Warning: This isn't too graphic but does go into detail about surgery stuff.
Monday 8/22 was surgery. My call time was 12:30 which was a real pain in the ass because I couldn’t eat after midnight or drink clear liquids after 11 am. Robin (Thelma to my Louise, but casting could be debated) could not be dissuaded from coming and staying with me for a couple of days to monitor my mental health and wine intake. We had a lovely morning. I was pretty anxious but was clinging to the words of my therapist: Don’t go into the dark. There isn’t anything down there. No truth. No art. Nada. Leave it to him to make depression the boring choice. Instead, I decided to inhabit one of my characters of late: Hilarious TV Cancer Patient/Grey’s Anatomy Recurring Actor. Always with a quip and sunny disposition in the face of all obstacles. Faking it ‘til I make it. Sometimes utilizing bad habits like pretending everything is okay come in handy. Convince me otherwise. (Oh, right, my entire hospitality career where I had to leave it at the door was not good for me, I almost forgot.)
Holding the positivity mask in place became challenging right out of the gate. I had to go to The Bad News Room right after putting all my clothes in a bag and donning a super sexy set of gowns that felt like they covered too much and not enough simultaneously. The radiologist explained how they were going to be placing a wire in my left breast leading the surgeon to the area they were going to cut out.
My boob would be numb, and I would be seated upright in the mammogram machine for this. There’s nothing down there. There’s nothing down there. Okay. I explain that its best if I can’t see anything that was happening and that I didn’t require too many details.
Off to the Serious Mammogram Room. There were 6 people in there. Who all kindly introduced themselves. But that's like a shit ton of people. I don’t remember any of their names. They get my boob in the machine and it clamps. They inject the lidocaine, and it burns. One of the women is holding my hand and asking in-depth questions about what I do for a living to distract me. I would like to murder her. But I do not. Because TV Cancer Patient would not only answer the questions but would, in fact, give a barn-burner of a speech about hope and activism in the hospitality space.
Quick Plug: My friend Lauren Maher just wrote a book, a workbook really, about how to deal with panic attacks. I read it and even though I don’t suffer from classic panic attacks, I do get freaked out and anxious. I fully utilized her methods throughout the whole day. “Reframe your Thoughts” on page 70, “Radical Acceptance” on page 93, and, of course, Lengthening Your Exhales on page 101 (and all the breathing tips she’s been yelling at me about for years) were essential tools. Go buy it here: CLICK THIS LINK ASAP
As I have mentioned previously, I have a strong fight-or-flight response. As they spent 20 minutes (read: forever) guiding this long wire through my breast flesh, taking a picture, and then doing it again, I had to make the conscious decision not to cry, because I knew I would never regain my composure. I kept repeating to myself “I can’t feel anything” but I knew if I let the mask slip I would have done my damndest to make a break for the door. Yes, it’s totally a pride thing too. Shut up. Let me have my fake sense of control.
They finally release me, and I get a room and a bed two floors up to wait. Robin got to come in and keep me company. A round of applause to Ms. Nance for not touching me or babying me. (Stay tuned for the Asking For Help is Not My Thing blog coming soon.) They take my vitals right when I get there and the anesthesiologist team introduces themselves. But basically, we wait for about an hour.
Sidenote: Every woman working on my case that I encountered, which was A LOT, said they wouldn’t trust anyone but Dr. Hansen (my surgeon and Head of Breast Surgery at Northwestern) with their own boobs. This made me feel very good. If they say it about everyone, I don’t care. It really made a difference to me.
Dr. Hansen came in after she finished the surgery before mine and checked in. She was kind of harried and disheveled and that was just my vibe. Somehow that worked for me. Then they came in to give me the calm-down drugs. He asked if I wanted ½ the dose or all of it and when I said ¾ he was thrown. “We don’t really do that; I’ll give you the whole thing.” My nurse returned and was relieved to find out that my blood pressure had gone down. It had been 160/110 after the wire placement!! Cool on the surface, paddling like mad underwater, that’s me.
And then I got real high. I remember being concerned about my backpack. I remember being rolled down the hall. I remember trying to make jokes in the OR. And then nothing. Vivid dreams. I came back to earth super happy, yelling about how I thought I was at camp.
The recovery room was fantastic. Ginger ale and graham crackers. So good. They gave me my phone, those fools. Sorry if I texted you something weird. Robin appeared. I got to go pee which I heard later was just an excuse to put my underwear back on. (I really wanted my undies. It’s super vulnerable to be zipped into a surgical vest bra thing with tons of coverage and your hooha is still hanging out. What movie is it where Julianne Moore is ironing and fully waist-down nude? How did she film that?)
I came home and ate food and went to bed. All told, we were only gone 12-7 or so. I was so relieved it was over. And Robin was so relieved I’m a happy drunk on sedation.
It wasn’t until the next day that I realized, “Oh, fuck, now I have to wait a week for the results of all this nonsense.” Stay tuned, friends!
Don’t go into the dark. There isn’t anything down there. No truth. No art. Nada.
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