I feel that I completely failed my breasts on this matter. It’s like I was close friends with these
twins and then I heard they were moving because their dad got a job in
Cleveland and I didn’t even bother decorating their lockers or making a collage
or a mix tape or anything.
Instead of making it about them, I made it all about me, or
the rest of me, and that was wrong. Maybe it’s because these particular parts
make people uncomfortable. If I
was losing something less taboo, like my elbows, it may have been easier to
honor the loss. Has anyone ever gotten an elbowectomy?
Perhaps the lack of fan fare was because I’m getting new
ones. It is awkward saying good-bye to the old neighbors when they know, you
know, and everyone else knows you’re getting new neighbors really soon; better
neighbors, perkier, younger, neighbors that aren't trying to kill me.
But we were together for 35 years and that kind of
relationship cannot be so easily dismissed. Or can it?
Like everywhere else we go, we got to the hospital a little late that morning. Upon our arrival, three different
hospital employees sent us to the wrong room. One guy even drove us in a golf cart to the wrong place. You’d
think “where do I register for surgery?” would be a pretty common question at a
hospital. Something they should consider highlighting during orientation in the
future.
When we finally got to the right room, it was all
business. Lots of people coming
and going, lots of questions. The same questions. Over and over. Makes sense. Don’t want to accidentally
double mastectomy the wrong gal.
My plastic surgeon showed up and drew all over me with a
purple marker. It looked like a
very sad x-rated version of Tron. Then the other surgeon stopped in and said
some stuff. I nodded and made my
best listening face but inside I was thinking “I don’t wanna! I don’t wanna! Get
me out of here! I don’t wanna!”
I said goodbye to Mom, Dad and Jason and they rolled me to the operating room. For a moment I glanced down inside my hospital gown for
one last look. A nurse caught me.
“Just don’t want to forget what they used to look like.”
I know some women have dance parties with the nurses or sing alongs. Some women even tell jokes. You'd think I'd be one of those women, but just this once, I wasn't. Something about that room, all the people
and the equipment... it just pushed me over the edge. For the first time since my
diagnosis, I cried. And I mean really
cried. I’m talking full body, tear
monsoon, weird noises, gasping for air, sobbing. Nurses with masks formed a huddle and were group
hugging me, surgeons were running for tissues…and then… I woke up. And they
were gone. And it hurt like hell.
I’m going to skip over some embarrassing and graphic details
here. The night was a blur of nurses, morphine injections, pain and pills. Jason was by my side the whole night in the hospital version of a barca loungers. Pro tip- when you lean back, it's NOT just like a bed.
I was not allowed to leave the hospital
until I reached certain goals, which seemed to change based on which
medical professional we asked. For
example, a nurse said I had to stop peeing blue. Now, I know for a fact that I did not pee blue when I
entered that place, so I’m pretty sure they were just messing with me. The plastic surgeon said I could not leave until my pain was
managed by medication. The nurse,
however, kept telling me I was not actually in pain because if I was, I would be screaming more. That made sense to me, because I was on a LOT of medication and she had pretty hair.
After 36 hours and jumping through a dozen hoops, they
agreed to set us free. Not real hoops, of course, I could barely put on pants.
Jason and I got into our car and drove back to Virginia with a
giant bag of medical supplies. I couldn't help but feel like I'd left something behind. Somethings...
Every day the pain gets a little easier until I do something
I shouldn’t and then it’s back to the meds. Despite my insistence on ignoring
doctors’ orders, the surgeons are pleased with my progress. Last week they removed two of my four
drains. With any luck, (she says as if her own actions are irrelevant) the other two will be removed on
Tuesday.
The following week we’ll learn about the next steps. These could involve chemotherapy,
radiation or hormone therapy. My
sister says chemo is not nearly as fun as it looks, so we’re hoping to skip
that option.
Starting tomorrow Jason will return to the office on a part-time schedule. He
has done an amazing job taking care of me, including the gross stuff. However, there is no way we would have
managed without the help of family, friends and neighbors. A special thank you to my BFF, Adam, who
organized the lotsahelpinghands site that has kept us fed for the last two
weeks. We’ll be adding some additional ways to
help soon.
I just realized something. In this post, like in life, I forgot it was supposed to be about saying good-bye to my boobs. It's like when we moved out of our apartment. I was so upset about leaving, but when we got to the new place, I barely thought about the old place anymore.
I can’t wait to meet my new boobs. How will they look in t-shirts?
Will I need all new bras? Will my friends like them? I hope we get along well. And as for the old girls, maybe it’s not about how you said
good-bye, instead it’s about all the times you said hello.
