No Dying in Spanish

Several years ago, my wingman/stylist/partner and I went to Spanish school in Costa Rica. Home base was the complete opposite of a tourist town. Dusty roads, roaming cattle, cinder block houses. No English menus, not even a beach.

Rush Hour

The aim of our vacation was to immerse ourselves in a tropical climate while engaging in some mental stimulation. I wanted to shake up my brain. At the end of our stay we’d accomplished a lot. I could write a one-page essay in Spanish, and Jim, who had become the honorary mayor of the town, could go into the store and ask for a coat hanger.

But here’s what I really loved about being forced to speak a different language – it really makes you choose your words carefully. Each syllable is precious, and stringing together a tiny sentence involves a lot of focus. The point is to get the message across, rather then get lost in wordy drama.

This is experience came to mind while I was at the airport. The travellers were tired and thirsty , and nobody seemed to want to be there but me (I like airports). ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ I heard someone say. I looked over at this seemingly healthy man and he didn’t look remotely dehydrated, let alone dying. He just looked tired & crabby, with a little pee stain on his chinos.

Downtown

Moments later I heard it again. ‘I’m dying to get home’.  And again, ‘I’ll die if the flight is delayed’. In fact, this is something I hear many times during the day. People are ‘dying’ over very small things. ‘Dying to meet you’,   ‘Dying to see your new boobs’. In my Spanish school in Costa Rica we would have said this -  ‘We am eager to go home.’  Or, ‘I are wanting look the new chest.’

But in our world we confuse the word ‘dying’ with desire. And this couldn't be further from the truth. So the one place where I don’t want to hear this coming from is my own lips. I am not ‘dying’ to do anything! After being around hospitals for the last two years, I can’t confuse dying with being eager. Especially after hearing the word ‘dying’ in context, and seeing the face of the person who is speaking the word in fear. And even more especially, when you’re surrounded by people whose one single goal it is to live.

After three weeks in Coast Rica, Jim had only had a small arsenal of words. ‘Percha’ was one, 'Araña' was another. He had to ration his words carefully, and each one had to convey something great.  

So when Jim walked down the dusty streets as the unofficial honourary mayor of our little town he would raise his arm in greeting, and as is the Tico custom, pump is fist and call out  ‘Pura Vida!’

Translation - ‘Pure Life'.

There's living, rather than dying, going on there.

Dr No-Show. Part 3.

 I stood in the examining room looking at the table upon which I’d lain a million times. On it, a blue gown was folded into a perfect square. It was there for me to wear, but I couldn’t put it on. I couldn’t even touch it.

After five minutes I heard a knock on the door, and Dr Escargot entered with a young intern. She extended her hand but I asked the Doctor if he and could have some time alone. The intern looked at Escargot, who made a motion for her to leave, and she did.

Escargot sat at the small desk in the corner of the room. Beside it was a chair, which is where I often sat during our consultations. He leaned back and looked at me expectantly. In my head were a thousand sentences I’d been rehearsing since he stood me up for surgery, six weeks earlier.

All morning I’d told myself not to cry. But myself didn’t listen. I took a deep breath, and in deliberately conversational tones told him that I was very disappointed. He nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. Then I corrected myself and said that I was angry. He nodded again, and I could feel my bottom lip starting to quiver.

Once I’d seen a bumper sticker that said ‘Speak the Truth, even if your voice shakes.’ So I kept going. I told him that I wasn’t here for an examination; I would be seeing Dr L for that. After all, he was the one who’d done the surgery. Still, Escargot remained speechless. I told him that of all the uncertainties I’d had in cancerland, one of the things that I always felt good about were the people around me.

I continued by saying that he’d been with me on the path leading to this surgery, and when it came time for the big show, he was in a different country.  Afterwords, nobody told me why. No explanation. No follow-up.

‘I apologize,’ he said in his soft Spanish accent, ‘ I can’t make excuses, I can only apologize. There was a scheduling error. But you were lucky that there were surgeons available. That is the benefit of the team work in this hospital.’

I cut him off. ‘I didn’t have a team of surgeons. I had one. You. And you didn’t show up.’

His calmness was unreadable. Perhaps he was humbly taking it all in, but I don’t think so. I think he’d made the decision to allow me to speak my piece, because errors of this magnitude don’t happen often, and he didn’t want me sending angry letters all over the hospital.

‘I can forgive human error,’ I said, sniveling a bit, ‘But In return I expect human decency’ (I’d rehearsed that line a few times, as I felt that it had just the right balance of truth, and drama).  ‘I expected a phone-call.’

‘Well,’ he said, sounding a little like Ricardo Montalban, ‘I contacted Dr H to find out about the surgery. I knew you’d done well.’

I heard myself about to say ‘Why didn’t you contact ME?’ and I didn’t like the way it almost sounded. I was turning into a whiney 13 year-old girl asking the pimply guy why he was ignoring her. In retrospect, I should have picked up the phone the second I regained consciousness, and asked Escargot why the hell he hadn’t bothered to make an appearance. But I didn’t, and now we were having this horrible conversation.

Dr Escargot had listened to me talk for almost half an hour, and I had nothing left to say. After a pause he took a deep breath and said how he and I had enjoyed a good surgeon/patient relationship, and he was very concerned that my faith had been tested. I nodded and told him I had lost the trust. He looked kind of sad – but that could have been boredom.

It had been almost two years to the day when I’d met Dr Escargot in that room for the very first time.  We’d shaken hands, and I had sat terrified while he told me about my cancer. Two new boobs later, no longer scared, I again took his very small hand in mine.

SpongeBob NoPants

Business Casual
Ralph Lauren

There is a reason why you never see SpongeBob on a celebrity best-dressed list. Partly because he’s wearing brown shorts. Partly because he’s porous and yellow. And party because some organisms just don’t flatter their clothes.

Sadly, I am such an organism.

My 14” abdominal scar, which I can credit for my lovely flat belly, doesn’t work with the natural curve of my body. Rather than embrace my waist, the extremities stick out like corners of a pillowcase. Or, as my sister said, like SpongeBob SquarePants. Or, a box of Kleenex. The comparisons are endless but the result is clear. My torso is flat,  and looks like I’ve been run over by a steamroller.

During these leisurely days of house arrest fashion hasn’t mattered. My blousy shirts and stretchy sundresses are quite forgiving. But now that I’m starting to tire of the same three outfits, thoughts have turned to trousers. And here’s what I think. I can’t wear ‘em.

Not only is my circumference larger than before – but even if I could do them up (I can’t) the waistline falls painfully across my belly. I went through my whole pant drawer and nothing came up over my hips. So I went through my fat-pant drawer and I found one pair of linen pants with a side-zip that I could wear, as long as I left the zipper open.

Classic Draw-StringTrouser
Calvin Klein

This seemed like an excellent option, so I wore them undone with my pillowcase corners sticking out the side, hidden by a billowy blouse.

Because I’ve been watching a lot of TV (specifically What Not to Wear) I know that the most important rule of fashion is to dress for your shape. But I don’t want to invest in square blouses, or little brown shorts. I want to dress for my old shape – and Dr H, my plastic surgeon, assures me that with a little outpatient surgery, my curves will re-appear.

But SpongeBob has learned his fashion lesson, and dresses for his shape. So if there were a best-dressed list for quadrilateral organisms, Spongebob Squarepants would be near the top, and JanetNoPants - a few steps behind.

Fit for a King

Today I'm in Ottawa, hanging out with my mother Violet, and taking advantage of her giant bathroom.

It's so much bigger than the one I have at home, and I thought a change of scenery might make the dreaded shower & bandage combo a little bit more fun. Her bathroom is quite lavish. It was custom designed by my dad who, after his three daughters left, was finally able to design his dream room.

Not only does it have a huge Jacuzzi tub, but also a built in magazine rack, phone, marble soap dishes, and a warming light. It also has a huge switch panel, and not knowing what any of them actually do - I turn them all on whenever I enter the room. I should mention that my dad was a lovely Cape Bretonner, who apparently had some hidden 'Graceland’ tastes.

But showering in Elvis's bathroom wasn't any more fun than showering at home. In fact, the wall of mirrors made it difficult for me to avoid myself, so I kept my eyes squeezed shut when I exited the tub. Even through the steam I could make out the silhouette of a fleshy hunchback, and a whole pile of stitches. So I wrapped myself in a towel, groped around for the light switches, and shuffled down the hall.

I was just taping up my stomach behind closed doors when I heard my mother yelling. 'You forget the Horlick'. I strained to hear her. 'The Horlick,' she repeated, 'You always forget to turnip the horlick'. 
I opened my door to ask her what she could possibly be saying.

'The WHORE LIGHT!' she said, slightly exasperated.

'What on earth is a whore light?'

'You know,' she said, 'The red light that you always use in the bathroom. The one with the sticky switch'.

Turns out that the red light my 80 year old mother is referring to, is the warming light that I call the 'Kentucky Fried Chicken Light', as it's the same red one that they used to keep the greasy drumsticks warm, last time I went into a KFC, in the late 70's. But now it made sense. A washroom for a King and a light for a Madame.

I take back what I said. Showering at Violet's is much more fun than showering at home.

Dr. No-Show. Part 2.

The secretary acted like nothing had happened.

Four weeks after Dr Escargot stood me up for surgery, his secretary, Jenny, called to ask me when would be a convenient date for a follow up appointment. 'Follow up to what?' I asked her.

'Your surgery!' she chirped
'Jenny,' I said, 'Dr Escargot wasn't AT my surgery. He never showed up. You know that.'

There was a gurgling on the other end of the phone while Jenny started grasping at vowels and consonants to string her next sentence together. I could just picture her. Dark hair, little face, big glasses, gaudy blouse. What poured out of her little mouth next was, 'Oh my God, Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. I can't believe this happened, and I can't imagine how you must have felt. I'm so sorry.'

I asked her what had happened. Here's what she said. She and Dr H's secretary had to arrange for the surgery date between the two of them, as well as an OR for ten hours where they could safely cut me in half. The date had been set for July 4 (fireworks) and then pushed forward to the 13th of June. Somehow, while they were moving the days, my surgery date disappeared from Jenny's computer.

On surgery day, when Dr Escargot did not show up, everybody began frantically calling him. Eventually they started calling her, which would have been sometime when she arrived at her desk which is whenever she feels like it - also known as 9-9:30. She explained that he was in Germany (Reason unknown, though I suspect he was floating down the Rhine savouring a delightful Riesling). When she found out that he had a surgery scheduled that morning, she 'freaked'. According to Jenny, this had never happened in 15 years and she couldn't believe that there had been such a giant screw-up. Again, she re-iterated that she was so very sorry, and I think we both clearly understood that it was her fault.

'This is not okay,' I told her. I explained my reasons, which are obvious. I was abandoned by a doctor I trusted, and nobody called to give me an explanation, or offer an apology. I told her that my fucking life has been on hold for a year and that had I known that Escargot was replaceable, I would have had the surgery earlier so I could move forward. And that goes for my wingman, and my family, and Jed.

After snivelling a bit more she asked when I'd like to come in. She sounded slightly thrown when I told her that I would prefer to see the surgeon who actually did the work. There was an uncomfortable pause (for her, not me) and she said that the two Breast Surgeons had had a discussion, and Dr Escargot would like to continue with the follow ups.

'Why,' I asked. 'So he can look at someone else's work?'

In the end it was decided that I would meet with both surgeons, on the same day but not at the same time. Their clinics are down the hall from each other, and they share a nurse, so that should be sufficiently uncomfortable. I'm trying to go into this meeting with an open mind. I'm forgiving of human error, but in return I epect human decency. And the decent thing would have been to call me. Jenny had added that Escargot was currently in Columbia, due to an family emergency.

I'm trying to keep an open mind.

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...’