San Diego! A whole week of cool temperatures, a clear calendar and some R&R. Legoland, Sea World, boating and major walking were all on the books, and as an added bonus, my parents have a teen girl across the street who babysits. Let the festivities begin.
The blog took a hit this week so either I was having a wonderful time with a devil-may-care attitude or something got in the way of my written epiphanies. Enter hematoma.
Scene: July 4, 8:30am. I’m sitting at the breakfast table with my dad and son. Elbows on the table. Talking about, perhaps, doing a little walking. My mom wants us to see Cabrillo Point, a military cemetary covered in American flags that ends with a gorgous view. I would like Xia to see this. I think John would like to go and remember his dad, who served in WWII. The most strenuous thing I am doing is thinking about eating a bagel.
Hmm, that’s odd. My right side goes numb, like a huge charley horse set up camp in my right pec. Rotating my arm does nothing – I can’t feel a thing. Not one to suffer in silence, I jump up and announce, “THIS IS WEIRD.” This gets no one’s attention as most everything is weird in my family. I try, “MY BOOB IS HARD AS A ROCK.” This gets more of a response – some general interest, kind of like you’d see at a circus. But it wasn’t until I went to the mirror and saw that my right side had transformed itself into Pamela Anderson that I got the attention I was seeking. HOLY SHIZZLE, this is not normal. I kid you not, my right breast turned into a size F right in front of my eyes.
(Is this karma for posting that photo of Victoria Beckham??)
My family is a bunch of lawyers and writers – not a medical person among us – so we expertly decide my muscle must have swelled from the exertion of thinking about that bagel. The solution – lay down and ice it with a bag of peas. This seems to work for a lot of stuff so let’s try it. Unfortunately, this did a big, fat nothing except defrost a bag of veggies. Thanks to Rebecca C.’s quick response time and her father-in-law, MD for getting me up and to the ER.
9:30am. Scripps Medical Center ER. “HAPPY GD 4th!!,” I yell to the other patients in the ER! No, I didn’t, that’s the bitterness talking. And who would John and I have yelled that to? The guy sharing my room, who dropped the F-bomb 12,000 times while lamenting the loss of his girlfriend? The passed-out woman gurneyed into the hallway, snoring and clutching her bottle of cough syrup? Or the drunk woman who was getting yelled at by her drunk daughter who did NOT have all day. (Note – when you have a medical emergency on the 4th of July that you did not inflict upon yourself, you seem to get better service.)
9:30, 10:30, 11:30… Examinations. Wide Eyes (as in “Please take off your robe.”…”Oh wow, you aren’t kidding.”). Ultrasound. Lamenting neighbor gets discharged. Nice nurse brings John a sandwich. IV inserted by a nurse who doesn’t like my veins (why would she tell me that?). Diagnosis – we have a bleeder. Book an OR. Oh wait…we don’t have to book an OR because it’s the 4th of July. They’re all open. Take your pick.
SURGERY. Surgery is very different when you aren’t planning on it. There is no time to read waiting room magazines, no nice visit to a pre-op room where a lovely nurse asks you questions, introduces you to your anesthesiologist, and brings in your familliar surgeon. No versed offered to make you loopy before you ever see the OR.
When you come from the ER, you’re wheeled up with no fanciness. (I felt very Grey’s Anatomy. When they wheeled me into the elevators, I expected to see Meredith looking at me with that wistful “I’m hungry” look she has mastered so well.) Right into the OR you go, and might I remind you that I have not yet met anyone who will be holding a scapel. Someone handed us a CV of the surgeon, and uhhhh, it looked good, but what if it didn’t? My right boob is about to explode. It is so much larger than my left side that I literally look lopsided. The doctor could waltz out in a Donald Duck outfit and I’m sort of stuck.
Head covered, blankets on, handshake with anesthesiologist, quick briefing with surgeon, who has very friendly eyes, and off I go. Buh-Bye John. And no drugs so I’m very aware when they wheel me in for surgery. Big lights, lots of beeping. I pop myself over to the table on my own, and get restrained. I don’t love that part. Weird squeezy things are put on my legs. Still no drugs. The surgeon is sitting down reading my chart…because, hello, he only met me 30 seconds ago. The anesthesiologist is jovially chatting it up to whoever will listen which is, oddly, calming. The nurse is busying around, straightening blankets, pushing buttons. I get nervous and start talking. And that is, apparently, how you get drugs in this place. Buh-Bye Becca.
I woke up yelling. I have never done this before with anesthesia, but I had no idea where I was and was pretty forceful about needing to know. Post-op. On the 4th of July, it’s just me. And that’s that. I had a “sheared artery” that started filling up the implant pocket. How did this happen, you might ask, when all you were doing is thinking about a bagel? No one knows. Medical mystery. Harrumph.
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Perspective. I missed the 4th. I missed the 5th. I think about how much cancer patients miss, how many events and holidays, how many of the seemingly small, little details that make up a day. I think about my sister and what she missed. I think about the list my team will carry on our 3-Day walk, and how much those women missed. And how much their families miss them.
But I am also selfish. I am so, so, so ready for this to be done. I want my brush, my near miss with this disease to be over.
I missed holding my son on the 4th of July during the fireworks because I was hazy and couldn’t lift him. I missed being on the boat when he overcame his fear, stood on the seat and fell in love with the ocean air blowing his little face into a huge and giggly grin because I was sleeping off the anesthesia. I would very much like to feel 100% today for our trip to Legoland. Instead, sore, a little groggy, and with a drain full of blood hanging from my side that I will try to hide in a pocket, I will go and try not to miss anything.
Cancer sucks. I’m over it. I am more motivated than ever to walk these 60 miles. The irony is that I am not allowed to walk. The fundraising I can do – I can raise thousands of dollars to hand off to Susan G. Komen on a silver platter, but I am not allowed to walk.
Here’s hoping for next week.
Becca


Tags: cancer, ER, hematoma, implants, OR, rebecca C., san diego, scripps, surgery