Surgery

Surgery was not fun. It makes me feel sort of ill just to think about it.

I got to the hospital early, and spent a joyful half hour holding Michele & Dave's newest family member, Everett. It was the only highlight in a miserable day.

But then I had to go check in to surgery.

I checked in, and answered all of the questions. "No, I'm not pregnant." "Yes, I'm sure." Don't you people read my chart? I've had a hysterectomy - I am NOT pregnant! I even told them, "I've had a hysterectomy and oopharectomy" and they continued to ask, "Are you sure?" Whereas I realize that they have to be careful, there is a point at which this type of thing is insulting.

Anyway.

First, Ryan was late, because his work meeting ran late. On a normal day I could handle it, but I was feeling really alone and scared and I couldn't stop watching the clock, wondering when he would get there. In a hospital, right before surgery, 25 minutes feels like a lifetime.

Then, they had to poke me multiple times. First, to do blood work, with a "sorry no I can't hook up the IV someone else has to do that." Idiots! Then, to hook up the IV, but I told her it wouldn't work without a hot towel to enlarge my vein, and I got the "oh I've done this lots of times" and then she tried and poked me but it didn't work. She was surprised; I wasn't.

Then waiting for the anesthesiologist, who got the IV in right away, but put it right in the bend of my wrist so that I couldn't move my hand without feeling the needle jab me inside of my wrist.

Then, off to a supply room filled with boxes (!) with the surgeon to take pictures and mark me up for the operation. Lots of Sharpie pen on me, as I stand there, mostly naked, a gown tied around my waist because I am not allowed to wear underwear into surgery (but it's CHEST and FACE surgery.....?!), my bare rear end up against the cold wall.

Lots of marking, lots of discussion about where the nipples should go. The surgeon couldn't seem to understand that the muscles on my chest still have feeling even though the skin doesn't, and she kept pinching me and moving my breasts around in a way that hurt me. I kept saying, "That hurts" and "that's really uncomfortable" but she kept saying "Oh really?" and "oops I'm sorry" and then she'd do it again in a moment.

Throughout this, there are knocks on the door, and we are interrupted by three different people, each of whom comes in, rummages through boxes and drawers, says, "Sorry!" and leaves. All while I am standing there naked and covered in Sharpie.

Small indignities such as these add up after a while.

Then we discussed the different things that would be accomplished in the surgery. I asked about what size the new implant would be to make my left breast smaller to match my right breast. The assistant got nervous, stating, "Wait I didn't know about that and I didn't order another implant" and she rushed off to track it down.

What the ****?!

She came back, sans implant. None had been ordered.

At this point, the doctor changed what we had talked about. She said, "Oh, I'm sure it will be fine without the implant exchange; when we remove the encapsulation it will look smaller," and I said, "If this is true, then how come you wanted an implant in the first place?" and there was some discomfort in the room.

I was told that I could reschedule the surgery if I wanted to. She told me that the implant was just for back-up purposes, and that she thought things would be fine.

So now I'm expected to go into surgery without a back-up. Great.

I knew that I should walk away. I knew that the risk of things not going well was too high, and that I should reschedule.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't face walking into the hospital again. As I have blogged here, I have felt the weight of a thousand worlds on my shoulders as I faced this surgery, and I have hated the worry about it. I couldn't do it again. It makes me shake to face surgery, and I couldn't face it again.

I started to weep. My choice was to go into surgery without a back-up plan to put in a smaller implant if necessary - the back up that the surgeon told me we would have, that she felt comfortable with. Or, I could walk away from the hospital, explain to Tessa that Mommy didn't get nipples, that we weren't done after all, that we needed to plan for another surgery.

Naked and shaking, I slid to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. I could not stop crying. It is so brutally unfair that I would be forced to make this decision, minutes before surgery, naked, IV in my arm. The assistant said, "Just look on the bright side. I believe that a positive attitude will help!" and I wanted to commit her to an insane asylum. I know a LOT about being positive. I'm Ms. PollyAnna most of the time. But things go wrong, and not because I have a bad attitude. I'm the one who got breast cancer, who needed an extra surgery because the sentinal node results were wrong, who had an allergic reaction to Taxol, who got third degree radiation burns, who is already on her second set of corrections to the plastic surgery. Don't tell me to have a good attitude! A good attitude will not help if I'm under anesthesia and the implant size is wrong and there is no back up.

A horrible choice, and I fear that I made the wrong choice. But what could I do? Walk away from surgery, rescheduling my families' lives; or get it over with. I knew if I walked away that I could not be certain that I would ever have the strength to sign up for it again. I knew that I couldn't put myself through it again. And I knew that I could not face telling Tessa, who has counted on this symbolic moment for so long, that Mommy wasn't getting nipples after all.

I can not believe that I was expected to make such an important decision while naked, IV in wrist, covered in Sharpie, in a supply room closet, minutes before surgery. I am only human. How was I expected to manage this? What was the right thing to do?

So I said, "Okay, I'll do it."

We'll see if it worked. I'm still in a straightjacket bra, and will be for two weeks.

I woke up from surgery feeling fuzzy headed, nauseated, and in pain. I couldn't get the pain to go down - it climbed and climbed, and they kept giving me more meds. I couldn't sleep. It was all I could do not to throw up. They hooked me up to a pain pump at night - it was realized, amongst all of us, that there was no way I could go home - and this was idiotic because I was exhausted and the pain pump was set up for every 10 minutes. So, every 10 minutes, I would need to wake up to re-deliver pain meds, or suffer the pain of not doing so (which would wake me up anyway).

At about 1am I asked to be given oral pain meds, and to have the pain pump removed. I slept in half hour stretches after that, but at least that's better than 10 minute stretches.

I was more than ready to go home in the morning; I even stopped at the coffee shop on the way, before collapsing into bed, just to prove to myself that I was alive.

I am trying to steel myself for the fact that I might need another corrective surgery, and I could kick myself into next week for not having more strength and courage to walk away.

I will certainly let my plastic surgeon know how incredibly disappointed in her I am; I will make sure that she understands that the "minor clerical error" of not placing an order has had a huge impact on me, and that I find it extremely unprofessional of her/her office.

In the meantime, I'm trying, often unsuccessfully, to have a good attitude about this, and to heal.

Tessa has been in a bad mood much of the weekend; Ryan and I are still in bad moods.

Today goes on much like normal, though Tessa is with my mom. I've folded four loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, taken out the recycling (it's garbage day), etc. Life goes on even when I'm feeling miserable.