Written on February 8, 2018
The day literally snuck up on me. The anniversary.
This morning before the sun made its brief appearance on another cloudy day, my eyes suddenly sprang open. The numbers on the clock, 5:50, somehow told me everything I needed to know in that one glance. I hadn’t consciously been thinking about it this week, but almost to the minute, I awoke when exactly one year ago today, I was walking into the surgery center at University of Colorado Health with Bill by side. If you’ve read any of this journal, you know what I was there for. It feels like SO much longer than a year ago. Is that even possible? Seems crazy since it wasn’t that long ago that I was still recovering from my second surgery.
Somehow the clouds that have plagued us this past week seemed fitting. That day a year ago, within the windowless walls of the immense surgery center, I didn’t know if it was sunny or cloudy since I had arrived before daybreak. I wanted it to be cloudy though, to fit my mood. Major surgery couldn’t ever happen on a sunny day, could it? Well, if you experienced 9/11 at all, you unfortunately know that sad, horrible, ugly things can indeed happen on beautiful, sunny, days.
I brought only my phone and Bongo.
Bongo was one of many Beanie Babies my mom collected. (I know, I know.) My brother and I couldn’t help but roll our eyes every time she regaled us of her latest score and how once McDonald’s started offering them with their Happy Meals, how many she had to drive to and how many small french fries she had to eat, to get her very own “Claude the Crab” or “Tigs the Tiger”. But lets be honest, once McD’s gets into the collecting game, said collecting game is over. But, Bongo…well, he has always held a special place in my heart because she gave him to me to comfort me during a difficult time – her cancer. (Hope she doesn’t know that I cut off his tag, rendering him “worthless”, in collectors eyes, thought certainly not in mine.) He’s since accompanied me on too many surgery visits and he (Mom?) continues to watch over me sitting on his headboard perch.
That morning a kind nurse ushered me into a windowless area and pulled the curtain behind me. I knew the routine by now, but the piercing noise of the ball bearings rolling on the ceiling track echoed in my ears and it felt as if I was under water. As instructed, I stripped off my clothes and although I didn’t know it at the time, my old life. I slowly put on the cool cotton hospital gown that exposed my derrière…and my vulnerability. Many sweet nurses (so, so many nurses, chattering away on the other side of the curtain like it was just another day) took turns layering me with warm blankets, as if I could ever get warm.
Even though I knew I wanted to (finally) have the surgery, it was another thing to actually to be standing under the oh-so-flattering fluorescent light in the cold “room” having my surgeon drawing all over my upper torso with her bright blue marker while I stood w/ my hospital gown draped over my goose-bumped arms. As I was exposing myself, both literally and figuratively, I felt like I almost had an out of body experience.
I was scared to death, probably the most scared I’ve ever been in my life, although the glacier in New Zealand comes pretty damn close. I willed myself to try and be strong and look forward. Look forward to this very day, February 8, 2018 when I could say that I was officially one year post op. I don’t know how successful I was, but I was trying my best to focus on that date. When this would all be over. No more pain, no more doctor visits every other week, no more needing help getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, and maybe best of all, being able to take a shower. Although at that moment, I didn’t really know how difficult recovery would be, I had read enough and talked to enough friends to know it was clearly not going to be a walk in the park and I would very likely be extremely glad to get that one year mark.
With Bill holding my left hand and my right hand squeezing Bongo, I fought back tears. Tears for what I was about to experience. Tears for the possibility of complications. Tears for all the women who had come before me, those with cancer, like my Mom. And those, like me, without, but carry the gene mutation. Tears for how hard this was going to be on my family members, but especially Bill, who would have to do and see so much. Would it change our relationship? Would it change how he looked at me? How he felt about me? I knew he was the best partner I could have holding my hand in all this and that he was so, so strong. But, still. This was a lot to ask of anyone.
Tears for all the unknowns.
I remember then being wheeled away in my stylish blue paper hair cover and not really being able to see as I had to finally give up my glasses. I had to give up Bongo too. But most importantly, I had to give up the comfort and warmth of Bill squeezing my hand. After that, my memory goes dark.
I awoke several hours later, to what indeed, would become be an incredibly difficult year. A more difficult one than I even imagined that morning, though. Some of it, I’ve written about, some of which I haven’t yet, but maybe will some day. As I continue to get more and more distance from the overall experience, I find that not only do I want to write about it, but that I need to write about it, whether or not anyone ever reads it.
I took some time today to look back over some of the journal posts from 2017 and I’m thankful I did. They are perhaps the best reminder of how far I have come. I’m happy and healthy and isn’t that really all once can ask?
I wish I had written down what I was feeling the night before the surgery. I would really like to look at that and see in black and white, just how far I’ve come. But, really I do know. I know every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, nude or otherwise and I’m able to see more than just my chest. I know when I only discover said chest is cold by touch, but having it bother me just a little bit less each time it happens. I know every time I hear of another woman being diagnosed with BRCA or worse, breast cancer, and knowing that it is now a little more unlikely I or my family will have to go through something like this again. I’m beginning to accept that while my breasts may never feel normal to me again, removing that significant risk by removing them was, without question, something I wanted and needed to do.
So where did I expect to see future, silicone-enhanced self that morning? Well, not writing about it, that’s for sure! But I honestly don’t know. I didn’t “see” anything specific, just a general feeling and hope that this February would find me healthy and doing something I love.
And it largely has. I no longer need narcotics to get me through the night. Or through the day. (Remember this little gem from those days? Haha!). I no longer squeal in pain when I accidentally lift more than 5lbs. And while muscle spasms still come and go, they are significantly less frequent.
Slowly, somewhere in between the adult coloring books and meditation retreats, bits of myself started to re-emerge. And to my surprise, some different, better parts. Others’ compassion for me turned into something I had always had difficulty with: self-compassion. And although its landscape is vastly different now to me, I began to appreciate my body more. Discovering empathy for what I put it through and finding great gratitude for all it had given me in return. It quite literally had my back.
And though I know now that I will likely still have a few more surgeries ahead of me, I feel stronger that I ever have. Thanks in large part to my meditation practice among other coping mechanisms, I am better able to recognize when the complicated emotions are threatening to overwhelm me. Before I sink into despair for all I have lost, I now have some tools to help me work through them when they arise, especially on “monumental” days like today.
I am finally adjusting to my new normal. If you had told me that day that this is where February 8, 2018 would find me, I probably would not have believed you. I knew I would be grateful to have the ticking time bombs defused, but I never would have thought that I’d be thankful for the journey that doing so has taken me on.
I know I’ve said it before, but it has been one hell of a roller coaster ride with way more upside down loops and hairpin twists than I may have liked, but it’s all led me here. While I still and always will have stressors like what the heck am I gonna do when I grow up (seriously all suggestions welcome) I’m finally, finally more excited than scared to see where life takes me now.
And, of course, I needn’t have worried about Bill. Throughout this entire journey, it was him who has been by my side. It was him keeping mine and all our dear friends’ spirits up waxing poetic about hospital cookies (did I really think they were that good, love?!) and my personal favorite, which should totally be a thing, btw; Health Care Haikus. He continues to be my rock, my love, my cheerleader, my very own personal comedian…but today, thankfully, I’m not going to the hospital. Instead, I think I shall go for a walk. All by myself and in eternal gratitude that I can do so. And who knows, I may even break 2.8 mph on Runtastic. (Ha, uh, yea, I better break 4.5mph actually!)
I made the difficult and perhaps unusual decision to choose the cure before the illness, but for all the pain and suffering the “cure” has caused, I know without a question that I made the right choice. For me and for my family. I cannot thank them enough for their unending love and support. Even if they may have not have quite understood my decision, given that I didn’t actually have cancer, they accepted that it was mine to make and for that I will always be eternally grateful.
The physical scars are fading and slowly, the emotional ones are, too. I know I have a long way to go, but I also know, once and for all, that I’m on the right path. And if sharing my experiences with others can help them face their fears in even the smallest way, it will be more than worth it.
Image from our November visit to the Neon Museum in Glendale, CA.
