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.