Today has been challenging. I swing wildly from thinking it’s now been over a week, I should be feeling better than I do, and being incredulous that I’m still even alive after a combined 22-inch incision was made across my chest and over 10 and half pounds of flesh removed. One of the things I’ve most been looking forward to is never wearing a bra again. But to reach that prize, it seems I must pass through the valley of crushing wound healing and nerve screaming – a burning bra of thorns. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. Bob finally said, “Look, imagine what it would be like if you were going through this knowing that coming up next is months of chemo and radiation making you very sick, and even with all that, your prognosis would be uncertain. Instead, this, now, could be the worst of it. Keep that in perspective, and try to deal with it.”
Bob is so inspirational. Whatever.
We had planned to go up to the cabin today, and spend the next week recovering and working in an idyllic rural setting. That plan was hatched when I thought my recovery would look like calling in sick for work (“cough, cough”) and lazing away the days watching gameshows and doing crossword puzzles.
My life hangs in the balance here, folks. It is simply not prudent to relocate the recovery lair to the hinterlands. Look, remember yesterday when I accidentally yanked one of my armpit drains out? I didn’t mention that when I realized it was out, I instinctively grabbed it with my germy hand that the dog just licked, and shoved it a ways back in. There’s undoubtedly a 5-alarm untreatable infection festering in my chest.
When the left drain was removed entirely in the doctor’s office, my surgeon tried to get the suction to engage on the right drain, but instead it made a low honking sound as air rushed in the hole in the left side my chest and filled the turkey baster bulb on the right, proving there is a big gaping void between one armpit and the other. That just doesn’t seem right. Also, I asked my surgeon about the swelling that was spilling up over the waistband of my pants, and he said that had nothing to do with my mastectomy, proving he doesn’t have a very good grasp of anatomy. I should have done more research on this joker.
Now that I’m 50, I officially care deeply about poop, specifically, whether I’m doing it. I normally have star digestion, but that’s all out the window now, with narcotics on board. I was able, by the way, to get a refill on my Norco. My quack surgeon initially sent me home with ten – TEN – tabs of Norco. I’ve been given more for an ingrown toenail, for god’s sake. I was starting to think that since my Meal Train was full, I needed to launch Narc Train, where people could sign up to bring me their leftover narcotics. But I got a ten-tab refill. Party time!
Just off the phone with my mother. She said, “Well, I’m really hoping they’ll let you go home when your pain is more under control.” What? Did she mean go “home,” to the cabin? “Home from where?” I asked. “The hospital,” she responded. Wait, what is happening right now? Where am I? I don’t think I’m at the hospital. But maybe I do have a bad infection. I panicked a bit and said, “Mom, I’m at home! I’m not at the hospital!” (I’m pretty sure.) “Oh, that’s right,” she said, and then asked if I’d talked to my sister and that’s how I knew they were going to Perkins. “I don’t know anything about Perkins,” I said. “Is it like when you all went to Applebee’s on my birthday and didn’t tell me?” “Yes,” Mom said, “Only it’s Perkins.”
It’s past “Narcotics O’clock,” here. Maybe also there.