INT. ELEVATOR - ALTA BATES SUMMIT HOSPITAL
The elevators open. Two FEMALE DOCTORS, mid thirties and on their 20th hour of a long shift, enter the already packed elevator. They both smile at another FEMALE DOCTOR #3.
FEMALE DOCTOR #1: We need to talk later about the fourth floor.
FEMALE DOCTOR #3: We will. Oh I'm sure we all will.
FEMALE DOCTOR #2: What happened?
FEMALE DOCTOR #3: It was devastating, just devastating.
FEMALE DOCTOR #1: That's what I heard. It's tragic.
Cut to me, on a gurney with small amounts of radiation rushing to my lymph nodes and a needle holder (yes, that's the medical term) for an IV sticking out of my hand.
In my mind I scream: Hello you ass-wipes! Can you not see the person who has obviously NOT had her surgery yet on the gurney in front of you? I just moved my feet so you can get on for chrissakes! I should kick you!!!
Instead, I ask the nurse from Nuclear Medicine who wheels me off the elevator:
"Please tell me we aren't going to the fourth floor???"
Was I scared after that? No, I was scared before that... What I have noticed about how I am dealing with cancer; there isn't my usual adept escape into my imagination because, well, what the hell would that do? No denial. I have this sort of " I am a warrior" approach to these treatments so far. Probably not as noble as a warrior, more like the way Harry Potter would approach it, that kind of thing. So, in the week leading up to the surgery, I was studying my nutritional stuff and emotional healing meditations/therapy, going to the gym to be strong like Bull...
That was fine until I was lying on hospital bed, having an IV needle stuck in my arm in my little open in the back gown and my strange little hot blanket machine pumping warm air unto my now very cold limbs. The warrior thoughts were replaced by "holy shit. Okay, now I'm a little freaked out." Harry Potter never had breast surgery. It was all a little too real.
Now let me tell you something about my health care people. I am so amazed and blessed to have such great people working with me on this fight of mine. From the Carol Ann Reed peeps (mammogram to biopsy) who are so gentle and sweet... my Jewish oncologist (it made me feel safe that she was Jewish... she said some day I can have all the Brisket I want... she gets me) and Bruce the boob surgeon who is funny and straight forward and has a huge ego about his boob work (which he should, he did a good job and I told him so.)
Again, I jump ahead but really, they have made the journey so far so much bearable than I could have imagined. They laugh at my jokes, answer the most obscure questions I ask about just about everything and are some of my best cheerleaders so far. Not what you think of when you hear about the big, bad western medicine world. I even got the anesthesiologist to smile when he asked me if I wanted something to calm me before the real drugs begin for surgery. I paused and he said "that's a yes." Then I asked him if it was okay, and he smiled.
So, as they wheeled me out of the room to go to the operating after the "cocktail" I was fine again. Yes, it was that kind of druggy fine that you know is not real, but let's face it, I was not strong as bull at the moment, so why pretend? The new me: yes, I want calm. Wish granted!
I land in the operating room and I'm chatting away and also strangely excited to watch them hook up all the little electrode stuff to me and the heart monitor. I get to be inside the movie this time but no... all I get to see are those big blue operating lights before they are even turned on and I hear "okay, sweet dreams" and....
Next thing I know, my head is sort of bobbing around and I'm trying to keep my eyes open. There is a nurse sitting next to me taking my pulse. I don't even hear the damn heart bleep thing! No fair! I paid good money for this people... but truthfully, the only thing on my mind is my breast. I keep trying to look at it because I don't know how much will be there exactly. But I do know, through all the pain meds that my breast is one angry customer. Even before the operation, it was not happy. And I'll explain.
How they determine cancer levels in lymph nodes: before they operate, they shoot a solution into your breast...about eight shots worth that you pretty much feel all of because they are dangerously close to the nipple (okay, not dangerously close, but it's my nipple!)... anyway, the solution has radioactive bits in it that travel the path that the cancer would if it was sneaking out to other parts of the body.
Then, whilst you are out cold and before the main surgery they find the first two nodes the little particles hit... take them out and whisk them to a waiting pathologist who tests them. If they find tumors or evidence of cancer there, goodbye lymph nodes.
Back in the recovery room: I don't get told anything, Meg has gotten all the news from Bruce and is waiting outside in my Subaru. What I get is a prescription for Vicodin and little booties to take home with non-skid bottoms for when I'm zonked out and walking funny.
They wheel me to the curb (literally) and I see the very tired and sweet face of my wife trying to hold it together when she sees me (projecting? could have been me, i am the Italian cryer in the family) my first question is...
So here is what I know today, almost two weeks after the surgery. The nodes were clear (Yay!) so no cancer that they can detect has taken the nodes lane to the rest of my body. My margins are good! (Margins: roughly translates the cancer to healthy tissue ratio of what they removed and what remains.) Yay again. The tumor has a very high incidence of hormone receptors, which means I can get hormone treatment which might reduce the amount of other kinds of treatment: radiation, chemo
What I don't know: there were elevated levels of something in my liver... which could have been an extra glass of wine (or maybe a year or two of wine stress relief?) so we just did a CT scan to see what up... find out on friday about that when I see my oncologist Dr. Wexler and she tells me her recommendation for treatment.
Oh, a few more things I know: My wife is brave and strong gal... it sucks to be the one in the waiting room who gets the news first. And they don't give her any calming "cocktails" before hand. She is taking amazing care of me and is totally in love with our kittens...hhehehhhe. I knew it was only a matter of time :) for the kittens, she is a dork cuz she has loved me for nigh 10 years now... Yes, I said nigh.
Oh and one more thing: staples look very odd in a breast. Okay, not in exactly... to the side actually, but come on! who invented those? what kind of staple gun is that? and does it make the same noise? whoever invented that must have invented the tube down your throat to keep you asleep as well... probably someone at www.hospitalkink.com
Next time: Robyn learns about protons and photons and systematic warfare.
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