#11 :surgery
I had surgery to remove the cancer from my breast.
Here’s the hot gossip, or the “T” as the kids say.
I made it through surgery with flying colors.
If I could earn a letter grade for surgery, I would have a solid A.
If there was an Oscar for most uneventful surgery, I would be presented the golden statue. Yeah, I killed it.
Short story:
Everything went exactly as planned. Not one of the nightmare scenarios that I read about online happened. I had excellent doctors. I had kind, compassionate nurses. I had the best pit crew support team. I felt the love and prayers being sent my way. I had no problems during surgery or coming out of surgery. It was picture perfect. I left the same day and slept the night in my own bed.
Longer ramblin’ story:
The night before surgery, I tossed and turned. My thoughts kept jumping around from one ridiculous idea to another. You might wonder, was I thinking about my own mortality? No.
Was I worried about making it to all of the major milestones of my son’s life? No.
Was I taking an inventory of my life, negotiating with my higher power about how I would be “better” if I sailed through this surgery?
Nope.
I was plagued by this question:
What does one wear to a partial mastectomy and lymph node biopsy?
I wore a pink tutu.
I wore a tutu with my knee-high Doc Marten combat boots (and a practical zip-up hoodie.)
A little bit princess.
A little arse-kicking Angelina Jolie Tomb Raider.
I wore eye make-up. I curled my hair. Finished it off with a nice red lipstick…I felt like a goddess.
I was ready.
Mostly.
In the dark parts of my mind, removing a chunk of my breast was making me question the connection between my femininity and my breasts.
Is this surgery making me less of a woman?
Does this mean I am no longer sexy?
Will taking away some of my breast change my deep spiritual connection to my feminine energy and power?
It seems reasonable to say “of course not, Katie” and that is what everyone said when I worried about the deep societal connection between women’s breasts and the perception of their worth, or at the very least their sexuality. How much of my body equals my identity? I didn’t have time to reason out a strong emotional or intellectual answers to these worries, but I knew I was having complex feelings and I decided just to let myself feel them awkwardly in a pink tutu.
Having Maria along as my support buddy was a smart move I didn’t even know I made, it just happened. I remember telling her I had cancer, and then immediately knowing that she was going to be my side-kick for the whole thing.
Her positive, playful energy and ability to talk about things that are very, very interesting to me made the time fly by as I waited for them to cut away the cancer. Her companionship for surgery day made it seem like this was something that we were doing together, like taking a yoga class or eating sushi, not a journey I ultimately had to take by myself. Maria made the whole day way less scary.
I had a two-hour nuclear medicine appointment, where Alex the imaging tech injected me with isotopes and explained the entire lymphatic system to Maria while was frozen still in the million dollar machine. Once my superpowers were injected, I land in pre-op.
Nurses come in and ask questions. IVs are inserted. I am weighed and measured. Pregnancy tests are administered. Ya know, just in case….(the very thought of that scenario and how that would play out sent me into a fit of giggles that was very inappropriate for a hospital. Can you just imagine? Only I would have luck like that.)
My anesthesiologist was all business, in a way you want your anesthesiologist to be. She knocked my socks off as she casually mentioned that she read my chart the day prior and proceeded to ask me intelligently informed questions about my medical history. It made me realize that up until that point, no one had cared too much about my past history.
I was even told my medical history was irrelevant to my current diagnosis. We are here to kill breast cancer. Period.
Her attention to detail blew my mind.
We talked about my insane ability to get nauseous, and how I was very allergic to a specific anti-nausea medicine. I was terrified not of extreme pain, but of being constantly nauseous. I wanted to make sure she understood the insane allergic reaction I had after my last big surgery. Her one moment of humor was when she said, ‘oooooh honey, we don’t even use that drug anymore!’
I was shortly wheeled into the room labeled “BLOCK” by a darling nurse who had sparkling eyes and I could see her smile through her mask. I was administered some of the anesthesia and then they wheeled me into the operating room.
The room was cold, with lights bright enough to see through your soul. I was able to scoot myself from the bed I was on to the narrow operating table that made me question the size of my hips. I took in the room. I saw the expensive machines and sterling tools that would transform me from sick to well. Nurses worked silently around me to untangle tubes and wires, carefully getting me properly placed for the surgery.
Once in place, I was introduced to the entire OR team, and when the lovely anesthesiologist (why do I keep having to spell that word!) walked in to complete the team, it occurred to me that something amazing was happening.
Granted, I know that some really mellow, relaxing drugs were in my system, but as I looked around the OR, I blurted loudly,
“holy shit, is everyone in this operating room a woman?”
(Disclaimer, ug, groan…so you don’t think I’m being disrespectful or hating on anyone: I have male doctors, I love male doctors. It was just unusual in my 50-year experience to have a 100% female medical team.)
I remember them laughing and saying yes, and I remember saying “that’s so rad!” like some bleach blond surfer who caught a good wave.
Awkward.
Suddenly, I felt the warmest sensation in my body. I felt totally peaceful and relaxed. I honestly remember feeling as though the most loving, divine feminine mother was holding me. In that moment, I knew for certain the surgery was not altering or minimizing my groovy, unique feminine soul. I felt like the universe sent this group of badass medical professionals to assure me that my cancer, and it’s location in my right breast, had nothing to do with my ability to be feminine. It had nothing to do with anything at all. I felt completely safe and held.
Man, the drugs were good.
I drifted off somewhere magical.
While I floated peacefully to another dimension, a whole lot of activity happened.
The amazing women on my team did their jobs. They used their intelligence and creativity and humor to make me better. I laid on the table doing nothing.
In what felt like less than a minute, I woke up. It was over.
No nausea. No headache. No pain.
My beautiful nurse brought me jello shots cups and apple juice. I was disconnected from my IVs. This felt like it took 2.3 minutes. It was probably longer.
I was packed up, driven home and place lovingly in my own bed.
I slept through the night.
It didn’t occur to me until days later, that until my test results come back to tell me differently…
right now, in the very moment I write this word…..I am cancer free.
