Most people would probably have been terrified to get
surgery, but I was strangely “zen” about it—almost to the point of blasé. Of course, I was nervous about the
results of the biopsy and, oh OK, how bad the scar would be. I do, however, have a history
of healing quickly. I was also
looking forward to finally getting some decent sleep while under anesthesia.
THE SURGERY
The day of the surgery my very kind and accommodating friend
took me to check in. Because I
couldn’t eat or drink anything prior to the surgery, I was a bit cranky. Thankfully, the check-in process was
relatively simple and efficient and the staff friendly. My friend promised to come get me after
the surgery.
A young, quirky but adorable nurse led me to my room where I
was given the prerequisite paper dress, told to strip down and don the
dress. I was excited by the dress,
though, because it wrapped around the back and had various openings (flaps)
that Velcroed in the front for maximum coverage during surgery. There was also a place for a tube
attachment through which they could blow hot air if I got cold (!).
Of course, I also asked the nurse if they’d be covering my lower half when they wheeled me down the hall post surgery, not wanting to “flash my trash” everywhere. She laughed and handed me a pair of complimentary magenta non-skid fuzzy socks. Another bonus. I love non-skid fuzzy socks.
The rest of my time before surgery was a flurry of
activity: Various nurses coming in
to check vitals and prep the surgery site, visits from the doctor and
anesthesiologist, episodes of Property Brothers (I would have watched Hoarders, but didn’t want to be freaked out by all the germs)…. I asked the surgeon if she was going to
be doing the surgery laparoscopically.
She looked at me like I had clearly been watching too many medical
dramas and said that no, she could feel the lump which meant she could see it,
so she’d just go in there and “pop it out”. The anesthesiologist promised to give me good sleep.
And boy did he.
Once in the surgery room, I only vaguely remember the lights spinning, a
fleeting thought of how I hadn’t been that drunk in a while and I was out.
The next thing I recall is waking up in the recovery room,
marveling at the other surgery zombies being wheeled in. I made some jokes to the nurse about
Johnny Depp visiting me, which encouraged her to call the recovery room and tell
them I was ready to move.
Apparently, I had come out of the anesthesia grog in less than 15
minutes (another special skill of mine which has freaked out doctors in the
past as they weren’t ever sure I was completely under.).
I stayed in Recovery for maybe half and hour, where I was
treated to Ginger Ale and the sounds of other people’s pain. I really hate hospitals sometimes. The head nurse in Recovery was a sassy,
Asian woman. When I told her I had
to go to the bathroom, she jokingly told me, OK, but I’d better not fall down
in there because then she’d have to come get me and it’d be a whole thing
(which made me laugh). When I
returned from the restroom, she called my friend and alerted her that I was
ready to go. She also requested a
wheelchair transport (a gruff, older volunteer) to wheel me down the entrance
of the hospital to meet her.
It had been a successful surgery.
THE BIOPSY
I had my follow-up appointment with the surgeon the Monday
after my surgery, about 5 days later.
I felt a bit battered, like someone had sucker punched me in the
boob. I also sported a pretty
intense IV bruise (not dissimilar to the ones I used to get when I skated
roller derby) and the slight symptoms of a cold. She told me I was healing fine, but to contact her if I had
any further problems.
The good news, my biopsy was clear. She did, however, have to remove two growths.
The second one had appeared out of nowhere. It been hiding behind the other mass and hadn’t been
detected on the ultrasound. I
said, “Oh, like Gremlins.”
“Yes,” she joked.
“Your diagnosis is ‘Nipple Gremlins’”.
POST SURGERY
In the last couple of weeks, I have been healing well. The weather has changed, so my surgery
site has been itching in the heat. Scratching doesn’t help, so it’s making me a
bit crazy—and makes me understand why animals get “coned” post-surgery. My daughter also has a tendency to run
into my injured boob (or hug me too hard), despite efforts to deflect her
nine-year-old brute strength and clumsiness. All in all, though, it could be worse. After all, the nipple gremlins weren’t
cancerous. Hell, they didn’t even
leave too bad of a scar.
Until my next entry, Lovelies….
