Again on Ice

Friday was surgery day - so not surprising that it was a big blur.  First I got irradiated so the surgeon could see lymph nodes.

This was memorable because of how the material designed to make me glow with divine light was delivered via four shots around my right nipple at the noon, 3 o'clock, 6 o'clock and 9 o'clock positions. What can you do but shake your head and wonder why there isn't a more humane way.

But that happened at noon and yes it burned like hell but didn't kill me and by two I was in surgery where they were playing music that I didn't exactly recognize, but I didn't object to either. And then I was out.

Soon - it seemed from my perspective - there was no music but I was drinking ginger ale in recovery and back in a room on a post surgery floor by early evening. My breast was gone but my husband said my sentinel nodes were clear - which I though meant no chemotherapy  was needed.

I breathed a sigh of relief and dozed on and off - then ate half a turkey sandwich at ten or so.

Overnight it was hard to get the pain under control but it wasn't unbearable and I did get a couple of hours of sleep. Daughter 3 on one side and spouse on the other.

Around noon Saturday the reconstructive surgeon came into the room to check out his work and go over my progress sheet. At that point he grinned and gave me my Get out of Jail card. I could leave the hospital less than 24 hours after I checked in. So I did.

But as it turns out, there was a lot of action in that 24 hours and I don't know where Saturday and Sunday went. Flowers arrived, and cookies, and cute photos of kids I've become adoptive nana to, and beautiful baubles . . that I'm so appreciative for.

I've got bits and pieces of memories that don't quite fit together like a patchwork quilt but they form a big enclosing hug in my mind. 

I'm a bit of patchwork myself, as I've still got tubes draining out of my chest wall & negative pressure suction bulbs hanging from the tubes. A little like clear pink Jellyfish sucking at tentacles. Wish you were here.

It was an exciting idea to be allowed to take a shower whenever I wanted to  - and it surprised me when the surgeon said I could. But Sunday morning when I attempted it. I'm not sure any description can do justice  to the episode except to say that that in spite of all the wonderful support I've gotten I felt utterly alone.

There in the bathroom with my poor husband who's about as far from a nurse as humanly possible but who has been doing a boatload of nurturing, I had a significant breakdown complete with sobbing and inability to even begin to  put my camisole top over the gauze or otherwise deal with my chest. I was a wreck. I knew it. I apologized repeatedly. This is not the brave front wanted anyone to see - including myself.

By the end of the day both daughters #2 and #3 had helped with wound care and drainage and positioning ice packs and gauze. My son didn't wince or turn away. Apparently I have no functional modesty after this kind of surgery and these special people I love are somehow able to take it.

The day of falling apart turned into the evening from itchy hell and benadryl capsules and spray were added to the basket of supplies I keep nearby  The antibiotic was suspected of being the itchy culprit so today, Monday, Keflex got the boot and the pharmacy got paid yet another visit.

The more things change the more they stay the same. I'm on ice. Again. This seems to be a cyclical story. In bed, ice on chest, propped up as per surgeon's instructions, and trying to nap on and off. Too early to really put the story together cohesively.

Comments

[Mark Harrison]

It's hard to know what to say. Anything I could possibly write would sound trite, and unhelpful.

I'm afraid that while I "know you on Twitter", I've no idea of stuff like your religious beliefs.

Whatever they are, I hope you won't be offended to learn that we're praying for you here in the UK this Christmas.

We're praying that you and your family will pull through this, and we'll all be privileged to carry on sharing your wisdom, generosity and compassion for many years to come.

Love, prayers and whatever the Internet equivalent of Hugs are...

Mark in West Sussex, England

[Cathryn Hrudicka]

Susan, you have been so brave, and it is completely understandable that you would need to cry and feel grief over the loss of your breast and what has happened to you. We're here with you, following your totally coherent update, wishing we could all find some way to make it easier for you. Just know that we're with you on Christmas and look forward to many, many more Happy New Years with you, too.

Love and Happy Holidays to your entire family,

Cathryn/Creative Sage(tm)

[laurak]

I hope you have plenty of hands because a whole bunch of us are holding yours in our hearts. You're allowed to fall apart a little. That's what all these people who love you are for.

-Laura K

P.S. What a great mom you must be to have raised such loving, supportive kids.

[Shannon Seery Gude]

Thinking about you and your family, and have shared your story with many. Thank you for writing as real and coherently as you have. Sending good thoughts your way. Love, prayers, and Merry Christmas to you and your family from Shannon and Julian Seery Gude.

[jquig99]

Susan - thanks so much for the update. You're an amazing inspiration. And your family is fantastic. And it's healthy to have that release - tears are part of the process too.

You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

Jane

[Otenth]

You just go ahead and fall apart whenever it happens. The people around you are all grownups and they obviously love you enough to hold you and pick you up when it happens (even if it's outside their comfort zone).

Thank you for the update. Even though I "know" you through twitter, I'm actually a fan of the long form, myself. :-)

[isabella mori]

i can't believe you're in this state and you're still blogging. amazing! can you see my mouth hanging open?

i wish you wish you wish you - whatever you wish for. the ability to enjoy your shower. to become less of a jelly fish ASAP. to continue to be showered with the love your family and friends have for you.

blessings. in whatever form you feel they're good for you.

[Jody]

Dear Susan, sending you lots of warm hugs, lots of support & plenty of tissues, because crying is okay, releasing all that pressure inside is all part of the healing process...remember all those little channels in the body that are saying whew...we cried.

I also can not believe your blogging & I also can't believe your home already, sitting up in bed with "peas" on your chest.

Let the healing on the outside begin & may the inside healing gently wrap you in many hugs from New Mexico.

[Susan Reynolds / SL Tynan Clary]

It's so nice to recognize your names - old friends and new ones - and all your support is just so humbling.

Mark I appreciate your prayers and hope I can count on more.

I'm not really doing anything so amazing at ALL. With the kind of encouragement and love I've been shown of course I owe it to people to updates, certainly the day _after_ surgery. But Saturday came and went and then Sunday - and it wasn't until today that I could string two words together in a sentence.

In other words I meant to be better at updating but it takes me forever to connect a couple of thoughts. As proved by how long it took me to write this comment on the comment :)

[Dr.Mani]

Susan, 'bold fronts' are great - up to a point. Grieving is part of the healing process.

You are surrounded by a blanket of love, with people who are willing to share your trial by fire. It's ok to let yourself go from time to time.

We are all hoping and praying you'll bounce back quickly.

Merry Christmas :)

All success,
Dr.Mani

[Liz Strauss]

I love you.

All of you.

Hell with the praying . . . I hope the drugs are spectacular. Better living through friends, art, and great medications.

Not really meant to be irreverent . . . well, maybe a little . . . :)

[Kyle]

Susan, thank you for the update, we've been thinking about you and will continue to do so. I was telling your story to my family (not the Twitter types) this holiday and they are all behind you 100%, especially my Mum who has a similar tale.

Her message: "You ARE doing something amazing."

Think well, be well.

/kff

[Anna]

I've been thinking both in reference to you and in reference to life about the tension, the contradiction between "we're in this together" and "you're on your own", about how they are both true and they are both false.

Hugs to you and Merry Christmas.

And I *will* be praying. You're clearly up to the brim with "better living through friends, art and great medications"

[francine hardaway]

Cry. What's wrong with that? It's the "right" thing to do -- to grieve. I have never known a woman with breast cancer who didn't. And to put it in perspective, I know people who cry when they come out with the wrong hair color from the beauty shop. You have earned the breakdown. And you have blogged it and shared it, which is a huge service to others. Did you ever read Betty Rollins' book -- it is called "First You Cry."

I cannot tell you how much I long go meet you f2f. You are my kind of girl!

[AnnOhio]

A great big hug for you..around the knees of course..chest to chest would more than likely hurt like hell!

:o)

Love,

Ann

[Liz Strauss]

Merry Christmas, Susan!
My life is better because you're a part of it. Thank you for the gift you are. :)

Thinking of you . . .

[Merlin]

Susan, my wife well remembers the jelly fish tentacles experience as she had them coming out of both sides. She called herself Aquawoman once. LOL

Glad you're out of the hospital. Wow! They've come a long way these past few years.

Hang in there, cry a little from time to time and remember...we're here thinking of you and yours and walking the path along side you in spirit and prayer. ;^)