Frankenboob: The Unveiling

There's a reason I don't go camping:  the lack of hot, daily showers.  Climbing under the spray, this morning, was like having an extra birthday.  I am now the cleanest girl in town.

Given my melodramatic behaviour of earlier in the week, I was nervous about removing the dressing from my incision, this morning.  So much so that I didn't get into the shower until 9:30 -- a good couple of hours after I got out of bed.  And I didn't begin to peel the sticking plaster until the water was running over the gauze.  But the news is all good.

I'm a little bruised and, from what I can see under the railroad ties of the steri-strips (and I'm not all that curious), the incision is about 4" long.  But there are no bolts protruding anywhere, no large black stitches evident, and still -- remarkably -- no pain.  I've already decided that my witty rejoinder, when asked by future lovers what the scar resulted from, will be 'I cut myself shaving'.

I'll still hafta stay off the breast for another few days, but the healing has begun in earnest.

Here, Not There

Before hitting the road for PMH, the BFF and I had a little fun with a Sharpie.  I want Team Ta-ta in a good mood, today!

We arrived right on time at 7AM, which is ugh-worthy on an average day, much less the day of surgery.  I had expected to sleep badly, but woke up with the nose hose in place, and feeling rested.  It was a busy day on the Short Stay Unit, so there was no room at the inn.  We decamped to the visitors’ waiting room and unpacked the BlackBerrys.  A couple of working girls on a tear.

At 9AM, we relocated to the third floor. The BFF was summarily hauled into a separate waiting room, and I cooled my heels within shouting distance – but not sight – of her.  I refrained from shouting.  Nearly an hour later, still in the same hallway, it was revealed that my imaging (i.e. original mammogram films) were nowhere to be found, and they ushered me in for a fresh mamwich.  Now things were moving, if only slowly.

Over the course of the next two hours, I had three wires installed:  one under mammography, a second – and, unexpectedly, third – under ultrasound.  It turns out I would have been a standout in Victorian England:  I swoon with the best of them.  Hence, the need to be prone after the first wire went in.  Number two was perfectly positioned – and then didn’t deploy properly.  So, we went for three.  By the time I got outta the breast imaging department, I looked like a high tech porcupine.

Back upstairs, there was still no available room, so we hunkered down again in the visitors’ lounge.  1PM comes and goes.  1:30 comes and goes.  When does my gurney arrive?  Two o’clock comes, goes.  Three.  Finally, someone checks out of the hotel PMH, and a room comes available.  At almost 4PM, it’s go time.

Off to the surgical suite, where things move quickly.  IVs are installed, the Grim Sleeper and The Dutchman come by, admire Rita’s handwriting, and I’m transferred to the OR.  Five minutes later – as far as I know – it’s 5:10, and there’s a mambo rhythm beeping from the monitor above my head.  I’m awake, the surgery was successful, and I have “extra beats”.  Heart beats.  In my drug-addled state, more seems better than fewer, but they need to check that out.  So, I get a 12-lead ECG, which I apparently pass, as I’m released back upstairs for the final time, but not before snagging a couple of jumped-up Tylenol 3s for the road.

It’s 6PM, and I can’t go home until I’ve been to the bathroom without help, and had a little nosh and kept it down.  Truly, the bar is set at the three-year-old level!  I’m so hungry I could eat furniture, but, oddly, nothing on the hospital tray is appetizing, except a pear and a container of what appears to be grape Koolaid.  So, I knock those back, drink a half-litre of water and wait.

And the angels sang.

The sports bra goes on, the departing paperwork is delivered, and I’m off home with the BFF.  It’s nearly nine o’clock.  Five months after the screening mammogram, phase one is over.

PTSD: Post Tit Surgery Dispatch

A hot guy spent an hour with my naked breasts in his hands, this afternoon -- and I was unconscious the whole time!

I'm vertical, but not for long.  I'm a model patient -- which, unfortunately, does not mean my weight is a two-digit number -- and The Dutchman said only positive things in recovery.  Though I was dopey (or perhaps it was sleepy or bashful...) at the time, I do recall he said surgery went very well, they 'got it all', and I'm sure there was something about alabaster skin and limpid eyes.

The BFF is bundling me off to bed (there's a reason she's a mother and I'm not).  I'll file a more detailed report when I can access more than 10 of my brain cells.

One More Sleep

I’m having a sleepover – and not my usual kind. This time, the guest will still be here for breakfast! So, today, I stocked up the larder. It’s been a point of pride for me to be able to see the back of my fridge at all times. The running gag revolves around a reliable supply of yellow mustard and Diet Coke, and not much else. But, if the BFF is supposed to care for me, I need to care for her.

As a result, I now own cereal, milk, tea and yogurt... most of which are cramping the Diet Coke’s style.  The laundry is done, the DVDs have been rented, and I'm as ready as I can be.

Bring it on.

Perspective You Can't Learn in Art Class

In case I wasn't already convinced I'd gotten of easily, today's pre-surgery class confirmed everything I'd suspected.

There were 11 of us in booby school, this morning, all having surgery for breast cancer within the next two weeks.  Just a couple of us were having the wire-guided procedure;  the rest were having some combination of lumpectomy or mastectomy with serial or axial node biopsy.  At least one woman was scheduled for a double mastectomy.  By comparison, I might as well be having a manicure on Tuesday!

So, here's what I can expect to happen.  My surgery will be at Princess Margaret Hospital.  When I'm admitted, I'll be checked into my own room -- mine for the day -- which will be home base for me and my BFF.  Nothing to eat after Monday midnight, and nothing to drink after 7AM.  Apparently, there's no room service at the hotel PMH;  so, not a 5-star, then.

They'll wire me up at 9AM, then return me to my room.  (I've convinced myself the wires will be as fine as those used in accupuncture, rather than straightened out coat hanger ends;  I hope I'm right.)  Surgery's at 2PM.  An hour in the OR, 30 to 45 minutes in recovery, and I'll be back to the room again.  Once I prove myself fit -- one-handed pushups?  an IQ test? -- they'll spring me, and it's off home about dinner time.

I might get morphine after surgery, so if I end up in a 12-step program down the road, I'll know where it all began.  I'll have self-dissolving stitches and a dressing over the incision -- the low maintenance approach to healing.  No nasty clips or staples or stitches that have to be taken out with garden shears.  And, with luck, the gauze will compensate for the dent.

The nurse assured me I'll be leading a normal life again within a couple of days.  I've never led 'a normal life', so I'm a little concerned that a large van will show up on Thursday and leave me with two sullen teenagers, an aging labrador retriever, an SUV, and a balding, slightly pot-bellied man, who claims to be my husband.  Perhaps I should start screening my calls.

Booby School

I’m just over a week away from surgery, but before they’ll let me into the OR, I have to go to Booby School on Tuesday.  Well, of course it's only me who calls it that – and I don’t have to go.  (But I was a Girl Guide; I want to Be Prepared.)  Officially, it's Breast Surgery Preparation Class, or something equally forgettable, but Booby School sounds like so much more fun.

I’ll have to attend unaccompanied, as there’s a patient confidentiality concern.  I guess not everyone subscribes to the ‘seen ten, seen ‘em all’ philosophy I’ve so long espoused.  Oh, well.  I was never one to crib off my neighbour’s work, and I’m still hopeful of an A – or do they choose the valedictorian based on bra size?  Either way, I’m a contendah!

The curriculum remains a mystery, or I’d read up in advance, but I’ll get to meet with a social worker (presumably so I play nice with my surgical team), a dietician (is it gauche to imagine that dairy is the most breast-friendly food group?), a physiotherapist (we must, we must, we must…), and a nurse (finally, someone who’ll talk about surgery).

I wonder whether there’ll be two tassels each at graduation.

I Don’t Want To: I Have Cancer

This morning, I played the cancer card for the first time.  And I didn’t think twice.

Someone I’ve never met, who’s looking for a planning job, e-mailed me to request an interest interview.  I’ve done dozens of these in my professional life, and this is the first time I recall having said no.  I’ve always given my time to industry newbies in recognition of the fact that I was one once – back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth – and back then, there were experienced people who were kind to me.  But, I found this woman annoying.  She’s a friend of a person I’ve met twice, for whom I opened a door that landed him a job – and now I feel pressured to find one for her.  That’s not how the process is supposed to work.

So, when I read her ‘tell me when you can meet with me’ e-mail, it took all of 30 seconds to respond.  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that the timing’s not good.  You see, I have cancer....’  I was direct – but not tactless – and I got what I wanted.  I offered advice, wished her success in her search, and got away clean.  I’m not used to putting myself first, or saying no; I just think I should for a while.

But what if I learn to like it?

How Do You Spell Relief?

Relief is not spelled R-O-L-A-I-D-S, as those of a certain age would naturally reply.  This morning, relief was spelled L-U-M-P-E-C-T-O-M-Y.

My date with the Dutchman answered some pressing questions, notably:

• biopsy three told us nothing we didn’t already know – i.e. I don’t have an invasive flavour of cancer – so, I get to skip the sentinel node biopsy, chemo and (best of all) another attempt at an MRI
• Mum’s breast cancer has no bearing on my own condition, so I get to skip genetic testing for the BRAC-1 and -2 business
• mastectomy is too aggressive for the cancer I have (yep, I asked the tough question), so I get to keep the booby

I fairly skipped out of the hospital.  Knowing exactly what I have, and how we’re going to deal with it, makes the planner in me very happy.  It lets me make checklists and critical paths, and exercise my control freak muscles.

This afternoon, relief was spelled P-U-B-L-I-C.  The emotional strain of keeping secrets is over, at long last.  (Except for Dad. I still won’t tell him ‘til after surgery.)  Now I can plan my next appointments, organize my winter work schedule, and take phone calls without having to speak in code.  It turns out, I wasn’t cut out to be James Bond.

0 for 2

Princess Margaret Hospital has a newer MRI machine than Mount Sinai.  It's a larger 'bore', or diameter, so I was hopeful that I would tolerate the 'in the tube' business better, this afternoon.

For all the larger bore might have helped, here's what didn't.  They fed me into the maw of the beast head first (as opposed to feet first nextdoor at Sinai).  My arms were held at my sides (rather than extended overhead in a diving posture nextdoor), and strapped down across my back.

So, fed into the machine, face down, head first, my arms felt wedged against the inside of the chamber. Not only could I not stick 30 minutes out -- I couldn't even get started.

And the sedative? Please. The Dutchman must have prescribed for someone who weighs 100 pounds. I took the pill at the appropriate time, and never felt anything kick in. I could definitely have operated heavy machinery afterwards!

So, if he wants another one, the man's going to have to knock me out.  Guess I'll find out on Thursday.