In the days leading up to surgery I was extremely nervous, but on the day of surgery I felt calm and ready. Tyler and my mom came with to the hospital. I joked and laughed while we waited, and felt confident as they wheeled me away to the operating room. The last thing I remember is them asking me if I could scoot myself onto the operating table. I said yes, I could do it myself. I remember laying on the table, but nothing after that.
The next thing I knew, my eyes were blurry and I was begging for ice chips. Ice chips were a bad idea. I have trouble with anesthesia and for every ice chip I crunched on, I dry heaved 5-10 times. The night of surgery is all a blur. I vaguely recall talking with my friend Desiree, being happy that the surgeon saved my tattoo, tearing up when I heard I was kicked off the clinical trial because my lymph nodes tested negative, but otherwise I don’t remember much.
The next day was like learning to ride a bike. I had to teach myself to use my core muscles and legs to sit up, move, everything. My arms were useless, and when I did use them either accidentally or not, it was achy and made my chest burn. I was shown how to care for my drain tubes. I napped. I ate. I went home. I slept more.
My husband, sister-in-law, and mother-in-law spent the week with me, helping me, taking care of me. By Friday, 5/3, I was functional enough to leave the house for my son’s musical in the morning, but took an hour nap when I got home. The boys had spent the majority of the week at their dads, but asked to come home on Friday night. They were sweet, helpful, and wonderful to be around after a long week. They went back to their dads after a competitive game of kick ball with their uncles in the backyard on Saturday morning. Seeing them was exactly what I needed, but it was necessary for me to relax as much as I could, so off they went.
I spent the weekend on the back porch or napping. My mom brought me a bagel and tea from Starbucks, Beth (step MIL) kept me company and watched Evelyn while Tyler got some shopping done and did things around the house. It was a good weekend for healing.
Tuesday, 5/7/19, while my brother was over helping me clean my house (because I basically can do nothing), my surgeon, Dr. Kepple, left me a voicemail. THE VOICEMAIL. She told me pathology confirmed my tissue had no residual cancer. I’m cancer free. I cried. I’m thankful my brother was with me when I listened to the message, because I wasn’t expecting such great news and to be honest it was a little overwhelming.
The next day Beth took me to my post op appointment. I was able to get one drain removed, Dr. Kepple and I rejoiced over the pathology news, and she was happy with how my incisions were looking.
Amazing news right? I’m healing well, I had a total response to chemo therapy, things are going so well. As of Monday, 5/13, all of my drain tubes have been removed, I had my radiation consultation the same day, and I’ve got one more post op appointment on Friday 5/17. Yet every time I text, email, or verbally tell someone I’m cancer free, I cry. They’re tears of joy, absolutely, but also that feeling of being overwhelmed with it hasn’t left me. I know what the issue is... I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is too much good news. I’m afraid something bad is on the horizon, and I won’t get to hold this happiness in my hands for long.
My next large event is Monday, 5/20/19. I am getting a hysterectomy. Thanks to my BRCA1 gene mutation I’m high risk for ovarian cancer. Since Tyler and I decided no more kids while I was pregnant with Evelyn, when the gynological oncologist recommended a total hysterectomy I didn’t hesitate. I scheduled it that day.
Just like with the mastectomy though, as the day draws nearer I feel the anxiety and emotions building up. I’m nervous...
what surprises me most, however, is how much I’m mourning the loss of my reproductive organs. The hysterectomy feels so... final somehow.
I’ve been struggling with this upcoming loss more so than the boobs. With them I was nervous for surgery; with this I’m sad. There is no logical explanation for how I’m feeling. I don’t want more kids. I’ve already started going through chemical menopause from chemo. Why does this upset me? Again, there is no logical explaining that I can find.
It doesn’t really matter... it’s all got to go! Anything that puts me at a high risk for reoccurrence has no room in this body. Bye bye!
