May Day

Didn't see the double entendre (sp) in that until now.

May Day.

LOL.

We woke up so very early that morning last year. No need for an alarm clock. As scared as I was that morning, I was also thrilled beyond belief to have that stinkin' little cancer GONE from my body.

The day began with the usual check in. Only it wasn't usual then. I wasn't used to getting a hospital bracelet and filling out forms and sitting in a waiting room. I was used to being on the other side of the double doors. I had to change into one of those lovely hospital gowns, have an IV started and wait in a little pre-op cubicle instead of hanging out in scrubs, waiting for someone else to go through those steps.

The next stop on my tour that morning would be radiology. They took me back through the handy-dandy back corridor. A nice thing when you consider the lovely hospital gown I was wearing. The technician was a doll. She was cheery. Not overly so, but enough. She tried to convince me maybe it wasn't cancer. I think I actually said the words "Did you look at the mammogram?" (you can imagine my tone. LOL). As much as I would have loved that have been true, I knew there was no way.

The whole needle localization procedure was much more pleasant than I ever would have thought. I was anticipating much worse. Everyone in the room- the tech, nurse and radiologist, was a woman, so that helped. They were all quite interested in the fact that I am an ob/gyn, I think. Lots of chatting. By the time I left that room, I knew the medical history of every one in the room probably better than they knew mine! LOL. For anyone that hasn't had one of these, done, it was not terrible by any means. They did yet another mammogram (digital so it appeared on the computer screen immediately). Then, once I was positioned perfectly, I was given an injection of a local anesthetic. That was perhaps the worst part- the stinging from that was the worst pain I would have all day. And that wasn't outrageous- just like a bee sting or two or three. I did feel pressure from the needle being placed, but that was all. Once the position was confirmed (super quick with the digital mammo), I was bandaged up and taken back to my little cubicle.

The waiting was hard. They had sent Howie back to the waiting room, so I was in my cubicle waiting, all alone and without anything to read. At that point, I did not need to be alone. I needed to be with someone or have my book to read to keep my mind on something else. I needed a distraction. Any distraction.

The distraction eventually came in the form of the anesthesiologist. He came in and asked the standard questions. I was more than happy to comply. Anything to keep busy. The best moment came in the middle of the interview. He looks up and asks, "Do you have a sister who is an ob/gyn?" LOL! Seriously! This is what he asked! I said "Umm, Skip, IT'S ME!!" To be fair, it had been a good 3 years since I was an attending at that hospital and he had, at one time, cared for my sister in some capacity.

Eventually, someone realized I was back and brought Howie back to sit with me for a few very short minutes. I know I shed a few tears off and on, quietly, while we were back in that little cubicle. Anytime it felt too real, it made me tear up.

I suppose I am fortunate for this next part, because walking into an operating room is second nature for me. It's comfortable, almost relaxing. It's always familiar, even if it's an OR I've never seen before. It feels like home... until they ask you to climb ONTO the table! That's the part that is the oddest. I feel like a child playing make believe when I have to be the patient! This part does go very quickly though. I did climb onto the table (remember I am short so it is a climb). I remember the warmth of the pre-meds as they flowed into my arm. I remember Skip saying he was going to give me a mask with oxygen... and that's all. The next thing I knew, I was in the recovery room.

Recovery rooms are a funny place. Being a patient reminded me of this. I KNOW Susan said to me "It was a cancer and the sentinal node was negative." What's funny is that I have no memory of her saying this. I just know she said it. I had to ask the nurse if she really came and said that to me. LOL. The same nurse who told me to stop checking my own vital signs. Yup. It turns out that's one of the first things I do when I wake up in a recovery room. I check my vitals. LOL. I wonder if other people do this. Anyway, I am now exceeding conscious of what I tell patients in the recovery room, no matter how awake they seem.

Enough about that. I went home the same day. I still thought it was all going to be easy. On the bottom of my post-op instruction sheet from the breast surgeon was written something along the lines of how "this diagnosis may profoundly change your life." Something like that. I can't recall the exact words. I remember looking at those words and thinking to myself.. "No. Not me. This is going to be a little bump in the road that I will barely remember in a short time. The cancer is out. I'll have some radiation and then it will just be something in the past." I was so convinced it was all going to be simple. A year later, I know the truth.

Today, this cancer-versary day, is a bizarre day. An emotional day. I've already been teary and anxious. I've already been happy and at peace. I've already walked 3 miles, even singing and dancing part of the way (an advantage of walking on the canal tow path at 8 am when there's no one else around.. I do check before I sing. LOL). And it's still morning.

I do know one thing. I am ready to move on. They say it takes it about the same amount of time to recover as it did to get through treatment. So, let's get moving and get this recovery thing going!