I am humbled. Deeply, deeply humbled.

Weeks 9 & 10 A.D.

Monday was MLK Day. My middle kid, Emma, has been very active in finding some volunteer activity to do in honor of Dr. King’s legacy to make it a “day on, not a day off” by giving back to the community.

Given my upcoming surgery, I wasn’t comfortable going to the big YMCA community volunteer event we went to last year, considering the rampant flu. Considering Jillian just had her birthday and Emma’s was coming up in less than a month, I suggested doing birthday party kits for Operation Breakthrough. Also, we all needed to go through our good clothes and coats to make clothing donations to their closet. Zander had been wanting to clear out his bookshelf too, so we filled up two big bags of kids books for the school’s library.

Before my sister went back home, we stopped by a random Amazon pallet store. It was an experience! We rummaged through 8-10 giant bins of Amazon returns, labeled “everything $6”. Emma found two baskets full of returned birthday party supplies.

It became my newest distraction—sorting items, shopping for cake mixes, frosting, candles and disposable cake pans and packaging them up. Emma and I loaded up the car so I could deliver twelve birthday party kits, 4 bags of clothes, coats and shoes and two bags of books.

It felt good to work on a little project with Emma, and to spent time with her, even if for a few moments. She’s my most reserved kid when it comes to bonding, talking or showing affection. It sucks for me, but I’m trying to let her lead.

It was a big day for her too…braces removal day! She went into braces two years ago when she looked like a little girl and now, two years later, she’s coming out of them looking like a young woman. Time is a wild ride.

On Tuesday, I was about to leave for lunch (i.e. go to drop off donations), when I read one last email from my teammate. It had been sent about fifteen minutes or so earlier.

“Subject: Meal Train Support for Nikki Storms During Recovery”

As I read the email, my throat turned rock hard and tears started forming. I clicked the link and saw people had already signed up. Tears started flowing down my cheeks.

I am humbled by my community.

Wednesday, after work, I had an in person delivery to my home. My team brought me art therapy projects, snacks, a comfy blanket, a Warmie, and more. I cried.

I am humbled by my community.

Thursday night came. I had made plans to go to dinner with a group of old friends from work. My “hags”. You know when you go out to dinner at a completely respectable place and there is a table of a bunch of loud, crude women just cackling away? That’s us. And I couldn’t wait to cackle with them again.

Shortly after we sat down, these lovely ladies showered me with the cutest button down pajamas, socks and slippers. I would be cozy and cute. Even if I didn’t feel cute. I wept.

I am humbled by my community.

I was fully overwhelmed. In a good way. In ways I never imagined. I was literally moved to tears every single time people showed up, even in the words and messages people have sent to me. As I showed Zach the gifts and support I was receiving, I found myself, again, sobbing in his arms. Grateful, appreciative, thankful. I don’t think those words even fully describe it.

My heart actually hurt because it was so full. It’s like it didn’t know what to do with all that emotion, except to sob. I was riding a Meal Train of emotions that kept serving.

The countdown was on. Only five days till surgery. Week ten kicked off with my consult, FINALLY, with the plastic surgeon. I felt sick with nerves the whole drive to Overland Park. Zach went with me, as he knew I would be a wreck. I met the nurse practitioner first. A bubbly, kind woman. She gave me the run down of my surgical options, recovery and the layout of our never-ending relationship together.

Simply put, if I want to do reconstruction, I have two options at the time of mastectomy: implants or tissue expanders. The expanders would hold me over if I wanted reconstruction with my own tissue later, after all other treatment completes. If I’m not sure what I want to do, the expanders would be best. But, big BUT, that obviously means I definitely have multiple surgeries with of reconstruction. Recovery is tougher because the expanders get stitched into the pectoral muscles. The implants would be silicone, held in place with biological mesh, or cadaver tissue, like a hammock. She explained that the silicone nightmares of the nineties were an almost completely different implant than they are today. Saline-based just isn’t as durable. However, no implant lasts a lifetime. So, multiple surgeries over my lifetime—I’d have to replace them at least once if not twice. Overall though, if the implant can go in at time of mastectomy, it’s one fewer procedure in the long run and healing time tends to be a bit quicker.

DAMN IT!

Looks like I’m getting implants.

She started measuring my bare breasts at all angles, then asked what size I’d like to be.

“I’m 43, I don’t need to be hurtin’ my back anymore!” I laughed. “Let’s go down to a C.”

She took note, then briefly left the room, returning with a clear ball that looked like Zander’s Needo Ice Cube stress ball.

“Great, I’ll have Needo boobs.” I thought to myself.

The plastic surgeon came in shortly after. He’s probably the driest of all the doctors I’ve met so far, but I Googled him and saw he runs the residency program for his department and his list of accolades is long. I don’t need overt charisma in a doctor, I’ll take expertise any day!

We talked about the prospect of nipple sparing, and while he could ask my breast surgeon, he reminded me that it would be a longer procedure and recovery time and it leaves a small risk of recurrence, and they still won’t be sensate. Not forgetting also the chance that if my body doesn’t take it, nipples would die. I wondered what the point would be. With three cancer spots, I’m not interested in gambling.

I asked him next about the procedure using my own tissue. He studied my half naked body, quickly.

“You don’t have enough belly tissue.” he said.

Wow. For the first time ever, I thought that was a bad thing.

He explained the tummy tuck procedure that it would take to retrieve belly skin and fat. But that alone would only create an A cup. He would also have to remove inner thigh tissue and fat to possibly get me to a C. It was like slow motion as he pointed to the various areas of my body he’d have to cut out. I’d be chopped up and stitched together like Sally in Nightmare Before Christmas.

That’s a Nah for me dog. No frickin’ way. My emotions would tail spin in a recovery like that.

So. There it is. Another clear answer.

Despite how angry it made me that all other options just got cleared from the table, I tried to remember the wise words of my therapist.

I wanted clarity, this is it.I’m just fucking pissed about it. And I have to remember…that’s ok.

I was quiet on the drive home. I knew now what to expect. Kinda. Best I could do was hope to wake up with even, nipple-less lumps resembling Barbie boobs. Worst case, I’d have tissue expanders for the foreseeable future, requiring routine air pump refills, like a pair of 90s Reeboks. Plus, multiple surgeries either way.

I hated it. I hard cried from the passenger seat of the car on the rest of the way home.

The kids were home for a virtual learning day due to the weekend’s winter storms. I couldn’t hide my red and puffy face. Zander asked why my face was red.

“Mommy is just having a tough day, bud.” I responded. “I’m still angry about the surgery, but I gotta do it and I will. Crying is just my way of throwing a fit about it.”

“Damn, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree I guess” I thought to myself almost as quickly as my previous words came out. Maybe out of this, I could learn to have even more empathy for the kids when things get hard.

The next day was brightened when I received a delivery from my oldest friends from Iowa. They sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers-huge fragrant pink lilies and roses. Separately, Amazon came with a breast pillow and extra lanyards to hold my drains. I’ve heard some people prefer those to drain pockets. Now, I have options!

I am humbled by my community.

Wednesday, I had an appointment with my therapist again. We focused on my anxiety and fear. The countdown to Friday has made each day feel worse and worse. I’ve been worried about my anxiety in the hospital as I await surgery. She gave me new techniques to help me get re-grounded. We also talked about the wild idea that maybe I’d be ok. It actually has not dawned on me to think about all the ways in which I could be fine. I could not have a panic attack. I could feel peace leading up to the last moment of consciousness before surgery. Wow. Intentional positivity.

What’s crazy, is once the light goes on. All you see is light. From my nail tech, who had to remove my gel manicure in preparation for surgery, who talked to me for thirty minutes straight about the power of positivity. My trainer at the gym said very similar things and had me starting to think about the road to recovery and getting back into shape after time off from the gym. I got multiple calls and texts at work the day before surgery. All pep talks of positivity.

It was what I needed, when I needed it. Things do happen for a reason. People come into your life or day, at certain times, for a reason.

And so, here we are. All caught up.

It’s the night before surgery. And while I’m still scared shitless, I’m going to try to focus on positivity. What if I remain calm in prep? What if I wake up with the implants and it’s rough a couple days, but I can move? What if I remember that whatever the rest of my treatment plan is, it’s going to save my life? What if, there will be a day that I don’t think about cancer in every minute?

And I have to thank my community for continuing to remind me to stay positive.

I am deeply, deeply humbled by my community.

I CAN do this.