Zero Dark Surgery

There is so much to write about around my cancer and current progress but today’s post is strictly about the surgery. As you may have guessed, I survived. Only my second surgery ever, it was scary and intimidating yet I pulled through and am coming to you now from the other side of the experience.

R2 and I learned that on important days like this, other urgent matters don’t politely sit back so that we can calmly deal with one crisis at a time. No. Our sweet 4-year old PETA-rescued pup had become progressively ill and needed as much attention on my surgery day as I did. Thankfully we have an amazing friend Blue, who tended to our beloved canine while R2 tended to me.

The first obstacle for surgery was the “mapping” procedure. When I checked in at the hospital, bright and early with nothing but boring black coffee in my system, I was directed to a mammography room. First, let me note here that I was unaware that this procedure involved a mammogram. This was my third mammogram in 4 months and I was not happy. But, there was little I could do. The snarky radiation technician didn’t help when she said, “You get more radiation from flying to San Francisco than from a mammogram!” at my concern. To that, I replied, “But I’m not flying to San Francisco today, right?”

I wasn’t able to get out of this dose of radiation exposure, but as a patient (or just as a person, for that matter), I will always question what goes into and through my body. After quietly freaking out, I was calm and the “mapping” procedure was a success (even Nurse Do-As-I-Say eventually warmed up to me).

Grover, you nailed it.  

With 4 wires strategically placed, anchored in my tissue, and protruding from my breast (yet neatly bandaged for protection), I waited for surgery. After 2 hours—filled with concern for our ailing dog at home, surgical anxiety, uneasy jokes, Draw Something matches with J-Pink, and stomach-grumbling hunger—I was finally taken back for surgical prep. My IV was placed and every medical history question ever dreamed up was asked by everyone who entered my space. When my surgeon came in to confirm the plan, he tried once again to talk me out of the removal of my chest port, asserting that I may need chemotherapy again one day. Once more, I assured him of my confidence that I’d never use it, as I have unfriended chemo from my life forever. The consent forms were signed, I kissed R2 good-bye, and I was wheeled away into surgery.

[There’s a gap in time here—about 3 hours—in which I can’t quite recall details…..]

After surgery, I woke up among other patients of various surgical adventures. Because I had been under anesthesia longer this time, I was very tired and wanted badly to go back to sleep. However, the nursing staff kept me awake and seemed bent on engaging me in deep, annoying conversations. I was disinterested in entertaining their mission to discuss my surgery or detailed aftercare. When R2 was finally allowed back, I was so grateful that he could be at the receiving end of their incessant instructional dialog.  

Finally home, R2 dropped me off, left 2 Tylenol and some water for me, and then rushed to meet Blue who was at the vet with our sweet girl. What a stressful day for them! Luckily, our sick pup was able to come home with meds and she was back to her healthy self in a couple days. We couldn’t have handled the stress of the day if not for Blue—our surgical-day shining star!  

Now for the gross part. Stop here if you’re the kind of person who can’t watch The Walking Dead. Anyone who’s had surgery that removed any significant amount of tissue understands the disgusting dance with a drain tube. Mine exited my body on the side of my rib cage with a long tube leading to the clear collection bulb. It was cumbersome, uncomfortable, and needless to say, quite unpleasant to deal with. I was instructed to empty its contents into the marked cup, measure the volume, and record the drainage amount on the form given at my discharge. Gross. It gets better. After 10 days of cohabitating with this thing (and not wanting to make another doctor appointment just to take it out), I removed the tube myself. The bloody tube was—just kidding, I won’t force the gory details on you. You get the idea. The next week when I saw the surgeon, he was surprised that I had taken the tube out but didn’t lecture me (lesson learned—always remove my own drain tubes).

Now that it’s been a couple weeks, the tube is out, and the bandages are off, I’m on my way to Healingville. Wrestling with some scar tissue, numbness, and pain, but overall I’m getting better each day. Stay tuned for more. Next up: pathology test results.

Wednesectomy

It’s been a confusing, frightening, and frustrating couple of weeks with regards to doctors, test results and more specifically, what to do from here.

First, the good news…..my post-chemo MRI showed no sign of the tumors and my enflamed lymph nodes have returned to normal size…..[pause for applause]. This was just the exciting news I needed. All those awful things I said about chemotherapy—and it worked! Then again, I suffered significantly so it damn well should work! I’m not taking back what I said. Chemo knows how I feel about it.

After a light visit with the oncologist, it was refreshing to leave the cancer center on cloud nine from the positive news. He advised that a lumpectomy is still necessary to remove the tissue where the cancer started, and then if the pathology report comes back negative from that tissue, I’d be considered “in remission”. I can handle that. Good news indeed! Not so fast—there’s still the surgeon’s appointment to go, and he had a much different take.

The surgeon seemed to almost ignore all the hard work chemo did in killing my tumors, and the hard work I did in staying alive during the battle. He recommended a total mastectomy to be sure all the tissue and residual cancer cells (which do not show up on the MRI) are removed. I told him I wanted to start small and see what the pathology report shows. He then said I will need to do radiation (WHAT? But I ruled that out several posts ago! Apparently, Dr. Scalpel hasn’t been reading my blog). Each time I tried to tell him that I’m not doing radiation, he pushed back with smarty-doctor reasons that I should. Finally, we agreed that he would show my case to his radiologist for his opinion and he’d talk with the radiation oncologist as well (but I think you can predict what she’ll say).

Like most doctors, Mr. Mastectomy didn’t call me on the day he promised. Instead, 3 days later. Again, we played a verbal game of tug-o-war where he quoted the radiation oncologist's recurrence percentage without radiation and I quoted the same expert’s side effect list. I argued that if there was a 100% chance of NO recurrence with radiation (and surgery, and chemo), I’d do it and live with all the lasting damage. But there is not and since nothing is a guarantee (except the awful side effects), I’d like to take this one step at a time. It has become apparent that Captain Incision was trying to get me to either consent to the partial mastectomy with radiation or total mastectomy—one of the two only. But eventually he settled for the partial without radiation since that’s what I chose. This is still my decision, right?

Tomorrow I’ll undergo the partial mastectomy (also called quadectomy, since it is the removal of ¼ the breast). The tissue will be taken to the pathology lab and I’ll forever miss it. I’m optimistic and anticipate good news from the pathologists.

I’m quite nervous about the surgery, yet confident in my decision. I accept the risks and know this is right for my body right now. If something goes wrong, please honor me with vegan choices. And if everything goes right, please still honor me with vegan choices. <3

Wigonometry

Knowing I would lose all my hair, I decided to embrace the hairless look with a positive attitude and lots of cute hats when I first was diagnosed and faced chemo. I did pretty well throughout my treatment, although, I really missed my hair.

Now that I feel better and chemo is over, I’d like my outside to look like my inside feels. So when a friend recommended a fancy hair replacement place, I decided to check it out. They were nice, informative and gave me a wonderful private consultation. Once I learned that my insurance would cover most of the shockingly high cost of the hair piece, I was even more on-board and decided to go for it.

The best part was the description on my doctor’s prescription and on the insurance claim; I was applying for coverage of a cranial prosthesis. While fighting working with the insurance company to cover my “durable medical device” at the higher percentage, I called almost every day for 2 weeks. Each time, when they asked what the device was, I’d say, “Well, I call it a wig, but you guys call it a cranial prosthesis.”

Once I succeeded in getting the insurance company to approve my faux-follicles, I ordered the in-stock piece from the fancy salon. When it came, I had an appointment to get it cut and styled to my taste. After not having a real hair on my head for weeks, it felt strange—almost comical—to sit in a salon chair while the stylist cut the long locks that laid on my head.

Looks pretty real, doesn't it?

My new head piece has been quite the boost in my spirit. As my body starts to feel better, my confidence has been lifted as well. No more out-of-place winter hats worn in heated meeting rooms or cancer-y sympathy-provoking head scarves. Now I’m just an average woman with plain hair stopping at the store for tofu and dog treats on my way home, like everyone else. What a luxury it is to feel like “everyone else” for a while.