"Not until the test is laid on my desk." I use this statement every time someone asks me if I'm nervous.
After meeting with the reconstructive surgeon for two hours to be informed of all the details of the mastectomy surgery, I was momentarily nervous. For Beth. Because I realized that it would not be pleasant, at all. I promptly went to the state-of-the-art place for learning: YouTube, and watched a video of a mastectomy and breast reconstruction with tissue expander. If you have a questionable response to blood, the flesh under skin and cauterization, I would not recommend viewing this. Following my observation I had another moment of nervousness. For Beth. Knowing how painful this will be for her.
The rest of the week went by uneventful. Finally Sunday came which passed as the others did, until bedtime. I became mildly sleepless. Not looking forward to the 4:00am alarm or the overnight stay in a hospital room. Monday morning as Beth and I drove in the pre-dawn darkness I mentally and verbally wished we were on our way to the airport for an early international flight away from here.
In the hospital room, gowns were don. Pre-op questions were asked and answered. Sharpie lines were drawn on Beth. An IV needle was placed in her vein. Prayers and well wishes were spoken. I gave her a kiss. Then she was wheeled away from me. To a place where I could not whisper comforts to her or hold her hand.
Now, I am nervous.
Anxious is a more accurate description.
I had to wait five and one half hours to see my wife again. All of us, left to worry in the waiting room, were approached by the two surgeons, after each completed their respective work. Both reporting that the surgery went well. The first, Beth's surgical oncologist, was responsible for removing all the required tissue. The last performed the procedure of sewing donated dermis to existing muscle and inserting the tissue expander. That is the quickest way to describe five hours of work. (Yup, you read correctly, cleaned human skin will be sewn onto Beth. At least I believe it to be human.)
When I walked into the room we would stay in for the next 24 hours, Beth was semi-conscious and colorless. Minus the rusty tint from the antibacterial solution swabbed across her body. She had a button in her hand, wired to the IV tree, which would pump a dose of morphine into the tube every 12 minutes, that she held like a treasured artifact someone might snatch from her. Within an hour she had her color back and was fairly coherent.
We received a crash course in Jackson-Pratt drain care. Out of each side of Beth's chest is a tube leading to a grenade sized reservoir with a tiny plug. Every 4-8 hours we check these reservoirs for fill. When they reach a certain level of un-compression, each must be emptied into a cup and the fluid measured and logged. Then the bulb must be squeezed to produce a suction to pull more fluid from the surgical site.
I only remember parts of the stay. Probably because of the lack of sleep. The nurses visited Beth almost every hour to take vitals and/or administer medication. The most vivid memory of our night in the hospital was when I attempted to sleep. I was offered an unpleasant recliner (that I was grateful to have, because the nurse said they were not readily available). Even with all the lights turned off, the room was filled with points of illumination from multiple indicators and machines. Aside from the muted bustling of nurses and carts in the halls I was kept company by the buzzing, clicking and farting breath of the machine inhaling and exhaling air for the compression wraps around Beth's legs.
I dislike the digital white noise machines used to mask any extraneous sounds that would keep me from sleeping. My mind will unavoidably hunt for and detect the artificial loop that is programmed into the circuit. Fans or sound conditioners are the only true natural white noise machine, other than a radio tuned to a non-terrestrial frequency. But this pumping machine seemed to have no rhythm to it. The distraction of my subconscious searching for the loop acted like the "om" used during meditation. Other than that moment in the night, you could say I needed a Xanax.
After drinking what seemed like gallons of water, Beth peed on her own and was allowed to go home. I drove very consciously. Feeling every seam and imperfection in the road and wondering how this felt to the sliced up woman sitting next to me.
Home, so far 36 hours, has been a roller coaster of symptoms for Beth. Mostly drowsing/sleeping and pain, with passages of nausea and then calm. The drains will be removed in two weeks. Beth can expect four to six weeks of serious recovery followed by limited activity and no lifting. I can only imagine how hard it is and will be to be unable to pick up the nuggets (Lilly and Evie).
All of the breast tissue removed was sent to have a pathology analysis done on it. What we would like to be found is the tumor shrunken or gone. Equally important is having no cancerous cells at the edge of the sample. This would indicate, potentially, that some of the cancer still remains and means an additional surgery. Results should be back in a few days.
The next procedure will be the hysterectomy in February. This is not as severe of an operation, but still unpleasant.
Thank you everyone for your kind and supportive words, thoughts and acts. We are so appreciative and will never be able to repay the great benevolence payed to us.
After meeting with the reconstructive surgeon for two hours to be informed of all the details of the mastectomy surgery, I was momentarily nervous. For Beth. Because I realized that it would not be pleasant, at all. I promptly went to the state-of-the-art place for learning: YouTube, and watched a video of a mastectomy and breast reconstruction with tissue expander. If you have a questionable response to blood, the flesh under skin and cauterization, I would not recommend viewing this. Following my observation I had another moment of nervousness. For Beth. Knowing how painful this will be for her.
The rest of the week went by uneventful. Finally Sunday came which passed as the others did, until bedtime. I became mildly sleepless. Not looking forward to the 4:00am alarm or the overnight stay in a hospital room. Monday morning as Beth and I drove in the pre-dawn darkness I mentally and verbally wished we were on our way to the airport for an early international flight away from here.
In the hospital room, gowns were don. Pre-op questions were asked and answered. Sharpie lines were drawn on Beth. An IV needle was placed in her vein. Prayers and well wishes were spoken. I gave her a kiss. Then she was wheeled away from me. To a place where I could not whisper comforts to her or hold her hand.
Now, I am nervous.
Anxious is a more accurate description.
I had to wait five and one half hours to see my wife again. All of us, left to worry in the waiting room, were approached by the two surgeons, after each completed their respective work. Both reporting that the surgery went well. The first, Beth's surgical oncologist, was responsible for removing all the required tissue. The last performed the procedure of sewing donated dermis to existing muscle and inserting the tissue expander. That is the quickest way to describe five hours of work. (Yup, you read correctly, cleaned human skin will be sewn onto Beth. At least I believe it to be human.)
When I walked into the room we would stay in for the next 24 hours, Beth was semi-conscious and colorless. Minus the rusty tint from the antibacterial solution swabbed across her body. She had a button in her hand, wired to the IV tree, which would pump a dose of morphine into the tube every 12 minutes, that she held like a treasured artifact someone might snatch from her. Within an hour she had her color back and was fairly coherent.
We received a crash course in Jackson-Pratt drain care. Out of each side of Beth's chest is a tube leading to a grenade sized reservoir with a tiny plug. Every 4-8 hours we check these reservoirs for fill. When they reach a certain level of un-compression, each must be emptied into a cup and the fluid measured and logged. Then the bulb must be squeezed to produce a suction to pull more fluid from the surgical site.
I only remember parts of the stay. Probably because of the lack of sleep. The nurses visited Beth almost every hour to take vitals and/or administer medication. The most vivid memory of our night in the hospital was when I attempted to sleep. I was offered an unpleasant recliner (that I was grateful to have, because the nurse said they were not readily available). Even with all the lights turned off, the room was filled with points of illumination from multiple indicators and machines. Aside from the muted bustling of nurses and carts in the halls I was kept company by the buzzing, clicking and farting breath of the machine inhaling and exhaling air for the compression wraps around Beth's legs.
I dislike the digital white noise machines used to mask any extraneous sounds that would keep me from sleeping. My mind will unavoidably hunt for and detect the artificial loop that is programmed into the circuit. Fans or sound conditioners are the only true natural white noise machine, other than a radio tuned to a non-terrestrial frequency. But this pumping machine seemed to have no rhythm to it. The distraction of my subconscious searching for the loop acted like the "om" used during meditation. Other than that moment in the night, you could say I needed a Xanax.
After drinking what seemed like gallons of water, Beth peed on her own and was allowed to go home. I drove very consciously. Feeling every seam and imperfection in the road and wondering how this felt to the sliced up woman sitting next to me.
Home, so far 36 hours, has been a roller coaster of symptoms for Beth. Mostly drowsing/sleeping and pain, with passages of nausea and then calm. The drains will be removed in two weeks. Beth can expect four to six weeks of serious recovery followed by limited activity and no lifting. I can only imagine how hard it is and will be to be unable to pick up the nuggets (Lilly and Evie).
All of the breast tissue removed was sent to have a pathology analysis done on it. What we would like to be found is the tumor shrunken or gone. Equally important is having no cancerous cells at the edge of the sample. This would indicate, potentially, that some of the cancer still remains and means an additional surgery. Results should be back in a few days.
The next procedure will be the hysterectomy in February. This is not as severe of an operation, but still unpleasant.
Thank you everyone for your kind and supportive words, thoughts and acts. We are so appreciative and will never be able to repay the great benevolence payed to us.
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