What are three things that make me really uncomfortable right now, Alex?
I didn't know what to expect of yesterday's surgery. No one can truly prepare you because all of our experiences are different. What I've learned in my whole 36-hours of recovery now is that there are very different definitions of discomfort. I will attempt to explain in reverse order from the blog title, because, well - I'm left-handed and I do everything backwards.
Automobiles. Where do I even start. They are either too high or too low. You want them low enough that you can kind of fall into without much effort AND tall enough that you can shimmy out without straining yourself. I envision something completely souped up and ridiculous looking that can lower to the ground upon my arrival and shoot skyward when I want to get out. But, realistically, getting in and out of a vehicle post-surgery is nothing compared to Every. Little. Bump. So, I take back what I said about my vision for a car and it's capability to lift and lower - I want to be beamed from place to place. It's so disappointing that they dreamed that up in the 60s and technology still hasn't caught up to Gene Roddenberry's imagination. I must admit, I was forewarned, in the form of a gifted seat belt cushion. The cushion can be Velcro'ed around the shoulder strap to keep it from resting on your incision. Unfortunately it does nothing to stave off the physical discomfort of experiencing traffic circles and potholes post-surgery.
Drains. I shutter to even go into that here. If you're not familiar with the drains associated with breast cancer surgery and reconstruction then I'm inclined to allow you blissful ignorance. I knew about the drains going in. The doctors told me they'd be putting them in. The nurses told me how to work them and log the results. I nodded through it all. "Uh huh, yeah, I got it." And I did, but I was trying really hard not to think about it. Why? Because I can give birth, I can watch House's team perform surgery every day, I can mop up and repair bloody wounds (I'm a boy mom - plenty of practice here), but what I cannot do, I listen to people talk, in great detail, about things like drains. I have a rubber tube sticking out of my body that drains all the fluid from around my incision. I have to empty the drain several times a day and log the milliliters on a sheet of paper - it's my homework assignment. If I do well, the drain comes out. I will spare you the rest of the details, because if I even think about it deeply, yet alone type the words, someone else will have to finish this blog because I'll be out cold.
Brains. There's a lot of emotional discomfort that come with a breast cancer diagnosis. There's no way to know how you'll react. You learn a lot about yourself while you're processing the diagnosis, trying to catch up on all the cancer vocab, and deal with everyone else's feelings about your diagnosis. It's a lot. And none of it is comfortable. I've learned that I absolutely detest pity and sympathy - maybe not ALL pity and sympathy, but in this case yes. I'd love to lie around with my little bell, ringing for service - read to me! feed me grapes! rub my feet! But alas, I was born without the gene that allows me to sit around and feel sorry for myself, or demand sympathy from others.
I have a lot of wonderful people in my life who love me, many who step up and step in to support me, and even more who are in the background cheering me on. I'm really fortunate - and grateful. I'm also fortunate in that my cancer was found super early, I was never in any fear or pain, my surgery was fairly simple, my recovery time won't be all that long and the treatment - though we're still waiting on a pathology report to confirm this - will likely be minimal. All told, it's reasonable to expect that in six months I'll be good as new. So when people tell me they're so sorry, I find that I'm really uncomfortable with that. Please don't be sorry. It could be so, so much worse. When I checked into the hospital yesterday the very sweet young security guard who was making ID labels for guests asked me what I was having done. When I told her I was having a mastectomy, she got a little misty-eyed and said, "I wish my sister had been brave enough to do that. You're doing the right thing." It was the best reaction anyone has had to my cancer news. I asked her about her sister and she shared with me that her sister's cancer returned later and she didn't survive her second battle. I was so grateful that she shared that with me. Because most people don't want to hear about those who cancer had claimed, I don't want people looking at me and thinking I might be one of them. It's not all in my hands, but in my brain I know I have it pretty easy. So I'm just going to sit back, take it easy, and let what feels like a Mack truck sitting on my chest heal.
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