“When can the drains come out?”
“When you collect less than 25 milliliters in a day. A home-care nurse will come and remove them. If at any point you begin bleeding from the incisions, the reservoirs collect blood, or the fluid isn’t becoming increasingly clear as time progresses, go to the emergency room right away.”
Yikes! I thought. But I assured her I understood everything, and she left. “Everything always seems so complicated,” I said to Greg, “but I know I’ll get the hang of it.”
Despite my desire to get away, it wasn’t until just before lunchtime that both my surgical oncologist, Doctor 7, and plastic surgeon, Doctor 9, came to check me out. “The wounds look good,” Doctor 7 said as she peered at my chest. “They should heal nicely. And although I can’t be 100 percent sure until the pathology results come in, I’m fairly confident your lymph nodes were clear when I removed them, which would mean the cancer didn’t spread anywhere other than your breast tissue.”
Greg squeezed my hand.
“I’m also fairly confident I removed all of the cancerous tissue, but again I can’t be 100 percent positive until the results come back, which should be in a few weeks.”
Waiting. Always waiting. I looked at Doctor 7. Even though what she’d said wasn’t a guarantee, I was going to trust her. I had to be able to move forward. For my own sanity.
Doctor 9 asked how I was feeling.
“Better now that I’ve taken Percocet. I felt a lot of pressure on my chest and the morphine wasn’t working.”
He nodded. “That’s understandable. When I put expanders in, they’re each usually filled with 60 cubic centimeters of saline. I felt you’d be able to handle more, so I put 120 cubic centimeters in.”
“Oh?” That explained how I was feeling! “Why did you feel I could handle it?” I asked, because it honestly didn’t feel that way. I laughed as I said it, because I didn’t want to seem rude but wished I hadn’t—I’d forgotten laughing hurt.
“You’re young and healthy, which means your skin is more elastic and will be able to adjust rapidly to the change.”
I tried to look at it optimistically: this meant I would leave the hospital not as flat-chested and would have fewer subsequent appointments for “fill-ups.” It also explained why when I looked down for the first time I had bigger “mounds” than I initially thought I would. The two surgeons left, and I was just about to say to Greg, “I wonder how long it will take before we get out of here,” when the doctor on call showed up. I hadn’t seen him before, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to be on our way home, with my new set of breasts.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, and looked at my chart.
“Like I’m ready to go home.”
He smiled. “I’m going to check your incisions, and if they’re healing nicely, I’ll discharge you.” He undid my bandages ever so gently, and while he looked down, I looked straight ahead—I wasn’t ready to look again. “The surgeon did a nice job. These are going to heal nicely.” I was happy to take his word for it and also to hear him sounding so impressed. He signed papers in my chart. “You’re free to go.”
I would have jumped out of the bed if I could have. As it was, I carefully shifted myself out and Greg helped me get into the wheelchair an orderly had brought into the room earlier. As he’d done on our last trip out of the hospital, Greg wheeled me to the front door of the hospital, but once again I then walked to the car. I was determined to do this, although I was a lot slower than the last time. I stole a pillow from the hospital and placed it between my chest and the seat belt. I couldn’t bear the thought of the seat belt rubbing against me, nor did I want it to disrupt any of the stitches. I leaned the seat back and dozed off on the way home. Before I knew it, we were pulling in the driveway.
“Hey, Mom,” I said as I walked into the kitchen. She was making snacks for the kids, who were in the living room. I peeked around the corner; they were building block towers. They saw me and raced over. I dropped onto a kitchen chair—I didn’t want to be bumped into or knocked over—and braced myself for a big hug.
“We missed you, Mommy,” Charley shouted, and started crawling onto my lap.
“Charley, be careful!” my mom said and tried to pull her off me. “You’re going to hurt her.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Charley, come sit beside me on the couch,” I said, getting up slowly. Mom finished getting the snacks together and brought them into the living room. I knew she was trying to distract the kids so they wouldn’t be all over me, and I gave her a grateful glance.
Mom took care of everything to do with the kids for the next few days, so I could just hang out with them. She forced me to nap, which helped the healing process, and reminded me to do the stretches recommended by the doctors to maintain the range of motion in my arms, since the surgery would affect that.
She also reminded me to empty the drains. They were proving to be annoying—it was a pain to milk the tubing, empty the reservoirs, then clip them back on again—yet it was also fascinating to have three long tubes sticking out of my body and draining fluid. Gross, too. The fluid was at first red, then pink, yellow and almost clear, a transformation that was a sign things were going well. There was an average of 40 to 50 milliliters per day for the first two days, then 20 to 30 milliliters for the next couple of days. I had to wait till that amount was consistently down to less than 25 milliliters during a twenty-four-hour period for the drains to be removed, although both drains on my left side had to be removed on separate days. I could not wait for all of them to be gone.
Chapter 31
SIGNS OF EMOTION
I hadn’t been able to shower in six full days; cautious baths were all I could manage.
“How do you do it?” Melanie asked one day when we were chatting on the phone.
“I sit on the side of the tub, put the reservoir bottles on the ledge beside me, then carefully slip into the water. I just have to watch that I don’t get the drains and everything wet.”
“What a pain!”
“Surprisingly, it’s not that bad compared to feeling sick.” That was true. The drains were gross, yes; a bit awkward—they’d pinch at times under my ribs or in my side where they poked out of my body, depending on how I moved—but particularly inconvenient, no. And I’d take them over constant nausea. But when the fluids decreased enough that it was time for the home-care nurse to come and remove them, I had to admit I was pretty happy.
When the nurse arrived, Greg and I led her into our bedroom. I lay down on my side, as instructed, and she explained what was going to happen while she prepped her supplies.
“I’ll take out the stitch that’s holding the drain in, then count down from three. When I get to zero, it’ll be over.”
“That’s it?” Greg said.
“That’s it. And within an hour, the holes will be completely closed up.”
I looked back at her; she was standing behind me, so she’d be able to get a better grip on the drains, I guessed. How could it possibly be that easy?
She took hold of the tube, began counting, and said, “Take a deep breath!” and pulled till the whole drain came free. Greg, who was standing beside the nurse so he could watch, gasped in shock, I presume. I started laughing at his reaction; I was amazed it didn’t hurt. I wondered if that was because I was numb from the surgery.
“I can’t believe how long it is,” Greg said. I could hear the awe in his voice. “Do you want to see it, Alana?”
“No,” I said, almost before he finished asking. I was staring out the window, and I refused to shift my focus. I was sure we’d been told the drains were 8 centimeters long, but from the sound of Greg’s voice, I couldn’t help but think they were much longer. After the nurse removed the second one, he showed it to me. It was huge! In fact, each drain was 8 inches long—so long they must have been crossing over each other inside of me.
The nurse packed up. “I’ll be back tomorrow to take out that third drain.” I glanced at my watch; by the ti
me she left, only fifteen minutes had gone by.
The next day Greg took the drains to work; the nurse had left them behind. When he got home he was buzzing. “You should have seen the guys’ faces. They turned green. They couldn’t believe you had those in your body.”
Later that night I was the one who was uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, as he noticed me shifting in bed.
“I can’t lie on my stomach like I used to, I can’t lie on my sides because I feel pressure, and I’m completely not used to sleeping on my back.” I thought back to that night in the hospital after I’d had the breast-reconstruction surgery and how awful that had been. Percocet wasn’t an option anymore, though, because I’d completely finished my prescription and had nothing left. I was frustrated and getting myself wound up.
“Just try to relax,” Greg said.
I couldn’t at that moment. I felt mangled and alone. Each time the painkillers started wearing off, I’d realize how I actually felt. The pain wasn’t so much a stabbing or piercing feeling, but rather an incredibly uncomfortable feeling of pressure, as if I had something pushing against my rib cage—not surprising considering the things inside me were called “expanders.” Although the pain was more intense than it would have been had the doctor not put extra saline into the expanders right away, I was happy he’d made that decision because I was now one step closer to the end result. I could live with the pain. I could. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. Then the painkillers would wear off again.
I couldn’t sleep, I hurt so much, and I couldn’t stop thinking. I didn’t have the slightest desire to see my new breasts—or lack thereof. Bandages concealed most of my chest. On top of the bandages I wore a wrap that looked like a tube top to hold everything in place. The tube top seemed like a neat idea until I found out what it actually was: a pair of hospital-supplied underwear with the crotch cut out. Finally morning came. I must have fallen asleep at some point, and that must have done me some good, since I didn’t feel as helpless as I did the night before. But the idea that a part of my body had just been removed was haunting me.
“What’s the matter?” Mom said when I joined her in the kitchen for a coffee.
“It’s weird.” I shrugged, hesitating. “I’m glad they’re gone, because I’m glad that I don’t have to deal with it anymore, but I literally just had my boobs chopped off. That’s hard to get used to.”
She hugged me. “I can’t say it’s okay. And I can’t say I understand, because I don’t. It is what it is, and it’s something you had to do, and you are stronger because of it.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re right. As usual.” I took a big swallow of coffee and the two of us sat there, silent at the kitchen table.
The pain got more bearable over the next few days. As that happened, I started to feel more curious. I had tried not to look at myself when the home-care nurse had changed the bandages—I wasn’t ready for that yet—but I couldn’t avoid glimpses. When she stopped coming, I was on my own, though, and I decided it was time to have a good look.
I shut myself in the bathroom off the master bedroom. Charley was less likely to come looking for me there. I stared at myself in the mirror and steeled myself for the first glimpse of the new me. It was some minutes before I could remove the tube top. I took a deep breath, then removed the first layer of bandages. It was kind of like unwrapping one of those presents that someone has covered in layers of paper, and I didn’t know when I was going to get to the bottom. There were a couple of layers of thick gauze to take off, and then a thinner piece of gauze that was stuck in a square patch over my breast. I slowly peeled that off, not wanting it to stick to anything or tear any stitches.
Then there it was, the last piece of medical tape that was covering my wound. Ever so gently, I began to remove the tape. When it came away from my skin, my two mastectomy scars were staring right at me.
The nipples were gone, which was weird to see, or not see, I had to admit. Two horizontal incisions ran across each side of my chest. They were impressive: The doctor had done an amazing job, and the stitches weren’t at all visible on the outside. There was bruising—large blue and purple patches stretching from side to side. I couldn’t figure out how much of the mounds I saw were as a result of swelling or my new breasts. I touched them tentatively. They were numb, somehow didn’t feel a part of me. But I felt good about how great my new breasts looked. I wanted to show them off to other people.
I opened the door and called out to the living room.
“Greg, can you come here for a minute?”
He was there in seconds, thinking something was wrong.
“Do you want to see?” I asked, knowing already what the answer would be.
“Sure!” And without hesitation, I removed the tape that I had just put back on.
“Wow, it looks really good! I was expecting more stitches!”
“I know. Me too.” I yelled out again. “Mom, come here!” Greg left to trade places with my mom so he could watch the kids.
“Do you want to see my scars?”
“Sure!”
I lifted the tape again.
She cringed, thinking that it hurt me, then smiled. “Wow, Alana, I’m impressed. I mean, I didn’t know what to expect, but it’s better than I expected.”
We were all expecting scars like those on Frankenstein’s monster, and that certainly wasn’t the case. It looked like the skin had been folded over in such a way that the stitches were neatly tucked inside. It was beyond fascinating, and I was beyond thrilled.
A short while later, a friend of mine, Adel, popped by to drop off some homemade treats. I wanted to get her opinion, too. We went to the bathroom, and I pulled off my top and removed the bandages.
“Oh my god, Alana! They look amazing!” She almost started crying. “I thought it would be much worse. I thought there would be more scars or something—but not this.”
“They’re great, aren’t they?” I couldn’t stop smiling. “I didn’t think they’d look this good at this point, either. And I have to admit no nipples isn’t as bizarre as I thought it would be.”
“How are you feeling otherwise?” she asked.
“I’m pretty happy,” I said. Of course, if she’d asked me that morning, my answer would have been different. What a difference seeing the amazing work my plastic surgeon had done had made!
I was determined to do my stretching exercises every day. The sooner I could move properly, the sooner I’d be able to do everything I used to. The exercises were to regain full range of movement. I’d been given a list for the first seven days after surgery, then more to do after that. For the most part, I had to stand near a wall and try to inch my arms up the wall. Luckily I was able to do the exercises while keeping an eye on the kids. But the stretches were difficult—I found it hard to move my arms to shoulder height and couldn’t lift anything over five pounds.
“Don’t overdo it,” Mom said when she saw me wincing in pain.
“I need to get back to normal.”
“You might end up worse if you push it too far.”
I was impatient, though. In my mind I wasn’t getting back to my “normal self” fast enough. I decided to go to physiotherapy. The sessions would be two times a week for four weeks. After a single session, I had already noticed a slight improvement—I could move a tiny bit farther. I was glad. Being dependent on other people all the time was driving me crazy. I hated it. Mom was staying with us for a few weeks, and family and friends had scheduled “helping” days—which was all wonderful in theory and in practice. Logically I knew that. Except I desperately wanted to get back into the swing of things.
“Just let us help,” my mother kept saying.
“I feel as though I’ve already taken up so much of everyone’s time. I don’t want to bother anyone anymore.”
“You’re not supposed to do things. You might hurt yourself.”
“I know, and I have to force myself not to, but I’m frustrat
ed you’re missing out on work because of me. I’m angry that Greg doesn’t get paid sick days to stay home to help, and while I’m so grateful people are willing and able to drop everything they’re doing to help me out, I wish they didn’t have to.”
“People want to help. Otherwise they feel helpless. Sometimes you just have to learn to say thank you.”
Still, I couldn’t help but think it was my responsibility to get better so we could all get back to normal. I tried to ask for just what I needed, but it felt as though everyone except my mom thought I was getting quite good at delegating. Greg even asked me at one point to be patient. I was hurt, I admit it. I wasn’t trying to be demanding, but I also was unwillingly forced into the role of delegator instead of my old role of doer. And until my six weeks of recovery were up, I had no choice in the matter.
When I was finally able to go see my grandmother, it had been a few weeks since she’d been diagnosed with C. difficile. I hadn’t visited her in all that time, especially while she was in the hospital, because no one wanted me to take a chance of getting sick—that was a very real possibility. But now she was in a nursing home, and well enough that I could go visit her.
When I walked into her room, I was taken aback. This was not the grandmother I knew. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I sobbed for a good twenty minutes. She looked sad, lonely, weak and frail, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room—but I realized that all of the emotion I had been bottling up inside for the last six months was now flooding out of me.
My poor grandmother! I felt bad that I just went there and cried, but I felt comfortable letting it all out with her, and I clearly needed that release. I know she understood. She told me I would be okay and consoled me, and we just sat there, two sick people together, holding hands, side by side. It was the kind of closeness I would always remember.
Holding on to Normal Page 16
