We are one week in. I seem to have an inordinate number of bra ads on my Facebook feed. All progresses more or less to plan, and the diversions from normal haven’t been catastrophic. Over the weekend I had a panic attack, probably caused from narcotics on an empty stomach plus extreme chest trauma. I hate throwing up. The idea of it makes me panicky. My mom pukes like a cat, without even missing a beat, while I consider calling an ambulance if I feel slightly nauseous. I got lightheaded, and my arms and legs were tingly. I kept trying to get up to go downstairs, but the minute I’d sit up I’d get woozy and need to immediately lie back down. Bob came up to check on my progress and was alarmed to find me making a move toward the bathroom, but then dropping and crawling, collapsing on the gloriously cool tile floor. He kept asking if I was dying. I obviously was, but didn’t want him to get too alarmed as I was sprawled on the bathroom floor, working on breathing exercises and hoping for the sweet, sweet relief of death. We all hung out there for a long time, me on the bathroom floor, Bob and Abbie the dog on the floor in the hall.
So that was fun. Today was my post-op appointment with my surgeon, and the first time I’ve left the house in a week. As I was getting dressed, I put on my special post-mastectomy zip up camisole, with internal pockets for the drain bottles. It bunches weird at the top, and as I pulled it down to adjust, I accidentally caught hold of the drain tube in my armpit and ripped it significantly out of my body. Once it’s out, there’s no poking it back in. It’s possible that the remaining drain will eliminate fluid from both sides. Now we’re watching for swelling. If I start taking on fluid, I’ll need to go in and have it drained with a needle. Other than pulling a drain tube out three weeks early, my surgeon said everything looks good.
Fantastic. I’m tired of it. In my recovery lair (aka guest bedroom) today, the TV remote fell on the floor. I considered picking it up, but decided I’d probably have to go to the bathroom eventually and I could get it then. I haven’t had the energy for one of my favorite holiday traditions; the schadenfreude of finding typos in the end-of-year fundraising letter sent by the place I used to work. I don’t smell good; the body has just been bathed in pieces, and not well. I watch my chest as I breathe, confirming that even though it feels extremely tight, I’m still able to easily inflate my lungs. I continue with my physical therapy exercises: miming comb my hair, comb my hair, comb my hair, comb my hair, followed by a couple rounds of the Itsy Bitsy Spider to keep my mobility up.