This is 1 week post surgery and I AM SORE.
I am trying to convince myself that this is a good thing. Pre-surgery, Dana (my AMAZING McGrath Breast Care Nurse) and my handbook of all things breast cancer warned me that when the surgeon has had a proddle about under your armpit and snipped out a couple of lymph nodes, it can leave you with some nerve damage and even permanent loss of feeling. Yuck. I didn’t want to sign up for that, thanks.
So here I am feeling lots of feelings in my armpit area. I think it’s a good thing…
OUCH.
So surgery was actually quite the adventure. An adventure in 3 parts. A trilogy if you will.
It all started with a visit to the Royal Adelaide Hospital, which is all swanky and space age and nearly the same size as the whole of the regional town I live in! I got to meet a real life surgeon.
One of the joys of breast cancer is how much it makes you feel like a porn star. I have never had my boobs out for public inspection so much in my life. And I’ve holidayed in Europe, so – you know – topless.
After the sandwich pressing of the mammograms and gloopy smearings of the ultrasound, I got to let a doctor cop a handful. It was quite reassuring that someone who finds lumps in breasts for a living couldn’t feel my tiny dragon. I felt vindicated at not noticing it was hiding in my boob cave.
After offering me surgery on my birthday (I politely refused), I was dismissed to see a variety of different clinical specialists. Another breast care nurse and another goody bag. (There are perks to this gig). Then a wait in line for a “carbon line*” to be inserted with more ultrasound.
So accustomed have I grown to people wanting to view my breasts, that laid on the bed by the scanner, I flopped it out. Only for the radiographer to cover me back up and tell me she wasn’t ready for that just yet. (I may have ruined her appetite for lunch).
*A carbon line is dye injected along the shortest trajectory to the tumour, guided by ultrasound. This will be the incision line.
Having had enough of me randomly exposing myself, they made me dress and toddle over to the blood letting department, followed by x-ray. All just extra checks to make sure the baby dragon hasn’t secretly learnt to breath fire and scorched other parts of my body.
I’d imagined I was only going in to the see the surgeon to arrange a date for surgery, so had anticipated I’d be in the RAH for an hour. 6 hours later, I escaped back into the sunshine.
Next up was an invitation to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital for more tracking and tracing the day before surgery. Instead of marking the tumour, this time they wanted to track which lymph nodes are linked to the lump using a radioactive agent. More injections – but quite tiny ones – and then the instruction that you need to remain where you are and massage your boob wearing a surgical glove. Glorious.
My porn career really had found traction.
My mind keeps being drawn back to how much (inverse) correlation there is between pregnancy and breast cancer. This had me thinking of the Netflix show “Baby Fever”. It’s the boob fumbling equivalent of a visit to the sperm bank.
This is not a pleasure dome. The radioactive dye needs to travel from the tumour to the nearest lymph node and massage helps. They can then take an x-ray and mark where the surgeons need to incise to reach the relevant nodes. These are removed and tested during surgery to detect whether the cancer has spread.
The dye can take anything from 20 minutes to 3 hours (or more) to move. And you are captive until such time as it heads off on its merry way, or until they close up and go home for the night. I was keen to get this over with, so got to work until the radiographer came back to take the first scans to check.
And I had played my part well. The dye had already reached the lymph nodes.
Despite all the high tech space age equipment, the actual marking is done with a permanent marker on your skin. I looked like a pirate map. I was resplendent with an x to mark the spot and a dotted line to guide treasure hunters. Lump ahoy!
I knew being invited in for mapping the day before surgery must be a good sign that I was going to pretty high on the list for the next morning. (And I was pleased about this because it reduced the number of hours of STARVATION I would face). But I totally lucked in and was first up!
Dropped off outside the QEH in the dark at 6.45 I anxiously wandered inside. Covid questionnaire complete, form signed to say they could access the 18.2 exemption to syphon some private funding into a public setting to help off-set some costs. Then I was dispatched upstairs to the surgical ward.
It’s a bit of a rabbit warren. The corridors take you past a glass fronted sterile room containing shelf upon shelf of surgical packs. (My stomach lurched a little as reality dawned). Then you pass the doors into theatre. (OMG. It’s really happening). And then you duck into a reception area which was already humming with activity.
Checked in there, it’s back along the passage you just walked along. Past the doors to doom theatre. Past the room of shelves stacked full of blue covered trays. (Don’t look). And into a large echoey waiting room. RAT tested (I got to poke up my own nose – I feel very proud), measured and then weighed. (Boo). At least they write that down quietly. Once your RAT test is complete, back to the check in. Wrist band fastened on, clothes off*, gown on, calves measured and a pair of very sexy surgical stockings pulled up to your knees. And then you pad through and hop onto a bed.
*Having never had a general anaesthetic I was absurdly worried that I might pee my pants whilst I was unconscious. So I took the precaution of wearing my period pants. Smart, huh? 😉
A very friendly nurse placed a heated blanket over me (bliss I was not expecting) and then tucked a sheet over me, raised the back of my bed and taped over my wedding rings. (They said no valuables, but I’d had the awful realisation the day before that my fingers are too fat to remove them. Thank goodness for surgical tape)!
Siting up was good. I’m nosey, and it meant I could see down the ward and watch what was happening around me. There are 8 operating theatres, I was told, so this area is not the most private. IDEAL. Something to take my mind off it all.
Then an anaesthetist, wearing a flamingo headscarf came to talk to me and shove the needle in the back of my hand. And with that safely taped and anchored, the wheel locks were off and I was being wheeled down the corridor.
Having been transported into theatre, I then had to hop off the trolley I was on and climb onto the operating table. Gown unfastened and shoulder removed (but no boob out whilst I was conscious)! Heated blanket replaced (snug). Arms placed at angles on gel arm rests, tubes attached to the needle in my hand and a blood pressure monitor attached to my calf! (I didn’t know you could do that). A second anaesthetist started pumping a bit of something into my arm, and one of the surgical team made everyone stop what they were doing whilst I recited my name and details. And then I floated away very gently into a blissful oblivion only to be rudely awakened by the sound of someone calling my name.
I did not want to wake up, but once I came to a bit more, I realised that sandwiches await. And with that, I was back!
