January 21, 2010
I just locked myself out of the house! It’s lunchtime and I went to the freezer in the garage to grab a Healthy Choice meal. As the door closed behind me, I asked myself, “I wonder if I’m locked out?” A quick check of the door knob answered my question. Now I had to trudge through the mud in my fluffy slippers and jammies, drains swinging, to the secret key stash on the property. I did this with some urgency, hoping the mail lady wouldn’t come bopping down the driveway to find me in this condition. All this for a frozen lunch, a lunch that only met the requirements for “healthy” and it’s advertised weight due to a disproportionate amount of chopped pimentos! Is it just me or does anyone else think that frozen meals abuse red pimentos? There must be a secret file for frozen food recipes and each begins with “2 cups chopped pimento per serving!” On any other day, it might have been pretty irritating to lock myself out of the house for the sake of soggy Lemon Pepper Fish (with pimento), but not today. Yesterday marked one week from the day of my surgery and today marked a week since I had come home.
I’m feeling good, rested and well. I’m still sore under the arms and the drains are putting out 80 -100 ml per 24 hours. I’m only taking pain meds at bedtime and napping for about 1 hour in the afternoons. After my second shower a couple days ago, I was able to dry myself and comb my own hair out. It is easier to reach for most things, except for where I keep the cereal bowls. They are in a corner cupboard that one can’t get in front of. They sit on the top shelf and the last time I tried to gingerly reach for one, the attempt elicited a yelp. Rog was nearby at the time and helped me out. Yesterday, I got up after Rog had taken John to school and shuffled to the kitchen for some Raisin Bran. As I passed by the stovetop, something caught my eye. It was a cereal bowl and spoon with a white paper napkin over the top and a note that read, “Clean. Love Ya, Rog” “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” was all I could say. It was such a sweet gesture and demonstrated a concept Rog and I have coined as “Life-mate shit.” Sorry for the four letter word, but I’ll explain that another time. I felt so loved and cared for, it was like a wearing a cozy sweater all day long.
This is the same guy who, after telling him how ugly my chest looked once I’d seen it without dressings, simply grabbed my right wrist, palpated my radial pulse and said looking gently into my eyes, “Yeah, you’re here.” Later that evening while sitting on the couch, I turned and looked at him. It had been bugging me ever since I’d seen the full-meal-deal in the shower. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to let you see it,” I said. “It might be a long time. It kind of looks like a big, wide ice cream scoop has been there. I don’t think I want you to see it until all the scars are healed. It’s just so ugly and the incisions are so long,” I explained. He looked at me with a completely normal expression on his face and said, “That’s okay, but I’ve been getting ready to see it since November.” I almost fell off the couch. He made the statement with such resolute assurance that I was very surprised. Could this really have come from my guy who, while being big and strong, can be overwhelmed by a flu shot or blood draw? There was no denying his calm and steadfast position. His genuine personal strength will make it easier to reveal my new “African-Marathoner” chest when the time comes.
It seems longer than a week ago that I slowly awoke in recovery room. At the end of my recovery room stay and superb care from Mandy, RN, I noticed my stretcher was square in front of the “PACU Supervisor” office. “Hey, is your supervisor in there?” I asked almost being surly, which a little anesthetic and narcotic cocktail tends bring out in me. “She is? Good, I’d like to talk to her, STAT!” She emerged from her office with a serious expression on her face, “What can I do for you?” “Well, I just want you to know that you have a first class operation going here. Your staff is awesome and since my three recent surgeries qualify me as a frequent flyer, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve always had the best care and my pain has been well controlled.” Her face broke into a smile. I love to sneak-attack people with praise. It’s great sport and it’s a good thing to recognize an employee’s work in the presence of their boss.
Shortly I was wheeled up to my room on the sixth floor. It was just the “sixth floor” to me until the next day when I learned that I was on the “oncology” floor.
That was a little wake-up call in itself. I viewed myself as a surgical patient, not an oncology patient, but I needed to face the reality. My room was ultra-deluxe. In fact, it put most Family Birth suites to shame. Sage green walls, rich dark wood shelving and entertainment center, wall sconces, pull-out bed in a custom cabinet, Corian counter top, and lots of room for visitors were key features. On my first trip to the bathroom, the nurse assisted me. I had to ask, “What’s with this deluxe room? It’s like a presidential suite!” “Oh, it’s our “Comfort Care/hospice” room,” she replied. I looked at her with wide eyes and exclaimed, “Am I going to die here?!!!” I was joking of course and we had a good laugh over it, but it seems that the breast surgeons try to get this room for their patients whenever it is available. What a nice touch and so thoughtful of the patient. It really did help my overnight stay be extra pleasant.
It was a busy afternoon and evening once I was settled in my room. The surgery had taken about four hours which was longer than anticipated. My anesthesiologist planned for a long, slow wake-up in PACU, so it wasn’t long before Rog brought John in after school. As he came in the door, I tossed my legs over the side of the bed and dangled there, arms wide-open to receive my sweet boy. I wanted to appear as normal as possible for him. He knew this surgery was a bigger deal than the lumpectomies and he had been worried. He smiled with relief and gave me a gentle hug. We talked about school and how well I was doing. I really was doing well. I was giddy-happy about being on the other side of this surgery and the process that had made it necessary. It was done. Now we could focus on healing and moving forward. I felt as good as those first moments after you’ve pushed your baby out. Labor is over. The whole body experiences relief. Episiotomy stitches, afterbirth delivery, so what? I wore a goofy “I’m so glad it’s done” smile for several days afterward.
My happiness was only tempered later that evening when I turned on the news and learned of the earthquake in Haiti. I was crushed to see the massive devastation and the desperation of the people. The news reports revealed that medical resources were already being exhausted. I closed my eyes in my deluxe room and asked for God’s mercy to be upon Haiti and help provide for their needs. I thanked Him for the simple fact that I had access to pain pills while Haitian victims were experiencing extensive trauma without pain relief or antibiotics. One doesn’t need to have experienced a big quake to be sensitive to those that do, but I have. I was four years old when the Great Alaskan Earthquake hit with a magnitude of 9.2, March 27th, 1964 at 5:36 PM. I remember very clearly that my family was assembled around the dinner table having a “fancy dinner” for my parent’s anniversary. Above the table on the wall was a clock with little coves around the dial that held pretty glass things. When the shaking started, they began to fall down onto the table. The red drinking glasses started to fall over and my mother’s bumpy white milk glass pieces began falling on the floor. The kitchen cupboards flew open and their contents poured forth. Suddenly, I could hear my parents begin to shout orders. My brother Jeffry, four years older than me, was told to take me out into the center of the front yard. My mother, eight months pregnant with Gayle, struggled to untie two-year-old Jan from an old-style springy rocking horse that served as her high chair. She had a congenital hip problem that required both legs be in casts up to the hip, leaving her legs in a V-shape. We all got out safely and our home did not sustain any significant damage. I remember when it was all over, we went back in the house and picked debris out of the dinner and ate it. Downtown Anchorage was really hit hard. I think a lot of my memories of the quake were from years of seeing the subsequent damage as I grew up. When kids in the neighborhood played “grownups” or had tea parties, we would always talk about the earthquake just as we had heard the adults speak about it. I didn’t know until much later that I had some issues because of the earthquake. Apparently, wanting to be prepared for another disaster, I emptied out my Barbie case (Remember those rectangular cases with a snap buckle on the side and a handle on top for carrying the doll and her clothes?), I filled it with food and water, keeping it stocked beside my bed. Turns out a lot of kids had reactions to the quake and counselors had to be brought to the schools. Anyway, my heart goes out to Haiti.
Anchorage, Alaska March 27, 1964
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