Chapter 3

When the fun and frolic was over, I returned for my operation. Mom drove into town, and this time it was necessary. We arrived at the hospital early. In the surgery area I was dressed in an exquisite gown. My designer creation was made of lightweight cotton with a delicate blue and white print. It hit fashionably above the knee and had a revealing slit up the back with two ties for a cool and refreshing feel. I was also given jewelry: a white bracelet engraved with my name. To complete the outfit, I was given a matching white blanket. I used the blanket as a shawl to cover my backside when I strolled along the hospital promenade.

A model patient.

Once properly attired, I was escorted down the hall for another date with Dr. Squeeze ’Em Up. Because my cancer cells were microscopic and scattered, it would be impossible for the surgeon to see the culprits. Dr. Squeeze ’Em Up’s special brand of torture was to mark the area for removal. First the cancerous area — i.e., my boob — was again placed in the high-tech mammogram machine. I was tilted, and the two plates were pressed tightly together. As if this contortion wasn’t uncomfortable enough, Dr. Squeeze ’Em Up forced (I assure you, my body didn’t take it willingly) a thin metal wire into my breast and guided it around the cancerous cells. "Ouch!" doesn’t begin to describe it.

He left some extra wire hanging out of my breast attached to a plastic doohickey. Obviously once in place, it’s extremely important the wire and doohickey don’t move. Stabilization required an expensive, specially designed device. The nurse carefully extracted a white Styrofoam coffee cup from a stack on the counter. She placed it over the doohickey and taped the cup to my breast. I was redressed for my stroll back to the surgery area.

Kiss that bad attitude good-bye.

As the belle of the ball, I was escorted through the halls sporting the extra attachment underneath my lovely designer hospital gown. Trust me, a hospital gown does not camouflage a cup taped to your breast. At this pivotal point I decided I needed a personal motto. I quickly adopted one and clung to it throughout my treatments. I would encourage you to memorize it. Repeat it any time you are in a cup-sticking-from-your-breast type situation. I mumbled my motto, "Dignity, always maintain dignity," as I held my head high and marched forward donning the doctor’s latest addition to my fashion ensemble.

In the pre-op area I was given an IV. I have never taken medications well and have a history of being highly sensitive to drugs. I was sitting on the bed with my feet dangling over the edge. The nurse put something in my IV. She barely got the needle out before I was so dizzy and nauseated I fell sideways on the bed. From what I heard, I looked like a big tree going timmmberrr.

The nurse immediately offered to give me something to settle my queasy stomach. She barely got the "anti-nausea" medication in the IV before I vomited. She kindly offered to give me something different. From my prone position, I growled sternly, "Don’t you dare put anything else in that IV."

"Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out alive." —Elbert Hubbard

Once stable I was taken to surgery. I was in surgery about six hours. I had 350 to 400 stitches, 22 staples, and basting stitches around the nipples. Oddly enough, the insurance company considered that outpatient surgery. They did permit me twenty-three hours of extended recovery in a hospital bed.

I spent most of that time in a drug-and-pain-induced state. That evening, Nursey came to visit. I greeted her by vomiting. Fortunately she is trained for that sort of thing and handled it beautifully.

All I could think was "Dang (or something close to it) this stinks." There were plenty of moments when I felt more dangnified than dignified. At those times, I tried to focus on the positive and forget the rest. If you want to increase your prayer life, just go though a serious illness. I promise it will bring you to your knees. It certainly did for me.