We wake up. I shower with Dial and wash my hair. We let the boy wear pj's to the hospital. We're there so early, and I really just wanted a cup of coffee.
My surgery was scheduled for 8 a.m. I remember being warm and soft. My family was with me until they had to kiss me goodbye, and then it all goes blank. I remember my guys walking out of my room, and then it's curtains.
I woke up around 3:30. My lymph nodes were clear, and Dr. Rimmer only had to remove three.
I got my morphine PCA (patient controlled analgesia) pump, and my nurse was a sweetheart. She had to divide her time between me and a man next to me whom I would have smothered with a pillow if I had been able to get up. I did not wake up in pain. I was uncomfortable, yes. I was unable to take deep breaths. My lips were incredibly dry, and I was so thirsty.
Dr. Rimmer had performed a complete bilateral mastectomy, with right sentinel node biopsy. After approximately two hours, he high-fived my plastic surgeon, tapping him in... or that's how I like to imagine it. Right about this time, I hope my surgeon was able to go finish his morning coffee. (I encouraged him to enjoy just enough coffee to do a good job, but not too much... We don't want Shakey the Mohel, bless his heart.) Dr. Lickstein put me back together, using tissue expanders rather than implants, per my request.
When my room was finally ready, around 5 p.m., two renegade transportation technicians decided to haul ass to my room, with me on the stretcher/bed. They almost crashed into a tower of equipment in the hallway, and I couldn't take a deep enough breath to say anything. Pain was setting in. We got to my room, and they asked me if I could walk to my bed. Are you high? I can blink my eyelids, no problem. Walk? Ain't happening. "Okay, you'll just have to scoot over onto the bed," the male idiot suggests. Think again. As I was protesting and beginning to cry (Side note, I don't cry.), the female asks me what kind of surgery I just had. I could only whisper the word "mastectomy," as she forced me to roll onto my side to attempt a sliding board transfer. The point of this? I wish I had told these idiots to handle me carefully before they took me for a ride on the crazy train.
Most of my nurses were fantastic. One more more interested in her mastectomy (ten years prior) than mine. I could have done without her. I maybe slept for an hour all night. Hospitals are not for sleeping. At any given moment, someone, somewhere is interested in what your blood pressure reading is at that moment, and they will find you.
Somewhere around 4:30 a.m., I gave up on sleep and asked for some coffee. As soon as my morphine ran out (and the catheter was removed), I did the most fantastic thing: I went into the bathroom, washed my face, put on cute pj's, put my hair in a pony tail, and put on some makeup. I felt clean. I felt normal. I felt like me. Oh, except for this feeling like I had been wrapped in super tight duct tape as well a deep, hot ache in my armpit. These are my two soft tissue complaints.
Because I felt great and looked happy (and was medically stable, of course), I got to go home that day! Imagine my husband's surprise when I called him (on his way to get my mom from the airport) to tell him that the party was over, and I was coming home!
All in all, the surgical experience for me was not terrible. It was inconvenient. I was blessed and lucky to have the support of my family and friends. I had access to the most incredible surgical and oncology team. I have health insurance, and I was not stressed beyond belief by the financial aspects of my care. This is not the case for so many. I was armed with information and the knowledge and wisdom of those who experienced all of this before me, and for that I am grateful. I encountered no surprises. I know that at any point, anything could have gone sideways and things could have become much more scary. In my case, early detection was my saving grace. One in seven women in this country will be told that they have breast cancer. If you have not already had one, schedule your mammogram today. Bring a friend if you're nervous, or bring two.
My surgery was scheduled for 8 a.m. I remember being warm and soft. My family was with me until they had to kiss me goodbye, and then it all goes blank. I remember my guys walking out of my room, and then it's curtains.
I woke up around 3:30. My lymph nodes were clear, and Dr. Rimmer only had to remove three.
I got my morphine PCA (patient controlled analgesia) pump, and my nurse was a sweetheart. She had to divide her time between me and a man next to me whom I would have smothered with a pillow if I had been able to get up. I did not wake up in pain. I was uncomfortable, yes. I was unable to take deep breaths. My lips were incredibly dry, and I was so thirsty.
Dr. Rimmer had performed a complete bilateral mastectomy, with right sentinel node biopsy. After approximately two hours, he high-fived my plastic surgeon, tapping him in... or that's how I like to imagine it. Right about this time, I hope my surgeon was able to go finish his morning coffee. (I encouraged him to enjoy just enough coffee to do a good job, but not too much... We don't want Shakey the Mohel, bless his heart.) Dr. Lickstein put me back together, using tissue expanders rather than implants, per my request.
When my room was finally ready, around 5 p.m., two renegade transportation technicians decided to haul ass to my room, with me on the stretcher/bed. They almost crashed into a tower of equipment in the hallway, and I couldn't take a deep enough breath to say anything. Pain was setting in. We got to my room, and they asked me if I could walk to my bed. Are you high? I can blink my eyelids, no problem. Walk? Ain't happening. "Okay, you'll just have to scoot over onto the bed," the male idiot suggests. Think again. As I was protesting and beginning to cry (Side note, I don't cry.), the female asks me what kind of surgery I just had. I could only whisper the word "mastectomy," as she forced me to roll onto my side to attempt a sliding board transfer. The point of this? I wish I had told these idiots to handle me carefully before they took me for a ride on the crazy train.
Most of my nurses were fantastic. One more more interested in her mastectomy (ten years prior) than mine. I could have done without her. I maybe slept for an hour all night. Hospitals are not for sleeping. At any given moment, someone, somewhere is interested in what your blood pressure reading is at that moment, and they will find you.
Somewhere around 4:30 a.m., I gave up on sleep and asked for some coffee. As soon as my morphine ran out (and the catheter was removed), I did the most fantastic thing: I went into the bathroom, washed my face, put on cute pj's, put my hair in a pony tail, and put on some makeup. I felt clean. I felt normal. I felt like me. Oh, except for this feeling like I had been wrapped in super tight duct tape as well a deep, hot ache in my armpit. These are my two soft tissue complaints.
Because I felt great and looked happy (and was medically stable, of course), I got to go home that day! Imagine my husband's surprise when I called him (on his way to get my mom from the airport) to tell him that the party was over, and I was coming home!
All in all, the surgical experience for me was not terrible. It was inconvenient. I was blessed and lucky to have the support of my family and friends. I had access to the most incredible surgical and oncology team. I have health insurance, and I was not stressed beyond belief by the financial aspects of my care. This is not the case for so many. I was armed with information and the knowledge and wisdom of those who experienced all of this before me, and for that I am grateful. I encountered no surprises. I know that at any point, anything could have gone sideways and things could have become much more scary. In my case, early detection was my saving grace. One in seven women in this country will be told that they have breast cancer. If you have not already had one, schedule your mammogram today. Bring a friend if you're nervous, or bring two.
Dear Whipper,
ReplyDeleteSo excited to read this post! Great job. You communicate with clarity, gusto, and great insight. We women need to hear what you are saying so we can be prepared to advocate on behalf of ourselves should this (one in seven women) diagnosis be thrust upon us. You are the best. Please keep it coming!
A Sister Survivor