Health and Fitness : Laugh With Kathy - The Surgery

*In recognition of October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, Dean and Val have asked me to share some stories from my book Laugh With Kathy, Finding humor in the journey through breast cancer. Each week day during October, I will post an excerpt from my book on Vinton Today. Our hope it that these articles will give you a glimpse into what it takes to beat breast cancer. Proceeds from books sold in October on Amazon and from my website will benefit the Survivors of Benton County. Please note that I was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago, had two years of treatment and I am now living cancer free. www.laughwithkathy.com Monday, October 29: We arrive at the hospital promptly at 8:30 a.m. and are immediately escorted back to a preop room. After I change into my couture backless gown and robe, Gene, my mom, and my daughter, Danielle, are allowed to spend the morning with me. I have put on the gown and robe that are given to me, but I refuse to wear the hospital socks. I have nice, new pink socks"�a gift from my niece and nephew"�and they are way cuter than the hospital socks. The day starts well with this strike for independence. I am surprisingly calm and keep expecting to get nervous or upset, but I think that mentally, I am just plain ready to get the surgery over with. I laugh and chat with my family, and they all roll their eyes when I say I am bored. A numbing cream is applied to my breast to help with the upcoming lymph node injections. At ten o'clock, I am taken up to radiology to get radioactive dye injected into my breast to help identify the sentinel lymph node for biopsy. This is a process that I am worried about because I have heard that it is quite painful. Dr. Hemann is my radiologist once again. She just can't seem to get enough of me! She has been with me for the initial mammogram, sonogram, and biopsy. We laugh and joke a bit, and she explains the process. She even comments to Gene that I'm a compliant patient. I'm hoping she doesn't lift the sheet and see my pink socks, not to mention the forbidden nail polish on my middle toes! Dr. Hemann explains that the injection will sting a lot, but it fades quickly (within a minute). I take a few deep breaths and tell her to go for it. The nurse offers to hold my hand, but I decline and consider asking for a bullet. The injection really stings, but I must say that in the scheme of things, it isn't that bad. By no means is it the worst thing I have had done. The radiologist then takes a marker and circles the injection site, writes the date and time, and puts her initials. When we get back to the preop room, I tell my mom that I now have an expiration date on my right breast. As they wheel me back to my preop room, we pass the cafeteria. I'm hungry, really hungry, and I try to read the sign to see what the soup specials are for today. I pass a large cart stacked high with plastic containers holding sandwiches and cantaloupe. I like sandwiches. I like cantaloupe. I haven't eaten since last night and now I am parked next to the food cart as we wait for the elevator. Gene laughs and says, "This is cruel."� Now I need to wait two hours for the radioactive dye to work. At half past eleven, I start to get a little anxious. This is really happening. I am going to have a mastectomy. The anesthesiologist asks if I would like something to calm me. You betcha! Don't hold back on the drugs. Give me anything you have in that little bag of yours. About ten minutes before noon, two nurses come in and give me half of an injection and tell my family to say their good-byes. I want to tell my mom to take care of Gene if something goes wrong, but I can't get the words out. We hug. I expect to cry but I don't. I tell them I'm okay, and I really mean it. I remember going into the OR and moving to the operating table. Things look familiar"�and that pretty much ends my day. I'm fairly certain that I offered some unsolicited suggestion on how they could improve the surgery experience, but I just can't remember. I wake up in recovery and feel some pain, but not a lot. I'm very, very tired and can't figure out where I am. Things start to make sense, and I want to ask them to bring my husband back. I have questions for him that I'm not sure the nurse will be allowed to answer, and I know he will tell me the truth. After an hour, the nurses roll me through the labyrinth of hallways, and then I see Gene. I manage to wait until I get to my room before asking about the sentinel (lymph) node. He tells me it is clear. I breathe a big sigh of relief. The cancer has not spread.