Reflections from Surgery
- Surviving Breast Cancer
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
By Rachel Bennett Steury
I checked in at the same admissions counter as my husband did for his own cancer surgery seven years prior. The cubby for the phone connecting surgeons to family members in the lobby was the same. The TV showing the patient status for the day was the same. Even the chairs were all arranged exactly the same. I find myself reflecting on the time when Mat was faced with his cancer diagnosis a lot, while I traipse through my own. As my friend Gayle once said, “Damn, you two have some really radical cells!”
My co-pay was processed and my honorary bracelet was affixed to my right wrist. Thank you to Obamacare, once again. The clerk directed me out the door with the point of her finger, “Follow the blue tiles on the floor until you see A1.”
The pre-op wing of the hospital was all abuzz at 7:00 that morning. The first round of surgeries for the day were being prepped. An overflow of blue gowns and white coats. An abundance of people hovering over hospital beds, saying goodbye to their loved ones before they went under the knife. Patients move in and out of here like an assembly line, I think. A sophisticated machine with an endless supply of sick people churning out an extended lifespan as the final product.
The tech took my vitals, then asked me all of the mandatory questions to ensure I was fit for my lumpectomy. After I nearly had to pinky-swear that I did not have cream in my coffee earlier that morning, I was cleared to proceed. Indeed, I had an empty stomach and a mind full of wonder for how the day would transpire. I was escorted to my quarters for Mat to douse all of my skin with disposable wipes soaked in germ killer. They say this practice decreases postoperative infections. At that moment, it just made me cold.
I put on my gown and tucked myself into bed. I was skeptical that a thin piece of foil would be enough warmth for me in that ice box. But thankfully, it wasn’t your typical sheet of Reynolds. This had a vacuum attachment blowing warm air into the pockets of the foil. It’s safe to assume, the inventor of the mammogram machine is not the inventor of this cozy blanket.
Scribbles on the dry-erase board explained the game plan for the day, with me scheduled to leave the premises by 2:00 p.m. It’s wild to think this sort of surgery is outpatient. Modern medicine has come a long way.
The only other time I’ve had a major surgery requiring anesthesia was when I gave my kidney away. My hospital stay was extended an extra day since it caused me to lose my lunch and my water and anything else I ingested. After a thorough retelling of my medical history, the anesthesiologist stuck a patch behind my ear called scopolamine, designed to help with nausea and motion sickness. It looked like a round Band-Aid that I was forbidden from touching and then rubbing my eyes.
My doctor came by to check in and answer any last-minute questions. She autographed my breast as if she were LL Cool J, circa 1990. She told Mat to expect a call when I was out of surgery. Then, the lights went out.
I woke up from the heaviest sleep I’ve had in a long time. The first person I saw was Mat. The second person was the nurse who wasted no time with small talk. “Are you ready to go?” Mat assured me our exchange wasn’t as abrupt as my foggy brain remembered it being, but they were definitely ready to turn over my room to make way for the never-ending line of patients.
Mat said the surgery was a success. Instead of taking just one lymph node, my doctor took out three because they were so close together. And of course, with a second incision, she evicted my cancer, the Rat Bastard, once and for all. If my doctor flipped it the bird on its way into the metal pan, I’m not sure. She struck me as the kind of radical-guerrilla-revolutionary that would, right before putting on her shades and walking into the sunset. Thank you for your badassery, Dr. Sinclair.
The nurse helped me get dressed while Mat brought the car around to the front of the building. My throat was raw from the breathing tube and my brain was in a haze, yet I remember being surprised by my ability to move my arm so freely. I anticipated feeling crummy and unable to do much at all. Perhaps the pain meds gave me a false confidence that would wear off. Or maybe arm limitations don’t apply to all breast cancers like I originally thought.
I couldn’t see Doc’s handiwork until I got home and wow, was it a beaut. A 3-inch curved slice on the side of my breast and a 3-inch slice under my arm, both sealed up tight with clear tape. My skin was doused in that yellow stuff, and there were extra letters and numbers written all over my chest. Red, purple and blue bruises were beginning to take shape like an abstract art exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. None of it hurt, but I guessed it soon would.
Folks who’ve been through this may relate to the feeling I had of “just get it outta me.” That is where I had been living ever since I knew it was in there. Sometimes with healthcare, you have to hurry up and wait, sometimes things don’t work as fast as they should, and sometimes you can be surprised at how it all comes together. I’m privileged to be here. Fortunate for many reasons. You might even say lucky.
I know this to be true.
About the author:
Rachel Bennett Steury was diagnosed with ER+ PR+ HER2- Stage 1 invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC) at the age of 46. Under the pseudonym The Real Rachel BS on Substack, she shares reflections of her experiences with IDC through Stories From the Cancer Trail: A Breast Cancer Retrospective. Rachel’s writing has been featured in magazines such as Wildfire Magazine, IndustryWeek, Indianapolis Business Journal and Building Indiana, and in regional outlets including The Sacramento Bee, The Indianapolis Star, The Fort Wayne Journal Gazette and Valley Scene Magazine. She is a digital nomad who lives everywhere, but can typically be found in Hawaii, California or Indiana. She can be reached at rachel@bennettsteury.com
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