Ice-cream. You scream.

I never realized how perfectly my body functions as a whole, until it all started functioning in pieces.

On the day after my nine-hour surgery I realized I’d lost my appetite, lung capacity, range of motion, energy, ability to walk, memory, core-strength,  as well as any sensitivity in my new breasts.

When functions come back, they do so at their own time, in their own pace. At first I couldn’t move the little ball in my aspirator, but now I can hold big lung full’s of air! And I can stroll around the neighborhood on my own, rather than clinging to my mother.

Crack

My appetite is back too, and was announcing itself last night as I sat on the sofa with a smelly wet basset hound named Jed. More than anything, I needed ice cream. And it wasn’t a passing fancy, it was a hard-core crack-esque craving.

So regardless of the late hour, and in spite of the rain, I nudged the dog aside and hauled myself off into an upright position. I needed Häagen-Dazs. Moments later I was shuffling up the road in my rubber boots, umbrella in one hand - ten-dollar bill in the other.

Twenty minutes later I was back in the kitchen, soggy but triumphant. I plunked the ice-cream on the counter, eased the lid, and dug in.

Holy F*ck. It was like diving into an empty swimming pool – hard as rock. My outer ribs stung from the effort and I could feel my incisions burning right through my chest.  I gasped –as my formerly numb boobs screamed with pain. My appetite and energy may have been on board, but my upper body strength certainly was not! Spooning hard-as-rock ice-cream was out of the question.

So instead of digging in, I brought the container to my mouth and gave it a little lick.

There! My taste buds were happy, my tummy was happy, and everything in between will just take a while to catch up.

Karma. With a C.

I remember the day I first saw my math teacher,  Miss Bowmen. It was grade nine, and her class was the third period of the day. Up until that moment, all my teachers had been relatively young, with a youthful spark that comes from being happy and in charge.

But when Miss Bowen entered the room she wasn't happy. The energy went down, rather than up.  She wore a knee length brown tweed skirt, and her hair, blouse, skin, and teeth were all the same colour.  Buff yellow.  She was carrying a bag (brown) and she took out an envelope (manila) and put it on her desk.  I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t have ankles. And while not fat, she had only soft fuzzy lines where edges should be. When she spoke, she gazed at us from droopy eyes,‘I’m Miss Bowmen.'

I was exhausted! Not only had she arrived without bringing energy into the room, but she was stealing ours.  Her chest seemed deflated and I wanted to run home and grab my bike pump. Liven up Miss Bowmen!

Miss Bowmen

When she turned to write her name on the board her profile resembled the letter C. Her shoulders were hunched, and the back of her neck between her beige collar and wheat coloured hair, was exposed to the ceiling. Her back was rounded, her broad beam was tucked under, and I don’t think she had any knees. I remember thinking that she looked like a banana.

Indeed, I often referred to her as Miss Banana. (Never to her face though – I just did it for my own amusement).  Sometimes I referred to her as Miss C. As a teacher she was dreary, but I was obsessed with her shape and never got tired of discussing it.  ‘She looks like a C’  & ‘What’s wrong with Miss Bowmen’ ‘Why is she yellow?’ Finally,  one day, ‘Has anyone noticed that Miss C is getting yellower?’

And then Miss Banana Bowen stopped coming to class. Instead of a Big C standing in front of us there was another woman, completely erect and full of equations.

Several decades later, and now I am Ms C!  I can’t help wondering if children giggle at me when I’m crossing a crosswalk at my top speed.  Or how flat and wide my ass looks now that it’s (temporarily) tucked under. I don’t mind -  my skin is thick. I agree that I look funny.

But what I also think about is this – what WAS wrong with Miss Bowmen. Jaundice? Crohns? Celliac disease? And I realize that the Miss Bowmen I met was probably not the Miss Bowmen she considered herself to be. And that maybe it took all her energy to make it up the stairs to class and that she was doing her absolute best not to keel over. And that maybe I should have said thank-you, at least once.

But I didn’t. So now it’s my turn to be shaped like the letter C.

That’s Carma. It will always get you in the end.

Scary Movie

I’m one of those people who watches  a scary movie through my hand. 

Can't wait for the sequel!

I’ll start with a closed hand covering my eyes, and once the screaming stops, I might separate a finger or two so I can see a sliver of the screen.  When I know for sure that the monster has left the room I will probably look at the full picture, but it will still be a few moments before I can relax my hand and start eating popcorn.

So it is with my scars.

When I took my first shower, I covered the mirror with my towel so I wouldn’t have to look.  Some would say that was unhealthy – and to that I would say - I agree! But it’s a lot healthier than being so shocked that buckle at the knees and slam your head into the wall. Which is what happened when I accidentally saw my belly scar.  Now I can sort of look at it, in short bursts, but sometimes I have to turn away.

The breasts are another matter. I only peeked at them once when I was high on morphine and numb to the world. And, if they weren’t attached to me, I would have barely recognised them as my own.  Scarred, bruised, stitched and misshapen, one looks like a hamburger patty, and the other, the end of a football.

However, I truly believe my body needs some loving, and that my little cells need to know that they are in a safe place to heal. They need to be washed, and touched.

So I’m going Helen Keller on this one. Before going into the shower I put a 4’ x 4’ patch of gauze over each work in progress, taped only at the top.  And I put another flap over my belly button which has it’s own scarring issues, as it had to be relocated. (It’s a long story – and not something I would recommend before bedtime). Then I dim the lights, cover the mirror with a towel, and hop in the shower with all the agility of a two-legged pork-chop. Once there I do everything that Helen would do. I gently wash myself, especially those parts of me that need a little tenderness. And I do it all without opening my eyes

Post shower  - in the gently lit bedroom - I peel of the gauze and apply some clean new patches. Same for the 14” belly scar, and button.  Once bandaged, I take a brief look in the mirror, enough to see a sliver. But it is only after I’ve stepped into a clean white cotton camisole that I allow myself to relax and have a full look.

  

Lovely! And for now, the little monster has gone away.

Cheap Trick

A nurse has come to change my bandages on a daily basis, since my surgery one week ago.

I watch her while she does this, checking for any sign of flinching or disgust. But her face remains impassive, and she moves with brisk efficiency. Her only comment was, ‘What a nice clean cut!’

I had to take her word for it because I’d never seen it for myself.  The bandages were waterproof so when I showered I left them on, content to let nurse Debbie deal with it later.  When I was in the hospital Doctors and Nurses would come  to check all the wounds – breast, breast, and tummy. They’d come in every hour with a flashlight, I’d undo my gown and they’d start their inspection.  I was on morphine – so I didn’t care.

They also had a little machine called a Doppler. And they waved the wand across my boobs and we’d hear a loud crackling ‘Whoosh Whoosh’. They explained that was the sound of blood flowing through my re-attached arteries. Amazing.  It sent shivers down my spine. I loved hearing the sound of my blood, but but as much as I loved it,  I didn’t want to see it.

Yesterday I was at home, standing in the shower. Nurse Debbie had bandaged me loosely that morning, so my wounds could breath. In fact, she said the fewer bandages the better so I had a minimum amount – just enough to protect me from my clothes.

So I shuffled into the shower and stood under the tap like a turtle on her hind legs. The hot water felt delicious, and I stood there for a long long time with my eyes closed (nothing else to do that day, really).

Finally I opened my eyes and looked around. And then I looked down. What I saw made me gasp out loud, and I had to grasp the soap dish to keep myself from collapsing. My bandage had fallen off and my cut, which went from one side of my waist was completely exposed. Holy F*ck. So much worse than I'd expected.

It looked as though I’d gone to the world’s worst circus and had been forced into a wooden box by a bad magician in a cheap suit holding a tree saw. And to the delight of the audience, he’d actually cut me in half!

The scar – which goes form one side of my waist to the other is about 14” wide. I thought, mistakenly, that it would be a gentle line down near my bikini, but rather it looks like a jagged red belt belt that sits well above my hips. And it is indeed a clean line - but only when compared to a line that might come from being trapped in the Jaws of 40’ shark.  Sweet Jesus, it’s a doozy.

I flung open the shower curtain and grabbed wildly for a towel that I could wrap around my body. Once I was covered up it wasn’t so bad, but it took a few minutes for my heart to stop pounding.

That was yesterday. Today was Nurse Debbie's last day. I begged her to come back but she's says that I no longer need her. 

I can barely face my stomach, and I’ve yet to see my boobs. Step right up - this is going to be the toughest show on earth.

She

Following surgery I became a ‘She’.

An incoherent blob floating out and into consciousness, just in time to hear someone discuss me like an old houseplant.

‘Does she need some water?’

‘Think she’ll come back to life?’

It was understandable in the hospital. Some days I’d try to blend in with the bedding so the doctors wouldn’t send me home. And I’d hear, ‘Is she eating’, ‘Is she awake’, ‘Should we up her pain pills?'

Decisions were being made for me, regardless of the fact that I was within hearing and speaking distance of everyone in the room. ‘Is she on solid foods?’ ‘Should she have a protein shake,' and ‘There is no way that she is going to eat that pineapple chicken. Ever.’

Now I’m at home, and until very recently my nurse/mother Violet was here taking care of me. With the absolute best intentions, she and Jim have looked after me. But even though I was walking and talking and showering – they still treated me like I wasn’t in the room.

‘Would she like some asparagus with her dinner?’

‘Good idea. They’re easy to eat, so she can eat them with her fingers.’

‘I can cut up food you know,’ I’d say .

Mom would turn to Jim, ‘No she can’t. She can barely cut up food at the best of times. I don’t think we should encourage her.'

So I’d shuffle out of the kitchen, and into the living room to my adopted headquarters on the couch where I’d perch in front of a stack of pillows. Sometimes I’d dine on the sofa, sometimes at the table, and often on the back deck. ‘She could use some fresh air.'

Then one night it was just mom and I. We were having a senior’s night – boiled vegetables and back-to-back episodes of the ‘Murdoch Mysteries’. Without Jim she had no choice but to talk to me directly. I must admit, she’s got the nurse /mother role down pat. She knows exactly what soothes me, and when it’s time to leave me alone. I was enjoying her company, as well as being involved in the conversation.

Then I sort of feel asleep, and mom got on the phone. I could hear her talking to our dear friends out in Cape Breton. ‘She’s dong great,’ She purred lovingly. As well as ‘ ‘She’s been such a trooper’, and ‘She’s finally got some colour. She was pretty pale there for a while.'

Then I could here some laughing. ‘Well you should see her walk!’ Giggling. ‘She shuffles along in her robe with her feet spread like a little duck.'  More giggles. ‘Remember old Angus? Well, from the side she looks just like him.’  Pause for appreciative chuckles coming down the wire, ‘From the side she looks like a turtle - all skinny and hunched over.  And she clasps her hands behind her back, just like he used to do.'

There was a bit more giggling while the Cape Bretonners got in their two cents. In my drowsy state I was only making out a few words.

 ‘She’. And, ‘skinny’.

All is forgiven. Please continue.  Pretend I’m not even here.

Private Room

I didn’t want to come home from the hospital. Especially after being moved to a private room.

My Happy Place

My first room, post ICU, was shared with a 19-yr old recovering from thyroid cancer. You’d think a giant wound across her throat, plus three drainage tubes would keep her quiet, but it seems that no matter how sick you are, you can't miss ‘Keeping Up with the Kardishians’.

When she would finally fall asleep, her family would curl up on her comatose body, crank up the volume, and settle down for a night of TV. Occasionally there’d be a ‘knock’ on the curtain, and her mother’s face would poke through offering us some Coke-flavoured jujubes, or sweet potato chips. (No thank you).  Jim thought they were just one Hibachi away from a family reunion, so it was with great relief when I could pack up my belongings, and shuffle down the hall towards the quiet luxury of a private room.

Liquid Lunch

And it was good. By that time I’d lost the IV and catheter – so was relatively comfortable with just my four drainage tubes. The compression stockings, they insisted, stayed on. But I had started walking, and was pretty comfortable propped up in bed, watching movies on my ipad, and eating the gelato which my family kept bringing up form the Gelateria in the lobby downstairs.

My mobility dictated when I was to be sent home. And by day four I was starting to feel pretty good. In fact, I liked the whole set-up. The bed could be adjusted for a minimum amount of work. The patients had their own kitchen, where we could store our non-hospital foods, and we’d meet there at three in the morning,  hanging on to our IV stands and walkers, eager to satisfy late night cravings with coconut ice-cream or  Jell-O.

The hospital food was atrocious – but as I was on a liquid diet, I observed it like something from a science experiment, placed in front of me for my entertainment.

So when the doctors asked how I was doing, I’d feign a little extra weariness. ‘OK…I guess.’ (Please don’t send me home)

A Good Pedicure Never Goes to Waste

And then one afternoon, sister Sue & cousin/friend Marilyn came to visit. We were going for a short stroll and I told them not to have too much fun when we passed the nurses stand, because I didn’t want to look too happy.

I didn’t have to work too hard to fake the effort that came from walking. My belly hurt, and felt like I’d just received a 200-yard pass from a giant burning-hot lead football going at 300 miles and hour that got lodged in my stomach. My drains dangled around me, with the drain-balls pinned to my gown like the Christmas lights on a Charlie Brown christmas tree. Also I couldn’t stand up straight – and my shoulders hurt from the weight of the world.

As we passed the nurses station, talk turned to my flat stomach. It was definitely flatter, but other parts of my body were swollen. Sue suggested cheerily that I was starting to look like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Of course we started laughing. And by the time we passed the nurses station we were chuckling merrily like three ladies  coming back from a day at the spa.

Shortly after I got sent home.  For being on good behavior.

Dr. No-Show

I did everything in my power to get ready for my surgery, right down to the pedicure. My core was fit, my roots were touched up, I purchased post surgery clothing and shower chair, and took a leave of absence from work.  I was meditated, medicated and ready to go.

The morning of the surgery, I was sitting up on a hospital bed, amidst a row of other hospital beds, all waiting to roll into the OR.  Mom, Sue, and Jim were by my side, as they have been all along, making great sacrifices and commitments to get me that point of where I was that day. Belleruth Naparstak was also with me, speaking to me in hushed tones through my headphones, and guiding me into a state of relaxation and trust. My ‘magical friends and allies’ were also on board (thanks to Belleruth) and were waiting to surround me with love and approval.

Every time a member of the medical team would approach the bed, I’d remove the headphones, and listen attentively. My admissions nurse walked me through my day and complimented the colour of my toes. They were a nice contrast to the compression stockings that she put on my legs, and would have to wear for five days. Next was Dr H’s team, talented Micro-Surgeons who would assist in turning belly into beasts, once the mastectomy was complete.

Next, the Anesthesiologist went over our game plan, and gave me the dose of ativan that I’d been asking for since I entered the hospital. I wanted to ask for a dose for each of my magical friends, but it seemed that one dose was the limit.

The final act was Dr H himself, kind and polite.  Looking fresh as a daisy he got out his measuring tape and his Sharpie, and kneeling in front of me, drew on my breasts, my abdomen and everywhere in between. He asked if I’d gained weight and I nodded proudly. My belly, after all, was hitting him in the face.

Showtime.

I was wheeled down the long hallways on my gurney, headphones still on. The nurse had kindly offered to walk with us, so that she could take off my headset, and return it to Jim. It was above the call of duty for her, and I was grateful. Within moments I was staring into operating room lights, and being introduced to the surgical nurses  - all wearing colourful OR scrubs. An IV was stuck in my arm.  I remained eerily calm.

‘We’ve done it!’  I thought to myself 24 hours later, as I sat propped up uncomfortably in a hospital chair. I was proud of myself, my family, my nurses, my doctors, and everyone involved in the procedure. It had been two years since I’d stepped foot in the hospital to meet with Dr Escargot, my Breast Surgeon, and now some of these people were as familiar as family.

‘How are you?’ said an unfamiliar figure standing in front of me. He was tall, Asian,  chubby, and I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before in my life. ‘I’m doctor L,’ he said, ‘I performed your mastectomy.’

Already hunched over and covered with tubes, my mouth was probably hanging open, but it dropped even more. ‘Huh?’

He smiled kindly, ‘I performed your mastectomy yesterday. It went very well.’

At that point I might have said, ‘Who the f*ck are you?’  or ‘What the f*ck are you saying?’ I’m not really sure. I was high on morphine and accept no responsibility for my actions.  I remember thinking that Dr Escargot, my Breast Surgeon, has a Spanish accent. Dr L is of Chinese descent, and has no accent at all.   So it is unlikely they are the same person. Something was amiss.

Dr L. explained that due to extenuating circumstances, Dr Escargot was unable to perform the surgery, so he was called in at the last minute. I wanted to know why I wasn’t asked for my consent. He didn’t seem to want to get into details, and instead asked how I was feeling. Confused, dizzy & sore seemed to sum it up quite nicely.

So in a nutshell:

Partway through the surgery Dr H came out to tell my family that things were going very smoothly, but Dr Escargot hadn’t shown up. Details are sketchy. Apparrently he was in Germany. And once realizing that Escargot was a no-show I was already under anesthetic, so Dr H managed to get two top breast surgeons to drop everything (golf clubs) and join the party. Due to this, the surgery went quickly. Nine hours, in total.

Details have yet to emerge. I don’t know why Escargot was in Germany. I don’t know why his absence wasn’t noted until I was put under.  His nurse came to see me and told me he’d explain things when he got back. I asked if it was a family emergency, and she said ‘no’. I do know that Escargot is the surgeon who has been with me since day one. He performed two surgeries. He handpicked the ‘team’. He encouraged me to consider the mastectomy. He and I have had many appointments, and dozens of conversations. He has seen me at my worst, and I have cried on his shoulder.

I waited a year for this operation. Then comes the big day and after going into marathon training I even got a pedicure. And Dr Escargot doesn’t bother to show up.

He doesn't even call.

Granny Pants

It occurred to me yesterday, as I was walking through a lingerie shop with Jim, that he was the man who I used to dress for, in skimpy panties trimmed with lace.

Seventeen years later, we’re shopping together, and I’m holding up cotton underpants and he’s saying, ‘Are you sure they’re big enough?

Janet Pants

To be honest, the ‘lingerie shop’ in question was Target, and we were shopping for post surgery Granny Pants that would fit over my giant abdominal incision.  It is only one of the many concessions I’ve had to make in my wardrobe, and most definitely the least sexy.

For starters, a lot of my clothes will get dirty. Without going into detail – bodies are filled with a lot of fluids and some of it doesn’t stay where it belongs after surgery. I’ll  be swollen, and full of drains, so I need to find items that are blousy and comfortable, and straight out of the closets of the Golden Girls. Specifically Maude’s.

A lovely friend surprised me with two fantastic shirts (X-L, women’s tab sleeve linen blend tunics) that manage to be big and elegant at the same time. Plus, they button up the front. For about four weeks I won’t have the option of wearing anything that goes over my head. And I won't be able to bend over to do up my shoes.

Granny Pants

In my closet, I have the hospital gown that I stole during radiation. It’s the only one that ever fit me, and it’s more like a pin striped wrap around dress than a robe.  I also have a lovely selection of pajama bottoms that I can wear under my tunics, and drop with the pull of a string. Sundresses are probably a better option, and I find that the maternity section has a far better selection than the regular section for regular people who aren't having reconstructive surgery.

With the help of my stylist, I managed to make out quite well yesterday. But there was a point yesterday where I was looking at a pair of shorts that looked as though they might just fit. $24.00! Suddenly it was too much. I was done spending money on clothes I’d be wearing for two weeks that looked like they were hand-me-downs form Honey Boo-Boo’s mother. 

That’s it. I'm done.  I’ve spent way too much time and money over the last two years on post canceritis treatment wigs, compression sleeves, hats, make-up, and clothes -  and I’m going to be off work again for a long time.

We chose a six-pack of granny pants and threw them in the cart.

That’s it.
I’m dressed.

Surgery is tomorrow. 

I'm almost ready for the big day.

DIEP? How boring

My pre-op appointment was on Friday. Time for blood tests, haemoglobin tests (which I aced), meetings with Nurses, Pharmacists, and Doctors.

Everything went smoothly. Nurse Angela was particularly charming - we had a lively conversation with Wing mMan by my side.  I told her that I was planning on fasting the day before the operation, so that I wouldn’t have any digesting problems. ‘Why would you do that?’ she asked in the way that you do when you deal with this every day. ‘Why wouldn’t you have a delicious meal?’

Jim nodded eagerly in agreement. We’re determined to get a few dozen oysters in before the big day, and we’re getting short on time. I told her I thought clear liquids would be more appropriate the day before surgery, but not according to Angela. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’

So just to prove that I’m proactive about my health, I told her that I’d almost given up coffee. ‘What for?’ she said. I proudly explained that I didn’t want to go through any caffeine withdrawal – and she looked at me as you would a giant tomato. ‘Well how much coffee do you drink?’  I told her one to two big cups. She scribbled on her note pad, ‘That’s not much’.

Then I launched in to how I was worried about surviving without a shower,  controlling pet hair, and peeing on the operating table. She put down her pencil and looked up at me. ‘You’re an over-thinker.’ She said. For the second time that morning, Jim nodded eagerly in agreement.

The last appointment of the day was with the Anaesthesiologist, a swarthy eastern European man with tiny hands and unruly black hair . He told us that while the DIEP surgery is long, it is safe. The work is superficial, and is not considered and insult to the body. He told us that surgeries are classified on a risk scale of one to four. Four is  the most risky  - and would include heart transplants and other fun things. My surgery is classified as a one. ‘In fact’, he said, ‘it’s boring.’

This caught our attention. ‘Did you say that it’s boring?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said without the trace of a smile, or an accent, ‘Boring.’ He explained that rather than a roller coaster of anaesthetic administered during surgery, mine will be long a long steady dose to keep me slightly under. ‘There’s nothing to do,’ he pouted, ‘I get bored.’

‘Since when did this become about you?’ I wanted to ask. But I looked over at Jim, who was grinning. The bubble in which I live is all consuming, self absorbed, intense, complicated, scary and fascinating. And that bubble had just been popped by a single word from a pouty Eastern European with a big sweaty face.

My surgery is boring. I’m okay with that.

Four days to go.

Body Talk

I’ve been talking to my body.

In the shower I thank my previously perfect breasts for being there all these years. I tell them how much they mean to me, and explain that it’s time to rebuild. I let them know how much I’ve loved their size, and shape, and they way they looked in a sheer white cami.  They’ve been a pleasure to touch, a pleasure to dress, and a pleasure to show off in the sauna. They’ve never interfered in exercise, and until the diagnosis, never caused me anything but joy. I tell them that I am grateful, and sometimes I cry.

Then I thank my stomach. At it’s best, I loved the way it dipped from my hips and the firm gentle rises over my belly button. When I rest my hand on it, I feel warm comfort. Before I go to sleep, I often have one hand holding a novel, and the other on my belly.

My belief is that the body has a wonderfully innate intelligence. For the last while I’ve been gaining weight. Historically I put on the pounds in my thighs and arse, so I look like a pear with a flat stomach. This time I gained everything in my tummy. My body knew, I believe, where the fat had to gather, in order to be able to replace the fat in my beasts. I thank my stomach for it’s brilliance. And I apologize that it will cut. And I reassure my jiggly tummy that this procedure will not touch organs or muscles, and will not be an insult to my body.

Bodies are built to heal. My body knew this long before I did, but I say it aloud anyway, because it makes me feel better.

Yesterday I had a massage. My masseuse is also a reflexologist, so she spent quite a bit of time on my feet. She proclaimed that I am healthy and have a lot of vitality. Then after rubbing the ball of my foot, she paused she said my ‘chest was crunchy’.

‘Why would that be?’ I asked her.

‘Grief,’ she said.

I told her about my upcoming surgery and she nodded as though it all made perfect sense. ‘Your body is processing grief.’

She pressed her thumbs deeply into my foot and nodded her approval. ‘The body never lies,’ she said.

‘Thank you, body,’ said I.

Question. Period.

Last night my wingman/stylist/partner made a list of all the things we need to do, in order to prepare for my recovery.

The list is long. There are things to do around the house. Support pillows to buy. Undergarments, frozen food, insurance claims, and making up a guest room for my mother, Nurse Violet.

Because it was such an extensive list, I wondered how much was absolutely necessary. F’rinstance. Do I really need giant panties? Will my tummy be swollen? And how do I go about getting a private room? I plan on entertaining quite a bit, so I don’t want any strangers crashing my party.

So at 8 this morning I called Katrina – secretary to my cosmetic surgeon. First order of business was finding out when I would have my pre-op appointment. I’m anxious to find out all the details (but not too many) of what to expect.

Katrina said I could expect to hear from someone next week. ‘What about compression garments?’ I asked her. She said the doctor H doesn’t normally encourage that – but if I need something I could get at the store next to the hospital. Great!

 ‘What about drains?’ I asked her. ‘When can I expect them to be removed?’ She gave me the same annoying answer I'm sick of hearing. ‘Everybody is different. Everyone heals differently.’

‘And when will I meet the anaesthesiologist?’ I asked. She sighed, and then told me he’d be at the pre-op appointment.

‘When do I stop taking tamoxafen?’ I asked.  I could hear her inhale,  ‘As I’ve told you, two weeks before surgery.’

‘Great. Just a couple more questions.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ I squeaked. ‘Really/?’

‘That’s right’

‘You’re cutting me off?’

‘Yes. If you have any other questions you can email me.’           

If I have any other questions?! I’m relatively low maintenance as a human being, but I’m about to have the rug pulled out from under me for the summer, and I have about 4,000 questions. I grabbed a litre of water from the fridge, and settled down at my computer.

 ‘Dear Katrina...’

Black Sharpie & A Martini

Samantha was the first person I thought of this morning. That is, fictional Samantha, from Sex in the City. There is an episode where she contemplates plastic surgery, and at her visit to the surgeon’s office, he draws on her with a black marker.

I remember watching that scene about twelve years ago (and more recently on DVD) and thinking how barbaric it looked. I also remember clearly thinking ‘ I will never do that’. And apparently she thought so too – and ran out of the office into the waiting arms of her girlfriends and a frosty martini. 

But I am doing it! Every time I think I have all the details covered, I drudge up another disturbing fact. Here’s today’s fun fact; I have to stand naked in front of my surgeon, while he scribbles on my tummy. And from what I’ve seen on TV – it’s not very scientific. It’s like a football coach scrawling on the blackboard, mapping out the next attack. Only, I am the blackboard, and there’s no chalk – it’s a Sharpie.

I know from experience, that I might buckle at the knees. I did that when I stood in front of him last time, and he squished my belly as though I was an avocado. That wasn’t scientific either. He was checking to see if I had enough tummy to make two new breasts – and it was just squish squish squish, followed by, ‘Okay. That’s good.’

So yesterday I called the Dr H’s office in a panic, to ask when the doodling would take place.

‘6 am. On the day of your surgery’.

Oh my God. Bring on Belleruth. If Samantha couldn’t do it – I don’t stand a chance! I’m going to need some courage, as well as my magical friends and allies. I try to remember that there are some things that can’t be controlled. The big black Sharpie is out of my hands, and in the small hands of a talented surgeon.

And then there are the things that I can control. I can’t follow Sam’s footsteps out of the office, but until that time – in 19 days -  it’s girlfriends and frosty martinis.

Dethroned by Angelina

Sigh.

Poor Jennifer Anniston.  Constantly upstaged by Angelina Jolie.  Jen gets caught topless, Angie gets caught in a burhka.  Jen gets high-lights, Ang gets a family.  Jen shamelessly promotes overpriced mineral water, Angelina promotes world peace.

Well last week Angelina stole my thunder. When her decision to have a double mastectomy was splashed all over every newspapers around the world, I got royally kicked off my thrown.

I don’t know if journalists were impressed by the surgery itself, or by the fact that Angelina managed to go through it so privately. Either way, they referred to her as ‘brave’, and as a ‘hero’.

Get of off my throne!

She certainly is brave. I know first hand that the decision to do something so drastic to your body is intensely difficult. It took me months to come to the conclusion that it was the right thing, and sometimes I’m only 85% sure. Not only is it a distortion of your old self,  but the recovery period is daunting.

So, brave? Absolutely. But heroic? No it’s not. There’s nothing heroic about it. She made a logical decision and bravely took a big step to drastically reduce her risk of cancer. It takes a lot of strength to do what she did, and she did it, most likely, with the support of a great medical team, as well as a team to take care of her family.

There’s another woman I kno, who was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s raising three kids on her own and works full time. She had her surgery, and went through chemotherapy. While she was going through chemo she got her black belt in karate. And when chemo was completed, she endured a ten-hour surgery to have a double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. And then she had a three-month recovery relying on friends, and her own resilience. And she did it because there was no option.  Nobody called her a hero.

Jen probably rolls her eyes when Angie is pictured holding her six kids as she walks down the beach. Sure it's tough to be a mother, but behind the camera are a team of nannies, chauffeurs, bodyguards, and a big bag of money.

I rolled my eyes when Angelina is touted as a role model.  I believe she is raising awareness for the BRCA mutation, and is an inspiration for many famlies. And she is strong and brave.

But a hero? Nuh-uh. Jen and I are climbing back on our thrones, and we toss our hair in indignation. 

Four Week Countdown!

When I first got my surgery date I made a list of all the things I need to do to whip myself into shape.

Here’ what I came up with.

At four weeks I planned to quit coffee. I can’t drink it during surgery/recovery, and I’ve heard reports that the headache from coffee withdrawal is intense.

Also at four weeks – daily exercise. I’m pretty good about it anyway, but I need to make sure that I’m doing something every day. I even got a brand new bike but I can’t find my helmet, so my wingman/stylist/Jim is expressively disapproving if I try to go riding sans chapeau.

But there’s yoga, my pilates video, and my job. Dog walking obviously doesn’t count. Jed, bless his hairy heart, is short limbed.  So I try to walk whenever possible. Why, just today, when I was forced to go to the ‘Wicker Emporium’ I parked my car as far from the store as possible. Given that it was at a suburban big box mall, it was about 20 kilometres.

At three weeks, I’ve planned to reacquaint myself with Belleruth Naparstek, and practice daily guided meditations.  I truly believe that it is because of Belleruth, that I woke up calmly from my second surgery.  Bellerruth helps me understand that I’m safe surrendering myself to someone else’s control, and to trust my body. (And my magical friends and allies)

At two weeks I plan to quit drinking.  I’m not a total booze-hound, but I really like a glass of wine with dinner, and I’m sad when I can’t have it.

At one week, I don’t know what’s gong to happen. I might have a nervous breakdown. But I’ll worry about that later.  (My toenails are a priority)

Yum

So today I woke up and looked into Jed’s droopy bloodshot eyes. My first thought was ‘Four weeks today!’ I thought of my giant to do list that includes making soup, buying loose pants,  a shower chair, and a whole bunch of other stuff. My second thought was, ‘I really need a coffee.’

 I wish I could say that this ended well.  I wish I could stay that I had steely resolve. But I didn’t have any resolve. I had a coffee. And it was delicious.  

Oh-oh. 

Keener

Back in March I told my reconstructive surgeon  that I was really scared.

‘Really?’ he seemed genuinely surprised. ‘There’s no need to be scared now.  A week before maybe, but not now.’

So I obediently held off for a while. But when I woke up this morning the first thing I felt was fear. I was seized with panic.  To be honest, it was a moment I’ve been waiting for, so I wasn’t surprised.

A surgery of this significance is not something that’s easy to swallow, even if one thinks it’s the right thing to do. I’ve started processing the nuts and bolts of the operation now, the smell of the anesthetic, the full day on an operating table, the scalpels, the big belly scar,  (to add to my enviable collection), the drainage tubes, the IV, the pain,  the painkillers, the eyes behind the masks.

People have occasionally said how lucky I was to be having this operation. A boob job and a tummy tuck! What could be better than that?  Well I’ll tell you what could be better than that! Doing a year of sit-ups and wearing a push up bra would be better.  Climbing a sheer cliff in the scorching heat would be better! Joining the military and crawling through mud in the middle of a rainstorm surrounded by hungry alligators would be better. And never having had canceritis would be the best thing of all.

So it’s no wonder that I'm freaked. I’ve been a cool cucumber for quite a long time and it was mostly an act. I held off on being scard for as long as possible, but I couldn’t hold off till the week before surgery. And as I’m starting the panic at this very second, it marks one of the few times where I’ve actually managed to do something so far in advance.

I'm planning on being the best patient, ever. My plans are in the works.

Bellyaching

All my favorite summer shirts have shrunk.

Last night I  put on my favorite  linen shirt, and once I exhaled, could see my pale white belly flesh poking out between the buttons.  It was gross and fascinating all at the same time. But mostly gross.

This could be me. It isn't.
But it could be.

So I tried on a few other tops.  In an effort to be French, I prefer that all my clothes have a defined waist, but since I don’t actually have a waist anymore, nothing fit. Even if I did hold my stomach in the whole night, I still couldn’t clap my hands or get something off a top shelf, and as I was going to a dinner party, I needed maximum range of motion just in case I needed to hail a taxi.

Luckily I recently bought a fabulous smock-y type thing that I was able to wear, but pants were another problem. The smart little Levi demi curve skinny jeans that I wore all last summer still do up, but ONLY if I arrange my tummy/boobs to hang over the waistband. Even then it’s hard to sit down, and crossing my legs is out of the question.

But nobody really wants to hear my bellyaching.  Probably because I have been whining about my weight since I was sixteen, and it’s gotten boring. And because the girlfriends who have gone through pregnancies  don’t get hung up on temporary weights. There are enough mid life crisis’s out there – and  low on the sympathy list is someone who has been exceedingly well fed.

Still, it’s hard to believe entire season of clothes is too small. But what’s really hard to believe is that, in five and a half short weeks from now, my belly will be up around my armpits. (Ouch!). Post surgery I expect to have all sorts of swelling and weirdness, as things settle into place. 

Followed, God willing, by a flat belly. The non-aching type.