The News from Lake Boob-be-gone

Hooter Hotline #9 The News From Lake Boob-Be-Gone
January 17, 2010

“Name the Drains” Contest Results

And the winner is…..drum roll please…..uh, well, it’s just not that simple……

There were eleven submissions, two entries were the same, but all names were hysterical and RICH with meaning…so, the winner is….everyone!

With ten name winners, that’s a name a day! The drains will take on the personas of each name set, a different one for each day of their lives…The names and the winners will be revealed along the way as the drain photos are posted.

All winners will receive an alpaca product.

Now, for all you losers that didn’t get in on the name game, there is a secondary contest for:
1. Choosing the drain with the most drainage by time of removal: Right vs. Left
2. Estimating the total output of both drains in mililiters by the time of removal

Okay, the important stuff has been taken care of. Now, The News from Lake Boob-be-gone!

It just hasn’t been THAT bad! I did not know what to expect. I didn’t know how wiped out I might be or how much pain I might have. I’m not trying to be tough when I say that it has been very manageable. The pain occurs in a thin line beginning under my arms and stretches out to the center of my chest. It is the stingy, burning pain you expect with an incision. The drains have their own exit sites below the incisions. When I move in a way that pulls on the stitch that holds each in place, that’s the only time they hurt. If I tap over the former breast area and the space between where they were, it feels like a dull thud. My chest is wrapped with roll gauze and two wide Ace wraps. The wrap feels pretty good and keeps fluid from collecting. I’ve been able to cough and laugh without much discomfort. The surgeon reassured me that they just don’t see infections because of the drains. In other words, “Chill!” Sometimes just reaching across my body to roll up my sleeve or reaching up to brush my bangs aside will elicit an “Ow,” but it only lasts for a second. In some ways, this is better than the engorged football I had to carry around with two ice packs after lumpectomies. Four days after surgery, I’m feeling a good amount of energy, but that is of course while I’m just hanging out watching “Clean House” and “Super Nanny.”

My sister Jan came over Saturday evening and I asked her to help me take my first shower. Poor girl said, “Sure, Jenny.” Rog was willing to assist, but I really needed to view the “carnage” first and make my own mental adjustments without him. Seeing what wasn’t under the ace wrap was something else I had no idea how it might effect me. While a nursing student, I had the concept of “alteration in body image” absolutely hammered into me and bilateral mastectomies is the perfect example for its application. With this awareness I expected I would have some kind of emotional response to seeing my post-op chest, but couldn’t guess how it would manifest itself. Jan and I went into the bathroom and she began unrolling my mummy wrappings. Round and round I went until at last we were down to the Tegaderm clear dressings (sticky Saran Wrap) over the white Telfa strips that covered the incision. I turned and squared myself in front of the mirror. “Hmmmmm, those are long incisions! Wow, not much swelling or bruising. Gee, my chest circumference hasn’t been this small since I was twelve. Gads, with the “girls” gone, I look nine months pregnant! Gotta work on that. No biggie, I can deal with this.” All these thoughts ran one after another across my mind like an electronic reader board. Matter of factly I climbed into the warm, steamy shower. Oh, it felt so good. I washed my itchy head and rinsed off. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Jan was waiting with towels and helped dry off my pits, back and legs. I really did need the help. Then a sneaker wave of nausea and emotion washed over me. “Jan, I need to sit down,” I mumbled. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Yeah, I was doing fine and now I feel sick to my stomach,” I answered as I fought back my own shower of tears. Jan reached over and lovingly rubbed my shoulder. Silly me for thinking that my mirror time had not breached the emotion damn. The wave began to recede and we proceeded on to the comical task of rewrapping my chest. There were several attempts to get it right because the velcro on the Ace wraps only works if started in the right direction. Then there is the little matter of being able to breathe while wrapped. It took three wrap attempts to get Goldilock’s Ace pressure just right! Finally, I had to ask Jan to comb out my waist-long hair. I was exhausted by the time I was fluffed and buffed. It was time for a couple oxycodone and a long recline in the LazyBoy. I am referring to the LazyBoy which I have relentlessly maligned over the years for its cliché medium-blue velour upholstery and its hideous “Pillow-back” style. Rog brought it to our marriage in 1995 and I have not been shy with my displeasure about having to work it into our “design plan.” Yes, it is I who now has an exer-cycle as part of the “design plan” throwing stones from my glass house! The blue recliner has been exiled to either the spare room or the basement much of its life with the exception of a few key incidences which it is only fair that I now publicly admit. That’s right, Rog will have a smug smile on his face for weeks after all of you hear my confession. The embarrassing blue chair has been a blessing while nursing me through two foot surgeries, two back surgeries, two lumpectomies and now mastectomies. I asked for it to be brought to the living room and placed by the exer-cycle for the latest round of surgical amusements. It has been like an old friend ministering to my true needs which have precious little to do with décor. I have secretly loved and used Rog’s man-chair without giving it the credit it deserves until now. There, I said it. Please forgive me Rog. Please forgive me LazyBoy. “Hey, you! Get outta my ugly chair!”