The Di'el Didna Want Me

So I'm home from my surgery, basking in the well-wishing of friends and enjoying a break from the routine. I was surprised that a couple of my friends were completely taken by surprise to discover I'd had a partial mastectomy. I thought I'd broadcasted my condition worldwide. Apparently I missed a few.

It happened this way. I promised my Daughter that I'd have a mammogram this year, because I've been successfully avoiding them for four years now. At the time I booked the appointment, I lived in NDG, so I booked at a clinic there. I went, got squished and irradiated, and left, thinking I'd hear from them in two more years.

Instead, I got a phone call from the clinic two days later wanting me to come in for a second mammogram, an enlargement of one area. At that time I was told I had something called "microcalcification clusters," and that these usually turned out to be nothing. So I wasn't worried. This time I was told to wait around for the radiologist to read the mammograms and discuss them with me.

She was very nice. She explained that these things are usually nothing, that in most cases like mine they simply decided to have the patient back every six months to see if the area changed. She said I could see a breast specialist if I was worried, and that in fact there was a new breast specialist at the clinic on the same floor. So I walked over and they gave me an appointment.

I expected that when I saw the specialist I'd be told these things were usually nothing, and to come back in six months for another mammogram.

Instead, the specialist said she was referring me to Hotel-Dieu, where they have a nopnotch breast clinic and state-of-the-art equipment and the best breast diagnosticians in Montreal. I was to take my x-rays and my CD to them and drop them off along with her referral, and they would contact me and tell me whether they wanted me to come in or whether I should turn up in six months for another mammogram.

Of course, that's what I expected, but instead they asked me to come back in for a biopsy and more mammograms.

The biopsy was "interesting:" I had to remain motionless for 45 minutes with my boob hanging through a circular hole in a very uncomfortable platform. The boob was frozen and immobilized in a vise, two sites were biopsied and markers left where the tissue had been sampled. Titanium, and no, it doesn't set off airport alarms.

I was told my specialist would receive the results in two weeks and to make an appointment to see her.

I expected to be told, everything's fine, come back next year.

Instead, she said, "Okay, I'm going to perform an excision." One of the biopsied sites had yielded "atypical" cells. The way I was given to understand it, if a normal cell is white and a cancer cell is black, I was in a 30% grey. It wasn't a lump, just some cells that weren't normal.

So because this was surgery, I had to go for pre-op tests, and that's when I met the pre-op nurse, who used the term "partial mastectomy."

I didn't like the sound of that. "The surgeon called it an excision," I said. She nodded vigorously. Yes, an excision in the breast is called a partial mastectomy.

How about that. I didn't hear much of what the nurse told me after that. My brain was trying to come to grips with that M-word. Adding to my discomfort, she handed me a pamphlet describing exercises I was to perform after my surgery. To minimize the effects of lymphodema.

I stared at the booklet uncomprehendingly. Lymph nodes? They might have to take out lymph nodes? I put all the papers away to look over at home later.

Then I had to meet with an anesthesiologist. I thought, "what a bore." What on earth was that about? Well, it turned out to be about my sleep apnea, the reason I have a V-PAP machine. (That's a machine that keeps your airways open at night using Positive Air Pressure.) The anesthesiologist thought I'd better stay in the hospital overnight and bring my V-PAP with me, because apparently anesthesia can make you stop breathing.

Oh. Okay then. So now, I've gone from "come back in two years for your next mammogram" to staying overnight in a hospital. I was starting to freak out, despite still being assured that these things were usually nothing.

It didn't help when Daughter decided she was going to come stay with me. I figured for sure I was going to die from the anesthesia then. Fortunately she got a gig in Toronto that kept her there during my surgery! I mean, I didn't mind that she wanted to be with me, but, let's face it - I'm not getting any younger. There will no doubt be plenty of opportunities for her to come hold my hand as I'm wheeled into the operating room in years to come. It'll be old hat some day, I'm sure. And no doubt far more serious.

The day finally arrived. It began by a 6:30 a.m. start to drive to Hotel-Dieu again, where, back in the room with the painful bed with the hole for my boob to hang down, a "harpon" was inserted into the site where the atypical cells had been discovered. I called it a harpoon. It was a small wire, but "harpoon" was funnier, since it brought to mind lines about whales. The harpoon was sticking out of my boob and got taped up. Next stop, the Verdun hospital for the surgery.

So I found myself signing in to Day Surgery and being assured that after the surgery had actually happened I'd be transferred to a room. I was asked at least a dozen times if I'd remembered to bring my V-PAP machine with me. Hubby patiently carried my bag from point to point and sat with me while we waited for my surgery time to arrive. Finally the orderly came for me. Hubby leant forward, gave me a kiss and said "Repent - the end is near!" So I entered the operating room laughing my head off. Bless my dear Hubby - he doesn't say much, but when he does, it's hilarious!

Then the head anesthesiologist said this was supposed to be day surgery and he'd send me home afterwards, no need to stay in overnight. O-kayyy, I said. I guess.

My surgeon arrived and checked my films again. Everything was a go, everything was fine. Oh, she wasn't going to be there the day after to release me in person, because she had to stay home and wait for the refrigerator repairman to come. You know - you have to stay home from 8 a.m. till whenever they come, because they can't give you a specific time... It was hard not to laugh. Here we are, mighty surgeon and ordinary plebe, both humbled and brought low before the almighty refrigerator repairman! I told her the anesthesiologist wanted to send me home anyway and she said she'd make sure to write my release in just in case.

And then I was wheeled in and the I.V. put in, and then I was waking up in the recovery room. And then I was wheeled back to the Day Surgery room for further observation, where Hubby was waiting for me.

"I made it!" I said. "Not dead yet!" he answered. A familiar old joke. And the meaning behind the title of this blog, incidentally, for those of you who don't speak Scots! "The Devil didn't want me" is the English translation!

And then began the post-operative dithering about whether I was staying or going home. I was game. Before they'd let me go home though, I had to make to the bathroom under my own steam. Right, I'll try it now, I said, and proceeded to get up.

Then I quickly lay back down and called for the kidney-shaped bucket. Oops. I'd forgotten I get naseous after general anesthesia.

Okay, said the nurse, I think I'm going to give you something for nausea. We've got three protocols for nausea, I'll give you the first one. Okay. It put me back to sleep, of course. But a short time later I was ready to try again. One, two, three, upsie-daisy...

No-go, back to the barf bucket.

Okay, I'll try the second one, said the nurse. And back to sleep I went. And tried again. Again with the same result. And protocol three went the same way.

At this point the nurse wisely decided to try removing the oxygen stream and seeing how I was breathing on my own. Not five minutes later, the alarm went off beside me. My oxygen had dropped lower than 83%, and that's a very bad thing. So she gave me the oxygen again, and we tried a little later to see how my breathing was on my own. Beep beep beep went the alarm.

At which point she said "I'd feel a lot happier if you were to stay in overnight so we could monitor you."

"Well, that was the original plan!" I said.

And in no time I was in my semi-private room, my V-PAP chugging away happily, Hubby gone gratefully home to bed, and me finally allowed to stay in dreamland for 2 hours at a time. Because of course, "monitoring" me meant they had to wake me up every 2 hours to check my vitals. No matter. I made it through the night and got released near noon the next day, and now I'm home recovering.

No pain to speak of - it feels a little itchy, sometimes feels like I have a large splinter. But I've enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, calls, and good wishes on Facebook. Sadly, no chocolates have appeared yet, but today R brought me flowers - yay! And any minute now Daughter is going to arrive from Toronto for a brief visit.

So that's the story of my partial mastectomy. I see the specialist in two weeks, at which time I expect to be told the cells weren't cancerous, and to come back in a year for another mammogram.

And then we'll see!