Four days post-op

The surgery went well.

      My friend came over bright and early on Thursday morning and brought me to the hospital where my grandmother and I were born. There was almost no wait and before I could have second thoughts I was in a ripped Johnny under a cold blanket (they did bring me a heated blanket later).

     My doctor stopped by with his blue marker and we discussed what he would do. He drew lines and circles and I showed him my two newest lumps. He said he’d remove one while he was playing with the implant and recommended a later needle biopsy of the other. Then he asked who my surgeon was. I explained. I used to have Julie Jones. She’s the one who removed my breasts and saved my life. But she moved. So I switched to another surgeon at Dana Farbor, who performed one biopsy (benign!!) on me before he also moved. Then I switched to a more local surgeon in Worcester. She and I met once to chat, but she moved before she had a chance to give me any new scars. I never got around to replacing her.

    After a bit of thought and some discussion, my plastic surgeon decided he’d just cut another incision and pull out the lump himself (By the way: If you ever have a choice between an oncological surgeon and a plastic surgeon, the plastic surgeon leaves prettier scars). 

    The nurse got a working iv on the first try, and suddenly I was getting the goofy juice. I don’t even remember being rolled into surgery this time.

     I woke up slowly as usual, but was kind of rushed out of the hospital this time around. No juice and muffin for me. I had a drain – he’d found a lot of fluid when he opened me up – a green bottle of Oxycodone, and another one of Bactrim (these pills were the size of my middle toe!).  I was exhaustedly miserable, but I knew I’d feel all better if I could just make it home to my chair. Which I did. 

             

   I was fully prepared to follow all of the rules this time. I want this surgery to be a success. No bending. No lifting. No stooping. I wouldn’t go sledding or even ride my exercise bike. No long drives with my standard transmission. I wasn’t even going back to work for two weeks. 

     I got home, sat down in my chair, and watched tv most of the night, preparing to wait out the worst of it. But then, somewhere on Friday I began to feel very sick. I lost count of how many times I broke the doctor’s orders by bending and stooping over that bucket. I stretched out every new stitch, and I’m amazed that the drain is still in place. I stopped taking the oxycodone on Friday and the Bactrim on Saturday. The doctor on call decided it was a reaction to the Bactrim. By Sunday I began to feel human again…

   Today I’m contemplating a short car ride, or maybe a leisurely walk? There’s no snow so sledding is out, but I could use a couple of things from Walmart. There surely must be something to do somewhere.

                

     Only 13 more days til I can go back to work…