Getting My Money's Worth

It’s been a week since surgery and my body is healing day by day. That’s the miracle of life: the body’s amazing ability to heal over time. What’s not a miracle are the 2 drains dangling from my sides. When I saw my reconstruction surgeon during my follow-up appointment, I pointed my finger at him and declared, “Liar, liar, liar! You knew perfectly well that I’d be carrying these drains home with me from the hospital! You just didn’t want to admit it so you wouldn’t have to hear me whine!” He laughed.

I'm glad he sees the humor in this. From my point of view, drains are a drag…literally.

Meanwhile, my body is taking shape and my boobs are bigger than I expected…or necessarily wanted. I’ve always been a small boob kind of girl. Gary, on the other hand, is thrilled. “Well, finally, I get something out of all of this!” Men…

My new boobs are going to take some getting used to, I can tell you that. The more important issue, however, is that my butt is still too big. You see, a natural outcome of opting for this massive reconstruction surgery is that they end up lipo-ing your hips in the process. This is in order to even out your midsection after they remove tissue and replant it in your boobs. Frankly, if I had known I was going to get a butt-job out of this, I would have rushed to have had a double-mastectomy 20 years ago, whether I needed it or not.

Even so, I didn’t get my money’s worth when it came to butt removal. My surgeon was way too conservative on that end (no pun intended) and concentrated more on my boobs—despite my constant pestering otherwise. You know the adage: “You can never be too rich or too thin?” Well, for me, it’s “You can never have a small enough butt.”

Right before surgery, when I’m in the pre-op area, my surgeon entered with his magic marker and began drawing circles all over my abdomen of where he was going to slice and dice and cut and chop. (This included a staple that I pointed out he had left inside me during my last surgery. “Oh, yeah, we’ll get that,” he replied casually.) Anyway, when he began drawing eensy-teensy circles around my hip area, I stopped him dead in his tracks. “No, no, no! This will not do!” I told him. I pointed to my buxom derriere and said, “It needs to be sucked out of here!”

He didn’t budge. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. Of course, I do, silly man. “No, you don’t.” He was adamant. “It will make you sag if I pull fat from there.” Soooooooo, what’s the problem with that? Let’s see…sagging butt versus big butt. There’s no question about what a butt-obsessed person would choose.

I reached for the magic marker to jerk it out of his hands and we got into a wrestling match, practically fighting each other to the floor. He won, of course. They always do when they knock you out with anesthesia.

So, now I have bigger boobs and an ever-so-slightly smaller butt. This is what I’m stuck with forever since I hope to never darken the door of an operating room ever again. Therefore, I must take comfort in what my dad has always said: “There’s nothing worse than a woman without an ass.”

The Great Escape

It’s my third day after surgery and I’m ready to break out of this joint. Hospitals are like prisons, when you think about it. You have no control over your life and have to follow everyone’s orders. You’re fed institutional meals. You wear unfashionable garb that looks like all the other inmates. Consequently, I’ve even been on my best behavior, hoping for an early release. But no such luck. Alas, it’s time to make a bribe.

As indelicate as this subject may be, I must point out that you aren’t released until you pass gas. Yes, you heard right. It’s not the sort of thing Southern girls like me have been encouraged to do. So, now when you have all these nurses telling you that you’re staying in the slammer until the gas is passed, you get another perspective on this matter. They want to make sure that after the anesthesia from surgery closed down your intestinal system that it’s back in working order.

Even then, passing gas is not enough. Oh, no. Then, you have to graduate from clear liquids to a soft food diet to see how you’ll react before they release you. So, now I’m waiting for lunch, which will be something along the lines of pudding and mashed potatoes, when actually, I want to eat a horse. The greatest challenge once I get home will be to not stuff my mouth with everything in sight since I haven’t had solid food for almost a week.

I have to admit that this go-around, though, I have much more energy and less pain than my first surgery. I’m restless and have been strolling the hallways, pulling along my IV stand – kind of like a toddler pulling his wagon behind him. Back and forth I go along the same corridor, trying to avoid running into all the medical personnel with their machines. Walking makes you feel significantly better. I learned this the last time. Moving around and exercising produces endorphins, which is far more effective in pain relief than any medication.

A draining experience
I’m also waiting for my doctor to give the go-ahead for my drains to be pulled since these are two souvenirs I’d rather not take home from my luxurious hospital stay. Which reminds me that I never fully revealed the details of drains from my last surgery. This surgery, I have 2, whereas last surgery, I had 6. They hang from you like teats on a mother cow, filling up constantly with fluid that needs to be released from your body. Once the fluid fills the drain, the weight pulls on the tubing that is wound up inside your abdomen and extends out through a hole in your skin. Lovely, isn’t it? You need to empty your drains every few hours and measure the amount and not lie about it. You’re tempted to cheat because the less fluid you record, the quicker the doctor will remove the drains.

After my first surgery, I had 6 drains in my abdomen for 2 weeks. Unfortunately, the trendy fashion designers have not taken into consideration drains when they are creating their spring line. Alas, I have good ol’, reliable Target for my recovery wear—which includes stretchy yoga pants and knit tops. Drains are not appetizing, so you want to keep them hidden from small children and those with delicate stomachs. And, if you have a sensitive stomach, you’re out of luck, baby.

After a week of drains extending from you like snakes coming out of some mythical creature, they start irritating you. They itch and are cumbersome, and you want them out. Each time I got a drained removed, it was an enormous relief--despite the process of pulling them…which I will explain.

They do not administer any pain reliever when pulling your drain. You simply lean back on the examining table, take in a really deep breath and blow out hard, like you’re delivering a baby. As you do this, the nurse jerks out the long plastic tubing that has been wrapped up snuggly inside of you. I was shocked at how long some of these cords extended. No wonder I was so uncomfortable carrying around all that plastic inside of me. Removing the drains finally enabled me to stand up straight and move with more flexibility. You get a new lease on life! There is a tomorrow! Okay, you get the point. So, that’s why I’m impatiently waiting for the doctor to order my 2 drains out before I leave the hospital…otherwise, I’ll have them over the weekend. Joy.

Another thing I notice is that after all this surgery, my boobs look smaller than ever and my butt looks bigger than ever, so I’m wondering if they confused my surgery with someone else and gave them my boobs. That would be my luck.

B-Day (Boob Day)

In 30 minutes, I leave for the hospital for my 2nd operation -- a hysterectomy and final reconstruction. Most importantly, but what I've not focused on these past 2 weeks when I learned I had to undergo surgery again so soon, is the chance they may find cancer in my abdomen. From my experience with living with cancer, I don't dwell on "what if." Doing so drives you crazy with worry and destroys the joy of the day. "What if" may never happen. And if it does, then you deal with it when you know for sure. It's interesting that I've applied this theory to other aspects of my life. Although I'm not worry free about jobs and finances and my future, I don't dwell on worse-case-scenario, but know that I will somehow muster the strength to face life's challenges.This surgery has me more unnerved than the last...because I know what to expect. My memory is too strong. I explained to a friend who had recently given birth, "It's like having a baby and then delivering again 3 months later." You need to give your body a chance to heal physically, but more important, emotionally. I remember too well my last hospital stay and recovery time. Now that I'm feeling healthy and strong, it's hard to subject myself to being cut up and starting the healing process over. It reminds me of when I was going through chemo. I had had several chemo treatments before my lumpectomy -- so they could see if the chemo drugs were working on my tumor. Surgery provided a wonderful break for a month. And then, I had to start back on chemo...and that killed me. I had gotten used to feeling great, only to have to gear up again for a few more bouts of the nasty stuff.My thoughts about my faith have also fluxated during this time, going from holding God at a distance, to being moved by something said or something read. My friend, Sue, wrote a devotional book for women in mid-life, and I've found this extremely comforting. One night (as with most nights), I was unable to sleep, tossing and turning and fixating on my surgery. I tried praying and my mind raced. I tried reading the Bible and couldn't concentrate. So I picked up Sue's book.She began with the story of her living her dream life in a small town in Pennsylvania with her growing family, when her husband got a job offer in Atlanta...where she didn't want to go. After a while of struggle, she realized that "God had a different plan for my life than the one I would have chosen."She sums up her decision to move from her comfort zone with this: "We dream big when we are little. Unsettling as it may be, God dreams bigger."Her words and insights have comforted me and moved me. I've been carried by her and two other women, who I met years ago when we formed a writers' critique group to share our personal work. Life's craziness dissolved our regular writers' meeting, but grew us into an amazing, deep group of friends. In fact, Sue, Casey & Laura are meeting Gary & me at the hospital this morning to hold me hand and pray for me, and to be on-hand for Gary.So, now I end my blog for a few days as I head off. The next entry will be after surgery, after the first few days in the hospital, after the heavy drugs wear off. And then, I can move on with my life.

God is in the Details

I've heard that God is in the details. Well, I confess that these days, I not only don't see Him in the details, but also in the enormity of life's challenges. Big or small, I don't see Him at all.

I was simply having "one of those days" today. You know what I mean...you've experienced them, too. Everything went wrong. Everyone got on my last nerve. I questioned God's judgment in creating humanity. Yes, one of those days.

It started with my husband backing out of accompanying me to the gym. Now, I know this may sound silly, but I'm constantly harping on him to exercise for health reasons rather than listen to him whine about his middle-age body. Plus, I wanted the companionship. But, he blew me off and I felt insignificant...that he didn't want to spend time with me. Have I become an "old shoe" after 8 years of marriage?

I headed to the post office, where I was the only customer...let me say this again, the only customer. Yet, I had to wait because the postal employee decided it was more important to bring out passport applications than wait on me...like, I'm assuming, he's expecting a rush on overseas travel in the midst of the shrinking dollar and the astronomical cost of fuel. Another employee finally waited on me, while Mr. Passport practically jumped over the counter to help his friend who had just walked in the door. Call me chopped liver.

After my postal experience, I went for a swim in which I struggled to breath the entire time and my legs cramped in the pool. It was a less than enjoyable workout. After that, I went to our new vet's office to pick up Riley's records and rabies tags they forgot to give us. I'll save you the boring specifics and just say that every interaction we have had with this vet has been a nightmare..they don't even use a computer. I waited 20 minutes for our file...until it was dicovered that the teenage tatooed receptionist with 9 inch fingernails didn't bother to write our name on our file, so she couldn't find it. I took my dog's records and told them we wouldn't be back. Ever.

My nerves were on edge by the time I got home and tried in vain to reach someone at the business office at the hospital to pay out-of-pocket expenses for my surgery. I had previously left 3 messages and this time, I kept being cut off by their computerized answering service. I finally gave up, realizing that if they wanted to be paid badly enough, they'd contact me.

Next, I had my over-the-phone surgery assessment, in which I disclosed that I suspected I have sleep apnea (since I quit breathing during the night and wake up gasping for breath). My admission about this stalled my pre-op tests until Monday, the day before surgery -- which messed up my plans for today.

Then, I was off to my two surgeons' offices for pre-surgery consultations -- this is where you sign your life away after they tell you that having surgery puts you at risk for paralysis and brain damage and death. After the day I was having, that didn't sound so bad.

During my doctor visits, I found out that I'm also getting my apendix removed (surprise!) and I will, in fact, have drains again in my breasts. Oh, happy day.

I love my doctors and their assistants, and trust my life (and brain and non-paralyzed body parts) to them. However, no matter what questions I pose, I can never quite pin them down in giving me the full scoop as to what to fully expect. Surgery, frankly, is a matter of trust. I don't even know my boob size. "You'll love it," said my reconstruction surgeon. What does that mean? Will I look like Marilyn Monroe or Twiggy?! I have no idea.

On my way home, I stopped by my favorite neighborhood farmer's market, only to discover from other customers that a home invasion had just occurred in the area. The cul-de-sac was roped off with police tape; police cars and a fire truck were parked along the street; and detectives with guard dogs were combing the area. Just what I needed....a suspect on the loose in our neighborhood to top the day.

At this point, I was ready for a glass of wine or a double-dose of prosac...or both. I was also thinking of filling my pain medicine perscriptions early and taking heavy doses of percoset.

And then, while I was wrapping up my purchases, a teenage girl with her dad passed by me and walked out the door. Suddenly, the girl came back inside and said to me, "This may sound really weird, but I have to tell you that you're beautiful." I was stunned. Here I was -- no makeup, "goggle eyes" from swimming earlier, with my naturally kinky-curly hair pulled back since I didn't bother to style it. I was feeling old and worn out and well, less than attractive in a chopped up body. And, then, a young girl tells me that I am beautiful.

It's not that I need to hear those words for my ego. It's the fact of her kindness...her reaching out and saying something nice to a stranger. If only she knew all I was facing and how her words softened my day. And I realized that none of us fully know what another person is going through...and how much our words may provide comfort and encouragement and relief that is desperately needed.

I arrived at home, only to find my husband in a t-shirt and gym shorts with a flushed face. He had returned from a walk...exercising in the heat...because he knew how much it meant to me. And just for a moment, I saw God in the details.

Bypassing the Mid-Life Crisis

Cancer survivors have a different way of viewing things. I see it in daily interactions at work, with friends...even with strangers who cross my path.

This realization came back to me recently with my husband. Gary had an incredible assignment overseas, which crumbled at the last minute due to circumstances beyond his control. Devastated about the sudden turn of events, it was the last straw for Gary. The international assignment had potential to catapult him from the frustrating reality of his daily life to an over-the-top experience.

You could say that Gary is in the midst of a mid-life crisis, which I see many of my friends -- both male and female -- battling these days. But, I have to admit: I simply can't relate. Since I've had cancer and have lived with the threat of an early death hanging over my head for 7 years, I've skipped over the mid-life crisis phase and moved directly to "glad to be alive" on the Monopoly board. Gary, on the other hand, has gone directly to jail...do not pass Go; do not collect $200.

While Gary is mourning the loss of an adventure and struggles to find joy in the everyday, I'm drinking in every second of life. In fact, I can't seem to get enough.

Last weekend, we went to the Georgia coast to visit my older brother's family and my aunt & uncle before my next surgery. The first night, we took a walk through a stretch of marsh on Jekyll Island to reach a stretch of beach that was deserted except for pelicans and seagulls socializing along the water's edge. I wanted to linger for a while, soaking in the sea smells and sounds. Gary seemed impatient and antsy...ready to head back and start making dinner.

The next morning, we rode bikes along a path, which transported us into scrubby wilderness depicting the land of Marjorie Kinnon Rawlings--of palm trees and palmettos and pines lining a road strewn with decaying leaves and pinestraw. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss hovered over us, while hawks circled the sky and alligators studied us with their beady eyes projecting from a pond.

I was euphoric. Gary was sweating. He shared my enthusiasm for our bike ride for about 5 minutes before he was ready to go back to air-conditioning.

That's when I realized we're in different places in our lives at this point. It's not that my attitude is better. He is rightly grieving all the change--and loss--in his life, while I'm celebrating every moment gained--because I'm unsure of what's ahead for me.

And, I realize, that during this time of our unique & distinct fears and frustrations over what we face separately, we need to extend extra compassion toward one another...trying to understand life through each others' eyes...their worries and concerns -- not dismissing them as silly or shallow.

However, for my part, I'm glad to have skipped over the mid-life crisis phase...it's the least compensation I should get for being catapulted into menopause.

Food for Thought

There's a bottle of cod liver oil on the top shelf of my refrigerator, and I take a swig -- straight from the bottle -- each morning. Gary finds this ghastly and refuses to kiss me. But I believe in the healing power of God & cod, so it's my daily drink.

I have always possessed somewhat suspect eating habits, which Gary has gotten used to over the years. But, from time to time, I can still push him over the edge of his tolerance level.

A few months ago, we were in North Georgia and stopped at an art gallery. While Gary was buying me a hand-crafted necklace at the check-out counter, I noticed a bag of "gourmet organic spiced dog biscuits" for sale. The owner of the shop explained that a local woman starting selling them once she discovered her dogs were crazy about them.

So, for $6.50 -- a king's ransom -- I bought a package for our Irish terrier, Riley, who was waiting in the car. Once we got back to the car, I broke off a piece, but my picky pup stuck his nose up in the air.

Along the ride home, I discovered the ingredients included all sorts of organic flours and spices. I never could tell which ingredient qualified them for being just for dogs, so I decided to try one.

They were, in fact, excellent, and I finished off the entire package. Gary was so appalled, he almost drove off the road.

I share this story for two reasons. One is to defend myself in the face of my "natural" food friends who think I gave myself cancer...I would challenge them to line up my diet against theirs any day. The other reason for this story is to emphasize the importance of accepting the food that others bring you while you're recovering. My husband was especially appreciative since my friends have saved him from all sorts of witches brews I would have concocted.

As a final note, I want to add that since the dog biscut episode, I have not been sniffing anyone's butt, and Gary tells me that my breath is much fresher.

Why I Am Grateful

I know that many who heard I was having to undergo a double mastectomy and hysterectomy (actually, it was only an oophorectomy -- ovaries only -- as if that really makes any difference when you're having stuff pulled out of you) were a bit freaked out. Women, especially, have cringed in horror and thought, "Thank goodness that's not me!" I know this because that's what I thought whenever I encountered a woman who had breast cancer and had to undergo a mastectomy.

When I was diagnosed 7 years ago, I "escaped" having my breasts removed, and only had chemo and a lumpectomy. Whew! I was so relieved. And when I read an article last summer about a young woman with the BRCA gene who chose preemptive surgery, I was thankful that I didn't have to make that choice...until my oncologist asked that I be tested. Damn her.

So, here I am with my body cut up and rearranged and not quite ready for bikini season, but I can honestly tell you that it's okay. And, here's why:

First, I'm alive. When you're sitting in umpteen doctors' offices and mammography centers and chemo rooms, you come across others with breast cancer who have received a death sentence. And you wonder, why them? Why not me? How did I get lucky to live and they didn't? And they have small children they're leaving behind and they're only 35 years old, and that's too young to die. So, you're so grateful to get to live -- even if it's for just a little bit longer -- that you simply don't care what they cut out of you.

Second, with breast cancer, your connected to a community of some of the most amazing, inspiring women you'll ever know. Among this network, you find women who treat having a mastectomy like getting a manicure -- they're just that strong. So, you end up wanting to be as strong and cool as they are. And, if you're not as strong--that's okay, too. They help hold you up. You're never left alone with this disease; there's plenty of support out there.

And then, there's Roberta. She is the caretaker of Gary's mom. Roberta left Liberia years ago because of the devastating civil war. I asked her if she missed home and, of course, she said yes. She began sharing wonderful stories about life among her family and her village. But, soldiers came in and killed many family members and friends.

"I used to cry and cry all the time," she told me. "And then one day, I said to myself, "Roberta, you must be strong.' So, I quit crying and moved on."

If that wasn't enough to humble me, there was one other incident that put what I've been going through into perspective.

When I was nearing the end of chemotherapy 7 years ago, I was sitting in my oncologist's office complaining. Actually, I was trying to convince her to cut off treatment early because I was sick of it all--the baldness, the constant metallic taste in my mouth, a body bloated from steroids and a 20 pound weight gain. My good attitude up to that point was crumbling and I was frustrated and irritated. But she refused.

This occurred on September 10th, 2001. The next day, I watched TV footage of bodies falling from the top of the Twin Towers onto the street below, and I realized that I would gladly chose baldness, steroids, weight gain surgery, radiation and anything else associated with cancer treatment over having to make a choice as to whether to jump out of a 100+ story building or die in a fire.

It hit me that my life was a piece of cake...the life of a princess...compared to the hardships and heartbreak of so many others. And if they can endure, then by, God, so can I. And that's why I am grateful.