2 weeks out
Today I had two appointments. My drains have really been bothering me. I'm not sleeping well, and they're becoming more painful every day. I called in for an appointment hoping to have my remaining three removed. However, I have another surgery this coming Thursday. The revision surgery has to do with my arteries and ensuring proper blood flow to my nerves and skin. Apparently, during my initial surgery, the surgeons were surprised to find that my blood flow needed to be rerouted. This unknown hiccup not only extended my first surgery time but also assured that I would need to go back for the revision, another 1-hour surgery, a week or so later (outpatient).
I went back to Midwest Breast & Aesthetic Surgery today and they removed the drain connected to the side of my right abdomen. I haven't had a restful night since my surgery. I wake up at all hours of the night, drenched in sweat, often having awoken from terrifying dreams about my surgery or because my brain is creating all sorts of devastating images that won't allow me to rest. Because of having the drain removed, I'll be able to sleep on my right side which until now has been painful and pretty much impossible.
After that appointment, I had a follow-up with my breast surgeon, Dr. Halaharvi. I haven't gone out into public since my surgery. There are several reasons for this. Because my stomach was cut laterally and the incisions are still healing, I cannot stand up straight. I walk hunched over and slowly because my back is so strained from the angle. On top of this, my muscles have been weakened greatly. I can't stand for more than a few minutes and walking for any length of time is exhausting. The physical pain has been indescribable, but the hardest part of this whole process is the mental and emotional toll on my body.
I look in the mirror and cry because I don't recognize myself. I know that this may portray me as vain or petty, but it is a reality that I haven't gotten past yet. My body is still in the very early stages of healing, but when you are physically and emotionally drained, things like a bad hair day or the fact that I haven't had the strength to put on makeup in two weeks becomes a much bigger deal than it should be. Some days, I am holding on by a thread.
For my follow-up, I arrive at the Bing Cancer Center about ten minutes late and stressed because they asked me to come at 2:00 as opposed to my previous appointment time at 3:00. I can't stand to be late and never want to appear as though I believe my time is more valuable than anyone else's.
I walk into the office exhausted from the short journey from the parking garage. A few people are ahead of me, and I have to sit to catch my breath. I had no idea how physically exhausted I would be after this surgery. As I get to the counter, the nurse asks my name and after giving it, replies snidely with "What? Did you get lost? You're late."
Another nurse behind her states that they knew I was running late and that I was doing them a favor by coming in early in the first place. I sat to wait and in the moment, couldn't hold in the frustrations of the moment anymore. I sat in that chair in the waiting room surrounded by women 30 years older than me as tears streamed down my cheeks. My nurse and Dr apologized profusely and were both upset by the desk nurse and her treatment of me.
The reason that I'm writing about this situation in a blog about a mastectomy is, you truly cannot know the pain that another person is experiencing. I have great respect for nurses and the extent that they push themselves to for strangers. Today, I was truly heart-broken to receive that treatment from someone that I looked to for a small bit of reassurance and understanding.
I feel more alone than I ever have before. Family, friends, and co-workers have been very supportive and helpful. An experience like this is amplified by the fear that I am no longer myself and the worries that I never will be comfortable in my skin again. Getting through the day without sobbing non-stop, is a luxury. So many things set off my tears.