Surgery Date Adventures 

On Tuesday, I had surgery to remove two tumors from my right breast. Breast cancer is woozy—the night before, I showered with the prescribed pink wash and that morning. I woke up at 6 am and meditated. Taking notice of the quiet and the increasing volume of the thoughts inside my mind.
I showered and tried my best to appreciate my appearance before I got dressed and reached everyone to go to the office. It was a morning with a lot of fog, and it helped me focus on the ticking time marker on the car.
We arrived, and I checked in. The front lady was incredibly sweet and even bypassed the payment question, knowing that this aspect could be dealt with later. I am so thankful for her, as she has helped me retain some semblance of a stress-free existence.
The waiting started in the waiting room. My mom was already miles deep in her thoughts and could not be readily pulled out of that state. My brother and boyfriend greeted each other, and my other friends and nephew arrived slowly after. Shooting the shit helped with navigating that time frame. I received flowers, as did my mom – a lovely token.
I was called in and walked past open offices and rooms. I was led to a room with a computer, a heavy device, and a snug couch that made no sense being there with a box of tissues on a coffee table. The color scheme for the room was tan and dark blue. That room made no sense. I had an odd interaction with a nurse who was adamant that I should get a mastectomy and that the cancer always comes back. I made it clear that I was following the recommendations of my surgeon. I had advocated for a double mastectomy due to the finding of a second tumor. That was a tough day – it felt like my breasts were ticking time bombs. The surgeon talked me out of that and noted that the plan remained the same. I trust this woman with her 20+ years of experience and direct news delivery. Once that was established, the nurse seemed to change her tone and continue to rave about how the surgeon is highly sought-after, though known for being extremely direct. I don’t care about how direct the surgeon is. It tells me that this surgeon knows her shit. Is she described as abrasive because she’s a woman? I had only significant interactions with the surgeon that indicated to me her depth and breadth of knowledge in treating breast cancer – there was no doubt in my mind that she knew her job well.
I spent time there waiting for the technicians to arrive; the rooms remained cold and dark. I had another mammogram, and I had wires placed to guide the surgeon to the location of the two masses. I was lying on the table, classical music playing, dreading and anticipating the needle’s prick the technician was telling me was coming. The pinch and burn were unbearable. As I lay on the bed, the nurse caressed my arm and told me to focus on breathing. The burning spread fast, and soon, the pain was gone, but I could still feel the tugging. Pain gone is a gift, but no one ever prepares for the experience of knowing something is still occurring in that area. I could still feel the pulling of my breast as they adjusted its placement to skewer the tumor right in the middle.
I joked that they were making shish kebabs out of the tumors. The technicians laughed. I wondered how many of these they did a day. They work directly and swiftly, and a simple “best of luck today ” was certainly much better than “I’m sorry.” I still don’t know how to respond to that.
Once they were done, they helped me up, and we were told the transportation was ready. I was wheeled away and was able to greet my family. My area was still numb, but everything around it knew something happened. Moving was painful, and even breathing in the wrong way and expanding my chest in the wrong way sent lighting pain through the sternum front area. I appreciate modern medical science, but this process is still painful. Surprisingly so, as I had deep breaths, I could still independently go to the restroom. I am thankful for my body for persevering through these conditions.
I was transported from the office to the hospital across the street. The process took 45 minutes. I was wheeled to the van, waiting for the machine to lift down so my wheelchair could be wheeled right in and strapped with the seat belt, and waiting for the nurse to hop in and the driver to prepare everything. Then, arriving at the hospital, the same process was reversed, and waiting for my family to park and find us in front of the hospital. What a process. What a long process of waiting. I breathed through the pain and just reminded myself I was one step closer to being knocked out with anesthesia and getting this done.
My family arrived, and we all walked together as one unified front. I am so thankful for their presence. Walking in, we were met with men in jeans and a suit jacket, who were highly cheerful, holding tablets and greeting everyone. They walked up to me to get my information to check in and asked a bunch of questions that my nurse was able to answer quickly and, as a matter of fact, confirm that they had completed all the necessary steps. We were ahead of schedule, but I could be wheeled right in to wait for the following imaging procedure. I was told I could bring in one friend, and she and I spent probably close to 90 minutes alone in recliners at the end of a hallway. Hospitals are odd places. It is so easy to get lost in each hallway, so mundane, and such a lack of life walking through.
We observed people walking in, scanning their cards, and walking in and out of rooms with materials. We cracked jokes and talked about HGTV’s chokehold on waiting rooms around the hospitals. It is such an odd theme to aid in the process of waiting. Is it considered a neutral conversation topic to avoid delving into more profound thoughts?
“Why would they choose that wood?”
“I love that wall paint.”
“The dinnerscape is gorgeous for maybe a summer afternoon.”
Who knows. The tyranny of HGTV is apparent, though, so someone should look more into this.
People came and went throughout that small waiting area. I started sweating profusely. I was happy I had a friend waiting there with me, but how could we possibly wait there? I was sweating because I was nervous. Was everything on track? Did they find something else? Was this simply the result of three departments failing to communicate effectively?
Finally, the technician approached us. We had seen her multiple times, coming and going. She told us it was time for the imaging process. We walked into a stark white and futuristic-looking room with an MRI machine in the middle. It was a stark contrast with the tan colors and muted light blues of the area outside. I was told to change gowns and that more injections containing numbing agents would be placed inside the breast.
I laid down and followed her instructions. The pain was burning and stressed me out, as it indicated the first round of injections was losing its effect. The pain lasted a solid minute, and I felt the tugging again. The technician asked if it was okay to start the second one, and I simply told her to go ahead with the remaining three injections. Don’t tell me, do them. Waiting it out made no sense to me, given the effect and experience of the pain. I focused on breathing, and soon enough, she said she was done and told me to wait 5 minutes and left the room.
Wait 5 minutes. Waiting again. This time, there is a clear boundary regarding when the waiting will end.
I know I am speaking about waiting, and it may be coming off as exasperating – and it was – but I didn’t mind it. I had no schedule, and I had no plans. Where could I possibly be needed at this time if not for the surgery to finally treat the cancer? Waiting beforehand was torture – knowing we had a plan, and yet I had to wait. I had to stay here now, but at least I knew it was for a purpose that was immediate and close to me now.
The 5-minute waiting ended. She explained I would need to raise my arm and keep it there while the machine moved me to the area and took images. The process took less than 5 minutes, and I was told I was ready to hop off and get back in the wheelchair. They were ready for me in the outpatient surgery section. I was excited and went to the restroom. Big mistake – at the new location, the nurses seemed rushed, and the tan-looking room areas were empty. The nurse gave me a cup and told me to pee. Yikes, I had JUST peed, and now this seemed like a NEED RIGHT NOW process, especially when paired with the comment that they had “other ways to get a sample.” What other ways?!
By some miracle, I was able to pee and produce a sample – it turned out they needed to do a pregnancy test, and if it was positive, the surgery would be canceled.
Frankly, this should have been RIGHT at the start of my day and not this late in the game. The cup of pee sat there in the tray for 3 hours. So much for the urgency, as the nurse assigned to me came and introduced herself and stated that we were early . . . 3 hours early. So now more waiting. The time felt to ooze, and I was still so thankful that my friend was there waiting with me. We made off-colored jokes about how she was going to be in charge of identifying my chopped breasts and how she couldn’t fuck up; we joked about how the people waiting for us on the outside were faring and how good food was. At that point, I reached nearly 20 hours of no food or water. I typically am good with 16-hour intermittent fasting, but the lack of water and the superimposed nature of this food and water ban was unbearable. I dreamed about a hot dog I had eaten at a place called Frank & Steins was a hot dog in a bun with mac and cheese on top, bacon on top, and siracha sauce. Wow – that was a dream meal with a nicely paired beer. Time drew closer, and we started noticing patterns at the 30-minute mark of an hour – the halls would be teaming with people and patients being moved inside and out. We had visitors from multiple nurses asking if I was crying; no, I was wheezing and laughing, and my friend received threats that if she made me cry – she’d be asked to leave. Noted.
I told my birthdate a record number of times, I was asked what procedure I was having a record number of times, and I was told, “We’re almost ready for you,” a record number of times.
Holy moly. It felt more real once the first surgeon stepped in to greet me with “So we’re here for your two booboos” – she signed my breast with her initials. Nice. And then, the next surgeon stepped in and started drawing on them to determine her cuts and plans for reconstruction. The process was freehand, and we guessed the size. I’ll note that this process’s lack of eye contact is quite stark. Not that I wanted it – I don’t know how that would’ve gone, but it was an interesting experience to behold. If anything, it indicates just how taboo breasts are in our society. What an odd demarcation for an ordinary body part.
Finally, the anesthesia nurse came in and asked if I had any questions. Yes, will I have nausea? Nope, that is only seen in younger patients. Great! I can have food afterward! But ALSO, they would not be held liable for any teeth coming off or getting chipped from the intubation process. “Oh snap, that can happen?” was my thought process.
Then I was told they were ready, I was given my pills, consent forms signed and verified, and I said ‘see ya later’ to my friend. I was whisked away as I tried to fit my hair in the hairnet hat. People introduced themselves to me, but I couldn’t recall names. Then, I was instructed to help transfer from the bed to the surgical bed. And then, the culmination of ALL that waiting happened. I didn’t know what happened – I was knocked out.
And then, as fast as I fell asleep, I woke up—more waiting.
I heard the nurse and my friends talk and review the process of maintaining the drain they installed. I remember being tired as hell and just wanted to sleep.
I spent more time waiting to get wheeled to the car. I remember a cat in a nurse outfit card, people greeting me, and then waiting to have the car set up. I fell asleep and was now waiting to walk into the house. It was medication time, and I ate a glorious banana and kept falling asleep while eating. I had finally undergone the primary step. The waiting was an experience, and again, what a process.
Full of dull pain and gratitude, I fell fast asleep.
I am healing now, and this recollection is missing some details in certain aspects, but overall, the focus was just on the waiting.
More waiting is now occurring, and I am waiting for my first post-op appointment.
Waiting in a known place now.
But waiting is a blessing, and I am blessed for it.
I am blessed with the company of dear ones and the support of my loved ones. I will continue waiting and, in that process, still live my life, whether it’s cracking jokes, meditating, or word searches.
I will be okay. So here’s to all the waiting in this liminal space called life.