December 2011.
It has been three weeks since I found out that I have cancer. Too soon to tell the stage or grade of it. They will know more when they remove my breast. I am chillingly calm considering what is about to happen to me. I check into the hospital and cannot help but feel that I have stepped into the twilight zone. The nurse tending to me is telling me about how much pain she is in. She had Botox yesterday and is complaining about the soreness on her face. She is beautiful and 28 years old. Why does she need Botox? And yet I am sympathetic to her pain, in some weird way. All of the doctors are stopping by, explaining what is about to happen to me. The anesthesiologist describes the process of injecting me with blue dye so they can see the cancer’s path if it is on the move. He tells me that I may come out of surgery with blue skin. Really? Is he joking? Again, weird but that is the story of my life. If there is something or someone weird, they always end up in my sphere of existence.
It is just Carl and I in the room right before they come to wheel me away. He is scared but trying to appear calm. I think that my calmness freaks him out. This has to be one of the most surreal experiences in life. They are REMOVING my breast. WTF? And why am I so calm? The surgery seems like a natural choice – you have cancer in the body, you need to get it out and fast. I really believe that once it’s out, I am going to be okay. It can’t hurt me anymore if it’s out, right?
As they start to wheel me into the OR, I start to cry. One of the doctors tells me that it’s going to be okay. There are A LOT of doctors and nurses waiting for my arrival. The anesthesiologist starts doing his thing and I am asleep in less than ten seconds. Once I am under, I dream in technicolour. Is that the way the mind protects you from the terror?
I wake up hours later and the pain is excruciating. I’ve had surgical procedures before but NOTHING like this. I can hear myself moaning and one of the doctors comes over, the one that soothed me when I started crying on my way in. She asks about the pain and then tells me that my lymph nodes looked really good and healthy. Sweet – clean lymph nodes means no chemo! I would do the happy dance if I could only get up.
Two days later, they send me home to heal. I cannot believe that anyone would elect to have breast implants voluntarily. This has to be the worst pain that I have ever felt. It’s Christmas time, and I am ready to get on with it. Krista comes over to see me with a beautiful box containing a bunch of presents – one for every day over the next few weeks. All amazing, thoughtful gestures that only Krista could dream up. Ava is enamoured with them and brings me a present to open every chance she gets. Things are looking up. The surgery is done, my nodes look good. Onward and upward. I am ready to say goodbye to 2011. Good riddance to the suckiest year of my life…. or so I thought.
- Kim
photo: Krista McKeachie