Goodbye Breasts, Hello Perspective
This is part two of my story. Read part one here.
When the alarm clock went off at 5:15 a.m., I had only napped for about an hour. Although I was exhausted, I was in good spirits. I had made peace with my decision and the changes it would bring. But I teared up when I kissed my toddler as he slept and peeked in on my teenage son, praying I would see them again. I went in alone, which was what I needed. As I lay in pre-op, I meditated and focused on coming out of surgery and healing like a rock star. I was so calm as I changed into a gown, emptied my bladder, weighed in one last time, and let them hook me up to all the machinery. I answered the same questions repeatedly about allergies, the last time I ate, etc. Then, my handsome and quirky plastic surgeon came in and marked up my body. I told him how much I’d miss my belly button because it was my proof that I was once connected to my mother. He told me I would still have the same belly button; it would just be moved. This gave me comfort.
Then the anesthesiologist came in, explaining that I would have an epidural to numb my chest muscles so I wouldn’t feel pain when I awoke. I leaned over on a pillow; the nurse held my hand, and the needle in my lower back was the last thing I remembered. This is what was happening while I was in La La Land:
My oncologist would cut and remove both of my breasts, removing the fat, the muscle, the mammary glands, and some lymph nodes. Her reputation is that she is thorough and would scrape away all of the breast tissue, like all. Next, my brilliant plastic surgeon and his team would begin what is called DIEP flap reconstruction. According to BreastCancer.org, DIEP is the deep inferior epigastric perforator artery, which runs through the abdomen. In other words, they would cut a large portion of skin and fat from my lower stomach and then transplant them to my chest wall in the shape of breasts. Crazy, right? But not simple. At the time, only about 2% of plastic surgeons knew how to do the surgery. It involves microsurgery, reattaching the veins and arteries one at a time. I had both breasts removed and reconstructed. For my surgical team, it took 15 hours in total. This meant that my family thought I’d be done by 8 or 9 p.m., on Monday, but I was not out of surgery until after 1 a.m. on Tuesday.
When I opened my eyes, my mother’s sisters were there like angels… partly because my vision was blurry. I was distracted by the breathing tube that was still in my throat. Panic set in, medical staff tried to calm me, but I kept trying to speak. I could hear myself saying, I can’t breathe. I was gagging, telling them to please take it out. When they didn’t listen, I tried to remove it. I felt people grabbing my arms, and I heard “Sedate her,” which they must have because the next thing I remember (12 hours later), I was waking up with straps on my wrists. But at least the breathing tube was gone. In my panic, I didn’t understand that they had to keep it in because, just like with any transplant, there was the risk that my chest wall wouldn’t take its NOOBS (new boobs). If the tissue didn’t stay alive, they would have to take me back to the OR and remove it. They also needed to ensure my throat wasn’t too swollen and that I could breathe independently. This is why I was in the ICU, being checked at half-hour intervals. I was under heavy IV pain meds (thank God), so the first 24 to 36 hours were a blur of nurses brushing my teeth, wiping my dry, cracked lips and putting petroleum jelly on them, cold cloths on my forehead, I remember them being so great and feeling comforted even though I could only open my eyes seconds at a time, and my voice was weak.
Unfortunately, I also had a fever of 102, and they worked vigorously to drop it down with IV medication. I was also unaware they were trying to keep me awake and get my body’s systems going. One of the nurses had me verbally complete the health care proxy form and sign off on it. I had no concept of time; I remember when they told me it was safe to move me out of ICU and into a regular room because my NOOBS were still viable. As they wheeled me on a stretcher, I passed a blond-haired, young, doc. He introduced himself (I can’t remember his name) and said he was on the surgical team. He told me I was brave and badass for my decision and that I made the right choice.
According to my family, I was out of the ICU by mid-morning on Wednesday and into my room. There, I remembered that I was going to be a rock star in terms of doing what I needed to heal quickly. I asked that the catheter be removed so I could go to the bathroom on my own. (Why not, I was on morphine?). It was so weird. I didn’t feel pain. I just felt stiff and tight as I walked in caveman-like baby steps, escorted by a nurse. I still had a low-grade fever, so they constantly checked in on me; they still needed to check the NOOBS for viability every 1 to 2 hours. Hearing that swooshing sound in my left breast was hard for them on so they had to place the doppler device in a particular spot.
They put on a surgical bra (which I would grow to hate over the coming weeks) which matched my waist binder, which I’d grow to love and hate. They wanted me to sit in a chair. I did, and I slept there. But I also walked the hall, ambulating like it was suggested. I was determined to be a model patient. The next few days would include daily visits from my angel aunts, my fiancé, and my uncle and special visits from cousins, my dad, my brother, my oldest son, and my sister. It was my sister and one of my closest friends who took a lesson on how to change my JP drains.
I had my friend take a picture of me. I wanted to document this journey, which would be hard because I apparently had multiple conversations under the influence of drugs that I don’t remember. It was a blur of Law-and-Order SVU reruns on the TV, numerous sleep interruptions, wraps on my legs to prevent blood clots, breathing into devices to restore my lungs, picking out my meals, and taking sponge baths. Great nurses and PCAs, and awful nurses. Looking at the clock, I was unsure if it was 4 a.m. or 6 p.m. I quickly grew weary of the process, and self-pity began to set in. I was uncomfortable every waking and sleeping moment. I was tired of taking laps around the floor, of being in and out of consciousness. Why did I do this to myself? Would I really be able to handle the additional surgeries? Perhaps this was a mistake.
The day my fiancé finally brought my toddler to come see me, it all came full circle. He was so happy to see me. At one point, I glanced at my wall chart with all the nurses’ names and dates. It was Friday, September 4th. The anniversary of my mother’s transition. I looked at my toddler. I was about his age when I would go see my mother at the hospital, and like I saved my dessert for him, she’d hold her dessert for my sister and me. It was mind-blowing to me, and I was rushed with emotion. I was sad for the little girl in me who had no idea that one of the times she left the hospital would be the last time she saw her mother. I felt sad for my mother, who, at 23, knew she wouldn’t be around to see her kids and that one of those hospital visits would be the last time she’d hug her little girls. I felt grateful that because of modern medicine, I would be there. I would be there for my toddler, and despite missing me dearly, he’d see me again. My perspective shifted. I could do this. I would do this. Back to being a rockstar patient. That doctor was right; I’d made the right choice. A few years later both of my aunts would become breast cancer survivors.
There’s so much more to this story. Help me tell it in a book. Share this article and help me get published.
