Cute 4 Cancer: October 2013

I got to the hospital two hours early on the day of my surgery and the walk through the revolving door, spun me into a whirlwind of activity. After registering as a patient, I was placed in a pre-op room where I was given a gorgeous, dusty blue, hospital gown that could easily rival couture apparel found on the runways at Fashion Week. The neat thing about this gown, however, was that it was attached to a tube that circulated heat through the gown in order to warm my body temperature in preparation for the cold and sterile operating room. In reality, the toasty garb just intensified my hot flashes while blowing in so much air that it poofed up and made me look like I had already gotten a triple Z size boob job. My surgery was scheduled to begin at 11:30 but because of it's extensiveness it ended up being delayed until 12 o'clock. That doesn't sound like a long time but when you are about to surrender yourself to three surgeons who are planning to remove everything that makes you a woman...30 minutes feels more like 30 hours. Finally, it was time and the anesthesiologist gave the go-ahead to release the flow of medicine that would begin to make me sleepy. I vaguely remember the trip to the operating room, down a hallway of all windows that featured a stunning view of the Chicago skyline. The last thing that I remember was seeing a familiar set of eyes of a surgical team member, hidden behind a mask before I fell asleep............................

.......................I don't remember much about being in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes but finding it impossible to keep them open before they fluttered shut again. It wasn't until I was on my way to my room that I started becoming more coherent. I could hear the voices of the hospital staff that transported me and as we got closer, those of my family members, but they seemed so far away. However, the more coherent that I became, the more pain that I realized that I was in and I became very emotional. I remember the only part of my body that I could move, without being in severe pain, was my index finger. Attempting to move any other part of my body reduced me to tears. That pain followed me into the night and the next day. I would like to think that I have a fairly high tolerance for pain, but when the discussion of removing my catheter arose, I lost it. The mere thought of adjusting myself to get comfortable in bed, let alone walking to the bathroom seemed impossible and it was at that point, on the second day, that a pain team was brought in to reassess my pain management and not only treat my surgical pain but also to be cognizant of my bone pain as well.

To be honest, once my pain was under control, I became a new person. The new medications had been added to my repertoire, adding up to 6 total. They had been administered that morning and by the afternoon I was out of bed, sitting in a chair. Even better yet? That evening, I was cruising down the hallway, albeit at a pace so slow that a snail could race me and beat me twice... but, at least I was walking. Because of my pain, I stayed in the hospital for three days instead of the assumed two. The day that I was discharged, the ride back home to the suburbs was carefully piloted as I clung to a pillow which creating a barrier between my chest and the relentless tightness of the seat belt. Yes, I was still a rule abiding citizen and gritted my teeth in the name of safety. I've told you before that I am rule follower and some things never change. Besides, if I'm not going to let cancer kill me then I'm sure as hell not gonna allow myself to possibly be ejected from the car to become roadkill in the event of an accident.

The subsequent days at home were spent in a bit of a fog. I maintained a uniform of yoga pants and zip up hoodies that I had stocked up on prior to my surgery. The zipper front allowed me to have easy access to the two drains that were attached my surgical sites. I would refer to my surgical sites as my boobs, but I didn't really have those anymore. Luckily, I wasn't entirely carved out like a Thanksgiving turkey and was instead left with small mounds that each housed an expander filled with 50 cc's of saline solution. Before leaving the hospital I was fitted with a special surgical bra that opened in the front and that I was required to wear 24/7 (swapping out for clean ones daily, of course). The drains that were attached to me were long tubes that were sewn into a hole below my incision site. The drains themselves looked like grenades. This term was coined by my friend Dana and her mom Laura, whom is also a breast cancer survivor, and whom has offered me a lot of valuable surgical advice. The purpose of the grenades was to catch the excess fluid forming in my breasts. I had to empty and measure the amount of liquid twice a day and keep record of it. As time went on, the amount would lessen but I was still extremely protective of my drains. In the shower, I had to wear a lanyard around my neck that I could clip the grenades to and when I was wearing my signature hoodies, I would carefully place them into the pockets. I say carefully because I learned the hard way what would happen if one fell....it was incredibly painful and felt like something was being ripped out of me. I had developed such a complex about my drains that my friends nicknamed me "T-Rex," because I would walk around with my arms protectively folded up in front of my chest with my hands just hanging there.

Going to bed at night was slightly a production. I had to sleep sitting up while having pillows to prop up each of my arms. I also had to have my fan positioned ever so specifically to help ward off hot flashes, just as a child might use a night light to keep away monsters. Then, I would take my medicine and fall asleep for a half hour. After that initial 30 minutes, I would wake up and request a snack of cheese and crackers. For some reason, I didn't have much appetite during the day but once I was good and doped up for the night, the munchies set in. My mom, aka Nurse Nancy, would bring them in and sit next to me (to make sure I didn't choke) while I ate them...with my eyes closed. Yep, I was sleep eating and it was slightly ridiculous but became a nightly ritual during my first week home.

During the day, I behaved slightly more normal and would spend most of it sitting on the couch and visiting with my amazing friends and family that stopped by to keep me company or I would read books in bed with Avery. And, sticking with the original theme and title of my blog, I still got up and showered everyday, got dressed, and put on makeup. The only thing that I couldn't do was raise my arms above 90 degrees, so doing my hair was impossible. I was at the mercy of whoever was nearby and sported some extremely fabulous hairdos, let me tell you. Perhaps my overall look wasn't what one would describe as "cute," but I was still determined that I was going to get up and do something with myself, even if it was crooked eyeliner (silly narcotics made it hard to focus) or a lopsided bun. I knew that my recovery would be more successful and faster, if I made an effort.

It turns out, I was right. In the follow up appointments with my surgeons, I was told more than once that I am healing remarkably and looking very healthy. The recovery from having my ovaries removed was extremely easy because the surgery was laparoscopic, so it was the bilateral mastectomy that would take longer to heal from. But, 10 days after my surgery, I was able to cease all medications -during the day- and also have my drains removed. It was a huge victory for me and being drain free made me feel like a new person. Although, the feeling of a nurse yanking plastic tubing out of my body is something I hope I never have to experience again and after that pain subsided, is technically when I started feeling like a new person.

But now, I am nearly a month out of surgery and I am feeling great. I started taking small field trips out of the house each day, to now being able to resume mostly normal life, I say mostly because I have 3 more days until I am allowed to pick up my daughter...and yes, I'm counting them down. It was a big surgery to undergo and a somewhat challenging recovery, but I would do it again tomorrow, if I had to. Every time that I look in the mirror, I pause because I see the scars that will never completely disappear and I know that everyday they will be a reminder that I'm different from other women who have natural breasts or who are able to have children. But, to be honest, I don't really care. In fact, I'm proud of that difference because it will also always be a reminder of the courage and strength that I possess... just in case I forget...

I documented each step of the experience with photos to share on my blog. I should probably be embarrassed of some of them; but really, my blog is about being real...