14. The One with the Mastectomy Part 2

 It has been a hot minute since I last posted.

I went and got a boyfriend and a certificate in Persuasive Leadership. In that order.

But I am ready to take us through the last of the attempted death by body part story.

Last time we left off with me at the hospital getting ready for the mastectomy and reconstruction.

The nurse loaded me into a wheel chair for a final trip down to the basement to have that oh so helpful radiologist inject dye into the boob to light the way (RIP Lefty).

At this point we were running an hour behind the expected schedule because something had come up for the surgeons. Which was fine by me. I wasn't wearing a watch or looking at my phone intentionally. Time should not matter in that type of situation. It was out of my control and I was giving it over to the people who knew what they were doing.

We were met in the basement from a very petite Hispanic woman who took over control of the wheel chair. In the ride from door to machine she told me that she was praying for me, that she was going to watch over me and that I could hold her hand if I needed to.

At this point I was accepting all affection. Normally I prefer not to be touched by people I don't know but I got the sense she needed to hold my hand as much as I wanted her to.

That was something I took away from this experience. Sometimes you need to allow people to care for you. I am not typically good at that, I prefer to close the door and hide under the covers until I feel better or get over the thing.

and not because I am a martyr, probably. But because I do not like to be a burden. And just hunkering down and getting through it seems like less of a hassle for other people.

In this case, I very much leaned into accepting helped. If someone offered, I said yes. And that was a great decision. Because so many folks stepped up and helped me in ways I will never be able to repay.

So my hand being held, she told me what was going to happen:

The Rachet Radiologist would put me in a machine, take some pictures of the boob, numb up the side and shove a giant needle (oh really? again?!?) into the boob (RIP Lefty) to light the way. 

Not entirely sure WHY we needed to light the way, they were just going to lob it off. But here we were.

*I have since discovered it is to light the way to the lymph nodes, not for the boob, even though Lefty got the poke.*

I was moved to the bed and put into place, the radiologist came in and I didn't bother with pleasantries and neither did she. She curtly told me what she would be doing and that after a period of time I would be put in a tube to ensure that the die was working.

I continued to hold the lovely assistant's hand.

The area was numbed, the radiologist waited a minute, said it was going to 'pinch', told me to hold my breath and count to three and.... nothing

No pain, no pressure. The radiologist said something like 'all set' and I was like 'ok so you are going to do it now?'  and she said 'no, it is over'. 

Cool beans that was the most pleasant interaction with that woman during the entire journey to the center of the shit show.

Assume that was a fairly low bar to reach.

I was told I had to lay still in that position while they scanned to see if the dye was working.

So about 10 min later they took the scan. and silence

a few minutes go by and the petite assistant came in and said they needed to check something.

Okey doke. 

10 minutes later... I am still half in the tube and laying in an uncomfortable position.

And there is no one in the little room where the buttons get pushed.

I start to  panic. I am strapped in and no one is around. I start focusing on my breathing and self soothing "It is going to be ok, you can roll out if you need to".

I am aware that I tend to worry about something before it actually happens on a regular basis but I also tap into that unique set of skills when I am faced with an uncomfortable or scary situation with an unknown outcome. 

Because I overthink EVERYTHING, I am able to quickly move through options and scenarios and come up with a path forward. 

The one upside to high functioning anxiety.

Once my exit strategy established and my breathing more or less normal I give myself a beat. 

Of all the things to worry about today how much energy should I expend on this? Someone will eventually realize I am not where I should be and come to find me.

Another 10 minutes pass and the kind assistant is back. And surprised I am still there and strapped in.

She starts mumbling under her breath and patting my arm telling me 'Where did she go? Why are you still here?'

Unfortunately I was unable to shrug my shoulders given my position but no matter, she was already on the phone having a rather intense conversation with someone.

Apparently the radiologist had left me there. So glad she lived up to her previous reputation.

Once I am unstrapped and upright, the assistant puts me back in the wheel chair.

She rolls me into the hall for the hand off to the nurse and I am headed back up to the surgical floor after that strange aside.

Once back in my bed (with a fresh, warm blanket), my primary nurse and the junior anesthesiologist come in.

Apparently in my absence there has been some conversation about a catheter. The anesthesiologist seems to think I need one. The nurse disagrees.

Once the anesthesiologist leaves, the nurse leans in and with a rather conspiratorial tone tells me I should REALLY go to the bathroom even if I don't need to.

At this point I will mention I have an unusually large bladder. To the point where my college roommate once asked me to measure the volume. Because for every three stops she had to make, I only made one.

And that struck her as odd and troubling in equal measure.

So in a rather unscientific test, I got the bladder full to the point of bursting, got on the scale and weighed myself. Then after a trip to the bathroom reweighed myself. I had lost two pounds of pee.

That is a 32 oz bladder... which is a lot apparently.

So while I did not NEED to pee I did so anyways.

I then heard a conversation between the nurse, my cancer surgeon and then jr. anesthesiologist where the doctor and the nurse basically told him where to shove the catheter idea (not in me luckily) and that was put to bed.

The time had finally come for the surgery: The hat was donned the bed moved and I was rolling toward the operating room and would come out the other side a different person. Cancer free but changed physically. I was ready to get knocked out and get it over with.

Wheeled into the operating room I moved to the other bed. Three nurses came to me separately and looked me in the eye, squeeze my hand and said they were going to take good care of me.

The IV got the juice and I started counting backward.

10

9

8

Next time on Kris vs. Cancer: The one with the post surgery shenanigans