It looks like we're living it up over here. I've seen three new movies in the last week. We've been eating out at our favorite places and taking advantage of the sunshine and fun spring activities. Cancer recovery looks great on my Facebook timeline. We're doing those things because it's easy for me to walk into a movie theater, sit in the dark, and zone out for a few hours. When we're eating at our favorite places I forget for awhile. When I post pictures of our fun on Facebook it gives me something to go back and look at and think about when the darkness creeps in at 2 am and I can't sleep. I read the comments of friends and family and it encourages me. It reminds me of how lucky I am that my cancer was caught early, that surgery options were good, that the medicines are effective, that all I have are a few temporary aches and pains, and to stay positive that the cancer won't return. So I guess that's how I am. I'm still emotional, sometimes moody, and ready for the time when the pain will be gone and I won't think about this all the time.

How This Could Have Gone

In the fall of 2009 I noticed some weirdness with Pancho. There was some leakage (technically "discharge" but that word creeps me out) so I mentioned it to my doc and she sent me for a mammogram just to be safe. During this time we were living in Charlottesville, VA -- 1,500 miles from "home" in Texas -- while BHE did his final round of med education. I was thirty one years old and felt like I had been given a free pass to observe the mysterious world of adult womanhood. I'm a sociologist by training and any chance to observe new and different things is exciting to me. In fact, I seriously considered focusing on the sociology of medicine for my master's degree. I ended up specializing in urban sociology and statistics instead but I never lost interest in medicine. So, walking into the Breast Care Center at the University of Virginia Hospital was like a field study in gendered medical treatment. I'd never been to such a place -- I felt nervous, excited, and guilty all at the same time. 

Here were women in various stages of breast cancer testing, diagnosis, treatment, and there I was just hanging out gawking because I casually mentioned some leakage to my PCP. The atmosphere was obviously designed to be calming and spa-like, as if any of us were tricked into feeling like we were actually at a spa. Although, given what I know now, I've come to appreciate the effort at that center. We each got a private little room so we could change into our pink half-robes. Then we had to sit in another waiting area just staring at each other, wondering what each of us were "in for." I was the youngest one there by far and I could feel each of the older women looking at me like I had just run over her puppy. I knew they were looking at me and thinking, "Poor girl. She's way too young to have breast cancer. What a shame." And I was thinking in response, "These poor women think I have breast cancer. I should tell them that I just have a little leakage. I'm basically here for the intellectual stimulation -- a field study." As different women were called back for imaging they looked at me and said things like "God bless" and "stay strong." I thought that was really kind but not needed. When it was my turn to go back I first met with the docs and told them why I was there. They asked questions like what color, is it clear, when did I notice it, etc. Then they took a look and made their own observations. They said there were traces of blood in the fluid. I know now that I should have had all kinds of bells and sirens going off in my head -- blood in the leakage is a big flashing warning sign. But, you know, I was just there for the experience. Next I had a mammogram. It was uncomfortable but not a big deal. It was my first one and I expected it to be horrible. I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't. I went back to the exam room and the docs were there again. They said that the leakage could be caused by a benign mass called an intraductal papilloma in the milk duct. Or it could be worse. It could be cancer. Uh oh...they used the "C" word. It's cool. They didn't know that I was just there to observe. I knew it was nothing to worry about. They said my mammogram looked clear but they wanted to do a test called a ductogram where they would inject dye into the milk duct to see if there was anything there. I said that was fine (more observation!) and scheduled the procedure. They asked if there was any way that I could be pregnant and I said that I wasn't but that we'd been trying. They couldn't do the test if I was pregnant so on the way home that day I grabbed at test from Walgreens. The whole pregnancy deal was a sensitive subject for BHE and me since our first two pregnancies were miscarriages. We'd finally had our sweet boy CB and were trying for #2 at this point. It had been six months already -- six negative tests -- so I just expected the same for this new one. I was actually a little annoyed that I even had to go through the whole negative pregnancy test thing again before they would do the ductogram. I went home and absentmindedly did the test, playing with CB while waiting the three minutes for the result. BHE was in the next room on the phone talking work stuff with a friend when I checked the test. It was positive! I was stunned. I walked over to BHE, showed him the test, then sat on the stairs and waited for his shock to join mine. We still waited for an ultrasound confirmation before we actually believed it, but once we saw that strong little heartbeat we accepted the fact that I was actually pregnant. I called the breast center and told them the news and they cancelled the ductogram with instructions to return after I had the baby and was done nursing *if* the leakage was still there. That next spring we were blessed with our sweet baby girl, SJ, and all the drama with the breast stuff was just a distant memory. The leakage never did return so I just filed that away in my mental, "Huh, that was weird..." folder. 

Looking back now, that leakage could very well have been the beginning of this cancer, not that we'll ever know. Had SJ not been already forming, had I not cancelled the ductogram, had we not just chalked that whole breast ordeal up to nothing, our life today might be much different. Had they found what they suspected, I might have ended up with this same surgery, the same meds, and the inability to pursue a second child until much later (if ever). It would have been devastating in so many ways. We were across the country from our family, BHE was working all the time, and we were scraping by on a med fellow's salary. I can't imagine dealing with this back then. 

Another thing for the "weird" folder...last Fall BHE was asked to go on a trip to El Salvador to help provide fresh water wells. He would travel the first week in June, one month from now. Usually I would wholeheartedly endorse such a trip. It's exactly the kind of thing that I would get passionate about. This time though I had huge, unexplained reservations. BHE and I have both always had a sincere passion for helping people in impoverished areas and we've done smaller trips and projects like this together before. This time though, as soon as BHE told me about the opportunity, I shot it down. BHE was taken aback. I was even surprised by my response. I couldn't articulate why I felt he shouldn't go but I just knew that he shouldn't. My feelings were in complete opposition to our values and priorities but I still refused to back down. BHE was the first one to say something the week after my surgery. "Do you remember how adamant you were that I not go to El Salvador and we didn't know why?" We looked at each other with watery eyes. Was that God protecting us? Preparing us for what was coming? Was it Him saying, "This isn't your trip. Not now. You'll need to be home"? My answer: I have no idea. It really feels like that though. 

My point in all of this is that even in the face of cancer, God is near. He's using this to change me. I've gained understanding of things that I didn't have before. I've gained new connections, new relationships, new appreciations. I've learned that it's okay to be vulnerable and to let people help. I've learned how to better help others when they face similar things. And I've learned that there are others going through much, much worse than this. If this is the toughest thing we ever face it will be a pretty easy life.

Two Weeks Out

It's now been two weeks (and three days) since my surgery. On Tuesday I had my first expansion -- what a load of weirdness that is. My chest muscles hated that. They also hate when I take a shower. And when I do pretty much anything else. By the end of the day I'm ready to pop some ibuprofen and ice the mangled area that will one day look something like breasts.

I was fortunate to have my drains removed nine days post-op. That was fantastic! The drain sites on my left side felt like someone was constantly stabbing me. Since having them removed I've been able to stop taking my pain meds and muscle relaxers and have been cleared to drive again. Freedom! Although, I still don't have a ton of energy and I'm still pretty sore so my outings aren't very exciting -- maybe lunch, a quick errand, and a doctor's appointment.

This whole thing is still so foreign to me. I try and try to wrap my brain around it but I fail. I've been pouring over the final pathology and surgery reports, reading and rereading them, as if some light bulb of acceptance will eventually go off and I'll find peace with all of it. So that pink file folder with my name on it sits on my nightstand, waiting for my next study session, the next time I'm grasping for understanding. I read the parts about the type of anesthesia used, the sentinel node biopsy, the dissection of my chest, the muscles, the wound beds, the transfer of my breasts to pathology, the dissection of them, the preparation for testing...and it goes on and on. And now I sound insane. I promise I'm not, at least not totally. We're a medically & scientifically oriented household. Methods, procedures, numbers, percentages -- they make sense to me. I'm just having a hard time reconciling that side of my brain with the emotions that come with being the patient. This pink file folder -- it has my name on it, just like the one that holds my initial pathology report, the one that started this ordeal, the one with the paper that says "invasive ductal carcinoma." Just a small lump of cells...

Logically, I know I'm fortunate to not need chemo. But there's still one last and very long hurdle. For the next 10 years I'll take a drug called Tamoxifen. My type of cancer is estrogen and progesterone receptor positive, which means that the tumor feeds off of those hormones. Tamoxifen works to block the hormones and keep the cancer cells from dividing & multiplying. Sounds great and it is. It's a very effective cancer drug with proven results. The possible side effects can be nasty though -- hot flashes (common), blood clots (uncommon), endometrial & uterine cancers (uncommon), among others. Because I have a history of clotting (massive DVT in 2002), my oncologist has decided to have me take Coumadin (common blood thinner) while on Tamoxifen. I'll likely be a frequent flyer for labs at the cancer center while we try to stabilize my clotting level (INR), especially since Tamoxifen is known to increase the effect of Coumadin. 

You may be wondering why I'm taking a drug to prevent the recurrence of breast cancer if I no longer have breasts. Good question. It's impossible to remove every bit of breast tissue. As long as even one cell exists that cell could multiply and mutate. Cancer could return in the remaining chest tissue and/or lymph nodes or can return as tumors in different areas of the body. The numbers are in my favor given my tumor/cancer profile and lack of cancer in the lymph nodes BUT taking Tamoxifen lowers my risk even further. Being a young women with breast cancer carries a lot of unknowns since most of the research is on older women and focuses on a 5-10 year survival rate. A 10-year survival is pretty good for a 65-year-old. Not great for a 36-year-old. So, Tamoxifen it is.

People keep asking how I'm doing. Physically, I'm healing really well, one benefit of being younger. I'm getting my energy back, my pain isn't too bad, and I'm returning to some normal activities. My arms are still a little weak since my muscles are weird with the reconstruction in progress. Emotionally, I'm not even sure what I am. Some days I stay busy and don't have time to think about anything. Other days I'm on the verge of tears for hours at a time over nothing specific. Some days I feel guilty for even worrying about this little stage 1 diagnosis, but other days I'm so sickened by this interruption and how it's changed my body. I know I'll feel "normal" again but I know it won't be soon.

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.

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I'm already composing an essay for the hospital survey on how they made me wear this nasty, ugly brown gown and socks to my surgery. I'm willing to head up a program to make this easier on women. We should all have a cute gown to wear for this. And I'm mad that they won't let me wear my cute grippy socks to the OR. It's not like these ugly brown ones are sterile or anything. Inconsiderate.