Breast Cancer Awareness month

I'm Aware.

  October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, so I’m tres de rigeur. Is that right? I don't speak French.

      Sunday afternoon, Aari said she didn’t feel well.  She had a 99+ temperature so I made her test for Covid and, of course, she tested positive.  We both panicked and felt terribly sad that she wouldn’t be able to take me to the hospital for my surgery.  I’m blessed that I have friends like Jude and Billy who both offered to go with me but you kind of want your wife in these situations. For half a second, I thought, “Mommy” and then I remembered: 1) I never called her that, and 2) She was dead, and having her would be nothing but a nightmare.

     I  went to CVS and bought more tests and the next five consecutive results were negative. Aari’s fever was also down within the hour.  She had just willed her sickness away. We pretended the incident never happened, although she did lose my favorite pink thermometer.

    Monday was the lymphoscintigraphy. They hadn’t given us the clearest directions and we were both running around the huge Mount Sinai complex, trying to find the right place. We were sweating and a little late when we found Nuclear Medicine in the basement.  My appointment was at the place with the signs “Caution: radioactive material” pasted everywhere.

     “You will be feeling a burning or a stinging,” the nurse said as she gave me the injection.  

     “I don’t feel anything,” I said proudly. And then two minutes later, “I feel both a burning and a stinging!”  Sounded like Woody Allen from "Hannah and her Sisters,"  “I have a buzzing and also a ringing. Ringing AND buzzing!”

     A lymphoscintigraphy is a procedure in which a doctor injects a radioactive substance into the body that flows through the lymph ducts and is absorbed by lymph nodes.  They take a gamma photo to get an image of the gamma radiation emitting radioisotopes.  I have no idea what I just said, or what anyone was talking about.

        So much radioactive stuff is involved in the cancer removal business. At one point,  a  guy walked in the injection room and said, “I’m Brad.” I said “Hi Brad.” I have no idea what his purpose was. 

     The next day I set my alarm for 6:00 AM with the title, “wake up for tit.” I was up long before the alarm, between the cat being extra crazy and my dreams about underperforming at work, which I still have even though the day job I had for 35 years ended nine and a half years ago.     

     I decided I didn’t need to bring anything with me to the hospital.  I figured it wouldn’t take long and all they wanted was my body.  So when they asked for my ID and insurance card, I didn’t have them, nor did I have the gamma photos I was asked to bring from the day before. Nor was I wearing any underwear. 

      (I don’t know what I was thinking about the underwear. As soon as you’re naked and in the little hospital costume, you’ve been compromised. Your cover has been blown.  You feel exposed.  It helps to have at least a pair of underwear on.  A nurse had a disposable pair to give me.)

     The first procedure, to insert a wire into my breast, was at 9:30am, . There were five women (a doctor, nurses and technicians) all hiding behind a shield as I had eight or more mammogram images taken while seated. By the last one I looked at my breast sitting on the plate. It looked like a dead flounder.  And maybe I got the blue dye injection at this time also, but I don’t remember.

     The wire is guidance so the doctor can exactly locate the tumor — kind of a “cut here” arrow. Everytime they moved the wire I winced.

      I said, “you guys are doing a lot of procedures today?” And one disgruntled member said, “quite a lot.” My friend Matt texted, “I love that you’re making friends.”

     They left me in the hallway sitting in a wheelchair for fifteen minutes at one point.  It felt like training for the nursing home.

    When they told me to arrive at 7:30am, they neglected to let me know my surgery wasn’t until 1:30pm.  I was the third customer for the operating room on a four-breast day..  If you know me, way too much wait time without food or aspirin. 

     While we were waiting,  the genetics people from Sloane called and to let me know I am negative for the bracca gene and all kinds of other cancer genes. Which means I can keep my ovaries today.

     When "go time" finally came,  I walked with technicians into the operating room.  Surreal experience to just walk in.  I spread my arms wide and said, “I’m here.”  No one looked at me, they were all too busy getting ready to operate on ME.

     Once I hopped up on the gurney I said, “I haven’t been in an operating room since my son was born eighteen years ago.”  I didn’t bother to explain that I wasn’t the one who had given birth, and they didn’t care.  As they were putting the oxygen mask on me I said, “Oh one more thing, I sleep with one eye open.”

     I was breathing oxygen and started to smell something different but the Propofol is an intravenous anesthetic so I don’t know what I think I was smelling.  As I was starting to feel the effects I stared up at the giant operating lights and thought, “Well if I don’t wake up in an hour I won’t know, so here we go.”

     Forty-five minutes later, when I woke up, I was surprised to be in pain.  Both doctors had said you’ll only need extra strength tylenol, people had been returning the pain pills ( I’ve never heard of such a thing.)  I almost cried when I saw Aari and was pretty uncomfortable for the hour before the oxy-contin kicked in.  I felt a little like I had done something wrong.  

     My leaving instructions were no showering for 48 hours, keep sports bra on for 72 hours and wait until after the post op visit to resume aerobics, running, weight lifting or vacuuming.  My friend Nancy said she heard you never get the ability to vacuum back.

     Meanwhile, my pee was bright blue from the radioactive dye like Ty-d-bol but without the disinfectant.

     Simon stepped out of class and FaceTimed us, which was a treat.  Turns out I really freaked him out with my funeral arrangements.  I have knucklehead tendencies.

     Someone had said the operation went well, or I just decided.  We got home around 4:00pm.  Long Day.  I immediately conked out and woke up later for pizza, a new gal without my intruder, Mr. Tumor.

     I won’t know the radiation protocol until the pathology report for Lumpy comes back.  The apartment was an explosion of cancer offerings: a case of Funny Bones from Barbara Sheehan, Homemade chocolate balls from Randi Grossack, a watermelon and pineapple popsicles from John Williams, mallomars and peanut butter M&M’s from Mary Barclay, an Edible Arrangement from Miriam & Ells, Flowers from the Rabbis at CBST, a complete Rosh Hashanah lunch from Meg Simon, a pumpkin from Joanie Leinwoll,  and my very favorite chocolate chip cookies by Nancy Agostini.

      I needed none of it and ate everything except the flowers and the pumpkin.

      I wish ice packs + Nancy's cookies + oxycontin could fix Israel and the election, but I can’t have everything. That would be tres tres magnifique. And I don't speak French.