Chapter 17: Farewell Old Friend

Incoming text from Mayo Clinic, February 28th, 8:05pm: “Erin, go to Eisenberg Admissions (Charlotte Building entry) @ 6am tomorrow.”
This is how they roll for major surgeries, they let you know the night before what time to arrive the next day. 6am…yikes! That’s fine, at least it’s only a 40 minute drive. It’s not like I need to look pretty. I can just shower and go.
This is it, it’s happening. My cancerous breast is finally being amputated. I disrobe and look at myself in my bathroom mirror. I look at my breasts and contemplate. They have been a part of me since they started budding at age 12. They have served me well. They fed my newborn son as nature intended. In spite of pregnancy and breastfeeding, they have retained their youthful appearance. This is likely due to giving birth at age 20 and only having 1 child…my body bounced back easily. They have always been perfect size (in my opinion). They compliment my petite yet athletic frame. They never got in the way. I could wear anything, or I could wear nothing. My breasts didn’t require the support of a bra because they always stayed put. The only reason I ever wore a bra was to keep my nipples from being noticeable through my shirts while in public. The only notable flaw now is Lumpty Dumpty, which has been noticeable to the touch for months now. It’s grown to the point where there is a slight change to the visual profile of my breast. I’m still baffled by its existence. Aside from Crohn’s Disease, I’m perfectly healthy. And, you would never know that I even have Crohn’s unless I were to tell you. My weight is healthy, my muscle mass is healthy, my skin is healthy, my teeth are healthy, my hair is healthy….I LOOK healthy, yet I have Crohn’s Disease and now CANCER! It’s fucked up, man! As I grapple with my asshole body, I tell myself to take a long hard look…commit this to memory, because my body will never be the same after this moment. Farewell Old Friend!
It’s the next morning: Show Time! My alarm chirps at 4am, the same time I wake for work. As such, I treat it like a typical work day: methodically and hurriedly preparing myself for the day. Hit the road, navigate through commuter traffic, trying not to be late. I prefer to treat the morning like business as usual…it lowers my anxiety.
Brian and I arrive at Mayo at about 5:45am. Parking is a breeze…Graham Parking Ramp is a ghost town this time of morning. We find our way to Eisenberg Admissions and check in. My name is called almost immediately…the nurse explaining that the preliminaries should be fast, as I am the first breast surgery of the morning. Preliminaries ended up taking a couple of hours. I don’t mind…it’s not like I have other plans for the day. I put on my hospital gown, fully nude underneath except for hospital socks. I let Brian take one last look at my body before tying my robe closed. “Feast your eyes, Luva! It was good while it lasted!”. One of the nurses comes in to inform me that it’s time to head to pre-op, and they roll me away on a gurney. The nurse brings me into a room barely large enough to fit the gurney. Essentially, it’s a closet. An anesthesiologist enters the closet and goes over protocol before attempting to administer my IV…which she immediately has issues with. I probably should have warned her that I’m a notoriously “hard stick”, something I’ve learned over the past 7 years of Remicade infusions. But, I decided to hold that information, as I didn’t want to make her nervous before she even began. I trust that she will eventually get a vein, assuming she had done this countless times before. Well, 3 unsuccessful jabs later, she calls her superior in to take a stab at me. He was unsuccessful, too. OK, now I’m getting nervous. If they can’t administer general anesthesia, how the hell can they operate? They tell me: “Don’t worry, we will make this work. We always make it work.” And, I trust them…I have no choice at this point.
Eventually I come out of the closet and I’m wheeled to the operating room, and it is a sight to behold! As the doors swing open, the first thing my eyes land upon is the Robot which will be assisting my surgery. The brandname ‘da Vinci’ printed boldly on its fascia. I consider this a good omen, as Leonardo da Vinci is my favorite Artist and scientific mind of all time. The Robot is large and in charge…it commands attention. I am in awe of the thing. I want so badly to remain conscious during my surgery just to watch this thing in action! The remainder of the room was bright white and sterile. I am soon surrounded by about a dozen humanoids, dressed in matching robes, gloves, and masks. They all looked exactly the same, only distinguishable by their voices as they speak to me. It had a real Alien Abduction vibe to it. As they rolled me onto the operating table, it hit me that this was my last chance to take a piss, so I sat up and said: “Hey, I really gotta pee!” My surgeon chuckles, gently pushes me back down and says: “Don’t worry…I will put a catheter in you as soon as you are sleep.” WHEW! With that, an Anesthesiologist came around with a gas mask, warns me of the weird smell, and gives me breathing instructions. I ask him if they are still going to give me anesthesia intravenously. He says “No, Dear. We couldn’t catch a suitable vein. So, we are giving you the same stuff we give our pediatric patients. We will take good care of you. Now, breathe deeply for me.” And, quickly I fade off. The surgery takes about 5 hours.
Next thing I remember, I’m awake and in a recovery room. I am LOOPY as shit! My surgeon is not in the room, as she had other things to attend to. But her surgical assistant and a few other personnel are with me, talking to me with serious tones…trying to evaluate my alertness. I’m having a hard time with it, as I’m still feeling the effects of the anesthesia. I manage to put a sentence together: “I’m feeling a bit discombobulated, here. That was some good shit you gave me, huh?” The laughter softened the seriousness in the room, thankfully.
Brian soon enters the room, followed by my Dad. Words, words, words…flying all over the room. Too many words for my half-gassed brain to absorb, so I let Brian do the listening and ask the questions. They give Brian a crash course in caring for my surgical drain and other home-care instructions. Eventually I stabilize enough to be sent home. I’m SO glad I don’t have to spend the night at this place! Brian helps me get dressed, and off we go! We swing by the pharmacy before leaving the hospital, to pick up a battery of crap they want me to take: pain killers, antibiotics for the drain, some weird nipple cream (my mastectomy was nipple sparing…the cream is to promote blood circulation).
I am in a good mood on the way back to Red Wing. I’m feeling no pain (just say yes to drugs!), and I’m relieved that the mastectomy is finally done after nearly 3 months of waiting. I’m at peace…the cancer is gone. I killed it before it killed me!