Peace Out Cancer

Week 11 A.D.

I woke up throughout the night/early Saturday morning, from Zach dispensing my drugs just as nurses would have if I had stayed in the hospital. I had no idea what I was taking but I trusted him fully. By the time the sun was up, I recalled him meddling with tubes and drains that were connected to my body to empty and measure the fluids in them. I knew I would have drains, but I didn’t remember them from the day before. The look of the fluid that collected in the bulbs made me queasy, but I’m sure it was nothing compared to the things Zach has seen over his nineteen years on the Kansas City police department.

I fell back asleep in the recliner placed in the corner of my bedroom, covered in blankets and a pink arm and breast pillow with a front pocket printed with The University of Kansas Cancer Center printed in white letters. I have no recollection of receiving that pillow, but it was perfectly keeping my arms elevated away from my chest. Zach explained it was a part of the package of goodies provided to him at surgery check out, along with an extra compression bra and drain lanyards.

Zach and Jillian had picked up this electronic lift recliner, which had become my recovery chair, the weekend before. In my nesting efforts to prep for mastectomy surgery, I came across a local organization called Peace Out Cancer. They are a non-profit organization that lends lift recliners to women recovering from breast cancer surgery. My teammate had previously informed me about such a service that her step mom had used. I wasn’t sure if it would be something I needed, but the more research I did, the more I read about women basically living in these chairs the first couple to few weeks post-surgery. I reached out to the organization through Facebook Messenger and suddenly I was approved to borrow one. On the day of pickup, Jillian purchased one of their white fuzzy blankets with the Peace Out Cancer logo on it for me—she said it was too soft to pass up—and handed it over to me along with a journal that “belonged” with the chair. It was something I wasn’t supposed to read until I was post-surgery and in the chair, per the folks at the organization. The journal holds the stories of women who recovered from breast cancer surgery in this very same chair that I would be in myself. My story would be the next entry in that journal before it’s passed to the next breast cancer survivor. I have yet gotten the courage to read it. I think that will be reserved for next week.

If looking for a way to help, consider donating to this organization!

By Saturday afternoon, my sisters came in to my bedroom to check on me. My pain meds had me feeling good, as well as the residual anesthesia I’m sure, as did their company. I was still as parched as the surgery day prior, so my sister Veronica (Zeka) sat on my bed on water detail, helping me to reach my cup and not spill water out of my straw onto myself. My oldest sister Reyna sat in the other rocking chair next to me, knitting, and being herself making us laugh at her randomness. Jillian eventually came to join us on the bed, laughing at us old ladies reminiscing and making fun of each other. We remained this way for hours as I fought off my drowsiness, for fear I would miss out on something good.

Zach eventually came back with more meds and another drain check. My sisters went downstairs to prep dinner, the homemade enchiladas Zeka made. I also needed to get up and walk. Nature called (only #1) and nurse Zach insisted I walk around per doctor’s orders. Slowly but surely, I walked over to each kid’s room to say “hi”, holding the weight of my four heavy drains, dangling from my ribs, to my neck lanyards. I slowly took the stairs down for the first time. I quickly learned that using my arms to hold the railing or wall was beyond uncomfortable, so I leaned on my core strength for balance, holding onto nothing but my drains while Zach carefully followed beside me. My pectoral muscles were way too tender to function.

I devoured my enchilada. It was the first real food I ate since Thursday night, aside from a packet of applesauce Friday night and that morning. I was super grateful the anesthesia didn’t make me sick to my stomach. It had just knocked me out so hard that I couldn’t stay awake long enough to even feel hunger.

After dinner, I went back upstairs to my recliner, and shortly fell asleep. I was sad my sister Veronica would have to leave early Sunday morning, but I was beyond grateful to have had her here for me.

I napped most of Sunday away but felt comfort knowing Reyna was able to stay longer into the week to help Zach with the kids, food and keeping me company. She had her first dose of lacrosse on Sunday, having taken Jillian to her winter league game. When they got back that afternoon, I was amused hearing her recap, and admission to screaming, “Go J, goooooo!” Which I would have loved to see. It reminded me of something my mom would have done if she were alive to see her grandkids play competitive sports.

I took my first shower Sunday night. It was both terrifying and dreaded. This would be the first time I would see the new version of my post-surgery body. Zach turned on both shower heads in our master bath to get the area as warm as possible. He helped me to carefully undress as I held on to the counter for balance. I still didn’t quite have my sea legs from all the anesthesia that was still working its way out of my system, along with the pain meds we kept putting in. He was very careful to remove the compression bra the hospital had put on me. I gripped onto to him tightly, less for balance, but more for the discomfort the bra removal had on my fragile body.

Once the bra had been removed, I turned slowly to look in the mirror. I saw a different version of myself looking back at me. It was bandaged. Bruised. Plastic tubes and drains hooked up everywhere. I looked scared. Sad. Ill. Weak and a little broken.

My chest bandages are a thin, clear waterproof tape covering the entire area from rib to clavicle, arm pit to arm pit. Under the tape is a flesh-toned bandage going across each breast, where the incisions were made, to remove all breast tissue and nipples. I was thankful not to have to see the incisions. But the image was enough to tease the imagination as to what I will look like with permanent scars and no sign of nipples. The shape of my newly formed “breasts” was jarring. They were not the shape of the breasts that had given life to my three children. They were not the breasts that had existed as a living part of me, that had gone through so many changes over the last 43 years. What was now there were tight, round and still lumps. Motionless. Numb. Lifeless.

It was enough. I had to look away.

I asked Zach if I had stitches in my underarms or toward my back, near my underarms. Over the last two days, I kept feeling a pulling, like stitches getting slightly tugged anytime I would stretch my arms out a little or twist my body to one side or another. I was confused when he said there were no stitches anywhere to be seen. Not even any red marks or chafing from the bra. I felt like I was crazy. I would have sworn there was something there, it was a very distinct pain that felt surface level on the skin. But he assured my skin was fine.

We stepped into shower. I kept a hold on my drains to help reduce the weight pulling from my ribs to my neck from the lanyard. I felt tense and stiffened. I wasn’t supposed to immerse the bandages in water but Zach assured that the surgeon meant no baths, a shower was fine. But I was nervous about the water. Plus, everything was just uncomfortable. I tried to tilt my head back toward the shower stream so Zach could massage the water in my hair and apply conditioner to the tangled mess it had become, but I started feeling dizzy and faint. We compromised to make this shower quick. I would try to wash my arms while Zach quickly scrubbed the rest of my body. Then I could rinse and get out.

As soon as I stepped out of the shower, I saw my new body in the mirror again and almost immediately began to weep. I think the exhaustion from the shower was the cherry on top. Zach dried and wrapped up my hair. Then quickly dried my body so he could put my other clean compression bra on. I held onto him tight again, during the discomfort of Velcroing each strap, pulling the two sides of the bra toward each other, pulling my tender breasts together, and zipping it up. He wiped my tears as he kept on dressing me into clean pajamas, tucking me drains into the built in side pockets. I had begun to calm down as he brushed my hair. He helped me back into my recliner and called Jillian in to braid my hair. I took some deep breaths to find my calm again, then we walked slowly downstairs for dinner.

Monday and Tuesday was a lot of the same. Sleep in the chair, push the remote lift to get out of it. Use the toilet, back in the chair. Trips downstairs in between naps to grab morning coffee, lunch and dinner. I received some very thoughtful and beautiful floral arrangements, making my home smell amazing. I also had received another care package from a nonprofit organization, Sharsharet, a bolster pillow to support comfortable sitting positions during recovery. This has been helpful in supporting my neck with pillow wedges I use on the sofa. Days before surgery, I received a “Busy Box” from this organization that I inquired for Zander. Since I knew I would not be able to spend time with him as usual, their Busy Box included books, Legos, games and a comic book drawing kit that he and I could do together during my recovery. He had already worked on the Legos and has his creation displayed on my night stand so I can look at it anytime. (Sweet boy) Learning about the resources this organization offers has been impressive. Pre-surgery, I spoke to one of their social workers about resources to provide to Zach, as my caregiver, and resources to help talk about my cancer to the kids, in healthy ways. I’m also now a part of a survivors group on Facebook. It’s been a fantastic organization.

If looking for a way to help, consider donating to this amazing organization.

Wednesday was a big day. My first post-op visit with the plastic surgeon’s office. I would meet with the nurse practitioner that I met at my first consult visit. I showered again the night before and hated it almost as much as the first shower. As I dressed for the morning appointment, I struggled deciding what to wear. My four drains are so bulky and obviously I still need to wear clothes that button or zip in the front but obviously I’d rather not wear pajamas to an appointment. I chose black sweat pants and a pink kimono style sweatshirt top. Almost the exact same outfit I wore to the hospital for surgery, including the wool poncho as a coat.

“Shit, I should have grabbed my mom’s handicapped parking tag,” Zach said as we pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office.

I know my disability is only temporary, but he was right. I was not in a position to walk from a spot on the far end of the parking lot, nor was I in a position for him to drop me off at the entrance where I’d have to stand on my own to wait for him to walk over to me. Luckily, it was the second row we drove down that had an open space two spots from the front.

As we walked, slowly, to the entrance, there was an older woman also walking in our same direction who spotted me walking slowly, slightly hunched, with what clearly appeared to be devices under my garments. I could tell she was curious about my appearance. It was probably clear to her that I was a patient in this scenario. She was kind to hold the door open for us and hold the elevator.

“What floor?” she asked Zach, giving another curious glance to me as I wobbled into the elevator.

“Two, please,” responded Zach and I met her stare with a smile.

This was the moment I realized that I look like a breast cancer patient. I had always been in this woman’s shoes, being the one that looked healthy, identifying the other women ill with cancer. But this time, the tables had turned. I was the ill one. And others noticed me.

We checked in to the front desk but waited for only a few minutes before my name was called by the nurse. I was instructed to undress from the waist up and put on the open front shirt gown. Zach carefully helped me undress.

The nurse practitioner was quick. She reviewed Zach’s daily log of my drains.

“Hmmm, progress, but the amounts seem to be flip flopping,” she said curiously.

She then opened my shirt gown. “Skin color looks great. Exactly how we want it to look, actually.”

We talked about pain. I had just run out of my pain killers. I didn’t want take any more though. After five days, I had only just finally managed to “go”, if you know what I mean. We agreed to transition to just Tylenol and add Ibuprofen for any breakthrough pain. It was decided that I would not be getting and drain tubes out today, but should give it a few more days and come back Monday to remove the first set. Then I would come back the following Friday to remove the last set. Not gonna lie, I was really disappointed. It’s the drain tubes that have been giving me the most pain in my ribs, especially without the pain killers.

I know I have a fear of pain killers, but the nurse offered to refill it if I should change my mind, especially with the extended time with drain tubes in. She explained that the drains come out on my ribs, however, the tubes reach all the way up around the implant and so that may create more pain sensation in my arm pits as well.

Ah-ha. That tracks.

Also, I may have other break-through pain sensations as the nerve endings are trying to heal all throughout the breast, arm pits, and breast sides, where any and all breast tissue or accessory tissue was removed.

Ah-ha. The mystery pain behind my armpits.

And, I may experience itching due to nerve-endings sort of “waking up” and healing.

Ah-ha. That explains why my clavicle and entire chest above my breasts is incessantly itchy.

So, good news and bad news. And another appointment scheduled.

At home I got a notification from My Chart that test results came in. Of course I quickly opened those to see if it was from pathology.

It was!

“….Isolated tumor cells to one of one lymph node. Deeper sections and pancytokeratin staining support the presence of isolated tumor cells.”

What the fuck?

The other three of the four lymph nodes stated: “…One lymph node, negative for metastatic carcinoma (0/1). Deeper sections and pancytokeratin staining support the absence of carcinoma.”

Ok. So, what does this mean? There is cancer in one of my lymph nodes??

It wasn’t even two minutes that passed until I got a call from the surgeon’s office.

“We have good news!” she said. “Your lymph nodes are clear. You may have read the results on My Chart, but isolated cells are not an indication that the cancer has gotten into the lymph nodes.”

Holy shit. Queue the tears.

“Ok, thank you.”

“Oh my God. I might be ok.” I thought to myself, gratefully.

My sister came around from the side of me and gave me a gentle hug.

The rest of Wednesday without the pain meds just sucked. It was a shit idea to think I could thug it out. My ribs hurt from the drains. Breakthrough pain from all over the breasts started popping through. It hurt to walk, it hurt to lay down, it hurt to move.

I couldn’t sleep that night. No position was comfortable. I was agitated. Zach’s snoring pissed me off. I threw one of my socks at him hoping to hit his mouth so he would close it and stop snoring. First, attempting to throw hurt like a son of a bitch. Second, I missed. I tried again with my other sock. Same result. After thirty more minutes of listening to Zach’s deep snore, I was done. I pushed the lift button on the recliner remote to get myself up. I nudged him over and over till he jumped with shock at the sight of me. I took my socks back, but misplaced one getting back in the chair.

By morning, he was confused why I was only wearing one sock. I decided that morning I would request a refill of the pain meds.

Reyna headed back home that morning. I tried to keep my shit together and not cry when she left. Zach has been an amazing caregiver. But my sister helped to make things feel normal for us. Making sure daily routines for Zander were kept up. Making sure dinner was ready. Bringing levity to heavy situations, and keeping me company and making me laugh when I needed it. It’s like she held us steady with training wheels, and now we have to pedal on our own.

The good news is, I’ve made it past this first big step of my cancer journey. I have more healing to do and more steps to take as this journey continues, but I’m feeling stronger and more confident that I can do it.

Peace Out Cancer!