I'm not bossy, I just know what YOU should be doing.

Me and my accomodating surgeon, Dr. Comitalo

Some who know me may realize that I have the tiniest bit of impatience in my personality . So, it should not be a surprise that I want to be healed from my surgery NOW! Alas, it is not completely possible, but the last of my three surgical drains was removed on Monday, along with the only surface stitches.

For those lucky enough not to have experienced it, I'll explain that the surgeon left drains penetrating my skin. Each consists of a sturdy bag with a valve and a long tube attached. The tube goes through the skin and is held in place with a surface stitch. Compressing the bag and closing the valve causes pressure to be exerted so that fluid from inside the wounded area is pulled out and into the bag. Twice a day the bag is emptied by opening the valve and squeezing out the contents. The volume of fluid is measured and the amount recorded. (It is helpful to be comfortable with blood, and protein, and fluid of various colors while emptying and measuring.)

When the day came for the final drain to be removed, I began worrying about the pain I anticipated. To remove the drains, the surgeon removed the stitches (a little painful), placed a couple of fingers on my skin either side of the hole and very rapidly pulled the bag and attached drain out of me! Fortunately, I didn't feel it on the inside, but my skin definately had plenty of working pain receptors.

The first two were painful, and they were not nearly as inflamed as the third one which remained in me for several more days. That thing was SORE! So, being a "take charge" kind of person, I decided I should have a local anesthetic before the drain came out. I called my surgeon's office and suggested to his assistant that I should have a local. She said that she had never known him to do it and muttered something about people being afraid of needles and not wanting another hole poked in their skin. Altogether, she seemed somewhat resistant to the idea, which was not exactly an acceptable response. I sid it was easy for her to say it wasn't necessary since it wasn't her who had the drain! Getting nowhere in my reasoning with her, I finally asked her to tell the surgeon what I wanted when he came in. Fortunately, when I arrived he was prepared with a lovely needle and syringe of local anesthetic which made the removal almost painless, the only pain being the minor stinging when the injection began. I engaged him in a little discussion about how much better this was and told him he ought to offer a local to everyone. I wonder if he will.

I think I'll confiscate my administrative assistant's desk ornament which reads, "I'm not bossy, I just know what YOU should be doing."

Surgery and Me

It has been a week and a day since my mastectomy surgery. I'm pleased to say I went back to work on Wednesday and have been working partial days since. Feeling the need to get back to some semblance of normalcy, I was happy to get back to my office. Today was my first day in court and I experienced no difficulty during the 2-hour court session. Still haven't worked a full day, as I am trying hard not to overdo it.

Word that I've been diagnosed with breast cancer and have undergone surgery is gradually spreading among my friends. (Of course, this blog has largely been responsible. It occurs to me that this is an easy way for me to talk about it). I am grateful that so many people have commented, wished me well, and have shared something of their stories of friends and family who have experienced a cancer diagnosis.

My surgeon told me I would might have some lingering numbness in my right arm (where lymph nodes had to be removed). Only time will tell, but the arm is gaining sensitivity. Right now, it is an aggravation and I wouldn't mind the numbness lingering for a while! My perception is that my underarm is being scraped raw, yet there is no redness or visible sign of irritation of the skin. Everything my underarm touches feels a lot like sandpaper, even my bare, soft skin. I suspect there is some nerve damage and am hoping the hyper-sensitivity is reduced with time.

Because the cancer had spread to lymph nodes, I'll require radiation as well as chemo-therapy. To prepare for chemo, I'll have to have a medi-port installed. It will be placed under my collarbone and will have a tube attached which is threaded a few inches into a large vein in the chest. That out-patient surgery is scheduled for the day after Christmas. It should involve a short, 30-minute period of general anesthesia and a rather small incision so I'm hoping for very rapid recovery afterward. As I understand it, this medi-port can remain in place throughout my chemo-therapy and will be used to draw blood when that is necessary, as well as to inject those nasty chemicals that are designed to kill stray cancer cells all through my body. I suppose a small vein would be damaged far more than will the major vein connected to the medi-port. The skin lying over the port is punctured, along with some sort of membrane in the port, to remove and inject what is needed. Cool, huh?

The First (Big) Step

After the biopsy, the diagnosis, the MRI and the CT scans came the question, "What next?" For me, the decision was easy. I wanted this cancer out of me! I wanted surgery as soon as it could be arraigned.
However, nothing about breast cancer is simple, including, it seems, scheduling surgery. My oncologist called my surgeon and the surgeon's office gave me a date and time for surgery--Tuesday, 12/04. After giving this date to the most affected people in my life and adjusting my work schedule, I received a call from the surgeon's office. "You've decided to have surgery first, instead of chemo?" asked his assistant. "Yes. You set it for Tuesday, 12/04, right?" I replied. No. Not exactly. She thought the surgery was to be installation of a medi-port (which would be used for the chemo-therapy). I thought the surgery was the double mastectomony I had decided upon. So, she scheduled a new surgery date at a hospital, not an out-patient facility, and a full week after the date I'd first been given. I bitched a bit about a week's delay, but what could I do? I adjusted to the new date, rescheduled things at work, and prepared myself for surgery on 12/12/12. (I secretly liked the date. It is one I would not forget!)
But, everything changed once more (I guess my bitching was effective) and surgery was re-scheduled yet again for Thursday, 12/06. Another round of notifications and re-scheduling and finally the first big step was taken. It will take a while to fully recover, but the surgery is over, I'm off the Lortab, and it feels like progress is being made. Surgery has removed as much of this cancer as possible and more sophisticated weapons will be brought in next. And, as of today, I'm medically cleared to drive!

why this title?

Two days before Thanksgiving, 2012, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. From the time I noticed the lump, I had a bad feeling about it. I was in great health and had felt lucky to be suffering no chronic illness at age 65. My weight was under control. My blood pressure was perfect. I felt great.

But this lump didn't feel right. When a mammogram and ultrasound showed not only the lump but a swollen lymph gland nearby, the bad feeling got worse. By the time the biopsy was done, I was fully expecting to find I had cancer. It felt weird to go in to get the results and just know what the news would be. When the nurses went to get the doctor, I knew what he would say.

While I waited to get the official results, my thoughts were largely that I'd been lucky all my life. I told myself it was only fair that some bad luck come my way. I hoped that I would handle this bad luck with grace and courage and that I would never ask, "Why me?" (The answer would have to be, "Why not me?" since no one deserves breast cancer.)

After changing careers at mid-life and becoming an attorney working in criminal defense, I began to appreciate just how lucky I was. Not a single one of my clients had ever been lucky. They had horrible unbringings, impoverished childhoods, and came from families fractured and damaged in ways unimaginable to me. I wished my parents were still alive so I could tell them over and over again what great parents they had been. Getting to know just a little about my clients made me realize that I had come from a very privileged background.It made me think that I could not take credit for any accomplishments I'd had. I wasn't responsible. It was my privileged background.

Like most Americans, I had believed that being privileged meant coming from a family with a lot of money. I realized that I was truly privileged, not because of money (We were barely lower middle class.), but because I had simply wonderful parents. I was privileged because I had two parents who were totally devoted to me and my siblings. They went to work every day, they paid their bills on time, they demonstrated appreciation for education (though neither had gone to college and Daddy had stopped school after 8th grade), they were honest, they were sober. They were great parents. I came from a privileged background. How lucky I was.

But, back to the topic at hand -- Why this blog is titled "It's not Patrick." It was the MRI. I'd had MRI's before, but I had a new experience this time. During one of the longer scans (during which the machine makes loud, rhymthic sounds), I kept hearing, over and over, the phrase "it's not Patrick, it's not Patrick, it's not Patrick." As soon as I got out, I told the technician and Chris about what my imagination had made of the sounds. We all laughed out loud. I'm still smiling at the memory and wondering if anyone else hears the same phrase in that MRI machine.