Each year, roughly 50,000 breast cancer patients in the United States undergo mastectomy (total removal of the breast).* Revisiting the journals I kept at the time of my own breast amputation three years ago, I wonder whether my experience was typical. Do you know anyone who has lost a breast to cancer? I would love to hear their versions of the scene below, which recounts the few minutes before I was anesthetized for the surgery. If you could forward this post to them, I would be most appreciative.
I woke up the morning of the mastectomy with a urinary tract infection. It had been years since I’d had one, and I was miserable. The pre-surgery restrictions on eating and drinking most likely exacerbated the symptoms. I still wasn’t thinking about the mastectomy—I just wanted the anesthesiologist to put me out of my UTI misery.
In the meantime, the nurses introduced me to my new best friend—the “warming” hospital gown, a complicated paper and Velcro Snuggy-type gizmo with openings for hoses that shoot warm air all over your body. I looked like a crinkly Micheline tire man wearing rubber-soled hospital socks, but it was a delicious distraction.
The breast surgeon–about 8 1/2 months pregnant with twins–arrived and said simply, “OK, let’s go.”
The nurse unhooked the air hoses from my hospital gown, and the surgical team and I walked—yes, WALKED—in parade formation into the operating room. Along the way they handed me a puffy cap to put on. All a bit too casual, surreal even.
I climbed onto the operating table, thinking to myself, “Aren’t I supposed to be asleep by now? I’ve never seen a patient on TV walk into the operating room and put themselves on the table.”
“Arms out,” someone said. I was still much too awake, with the reality of what was about to happen finally sinking in. I suddenly realized–seemingly for the first time–that part of my body was about to be amputated.
Up until that very moment, I hadn’t really felt like things had been too hard for me. Early detection of Stage 0 ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), great doctors, supportive family and friends, and the promise of a perkier profile after reconstruction was completed in a few months. I had prided myself on not wallowing, not letting my diagnosis get the better of me. My matter-of-fact, efficiency-based approach had kept self-pity at bay for the most part. But as the attendants wrapped my arms in the crucifix constraints, I felt the tears start to come.
I had never felt so vulnerable. This was about as close to losing a limb as you could get without an arm or leg being involved. And what if I didn’t wake up? I had written notes to the kids and my husband before going to the hospital, but I really should have given the possibility of death a little more thought.
The anesthesiologist was murmuring gently in my ear that they would keep me warm, etc., but I was fighting back tears and just wishing the drugs would take over before I started sobbing, Velcroed into confinement and unable to wipe my own tears away. Just as the first salty drops slid down my temples, blissful fog engulfed me.
* 50,000 is an estimate based on a quick internet search; I have not verified the number’s accuracy.
Do you or someone you know have a mastectomy story to share? If you would prefer to keep your comments private, tell me that in the reply and I will not post it on the site.
Carol Cohen says
Dearest Martha, though I know you from a distance, I’ve never heard that story.
But I have felt that level of vulnerability. What an experience. We feel so alone, and
seemingly separate from the rest of life, so invisible, fearful in our situation, looking at an incomprehensible wall. After many of these times, some prolonged, I realized that all along I was completely connected to everything else in life – the goodness, the ever-present peace, the loving hearts of others and all the energies and forces that are available to help. But it took my real suffering to get desperate enough to explore this reality that wanted to serve me.
Today I am more aware, more compassionate, more connected because of those experiences. I’m sure you are too. What a learning we have come here for. I salute you. I honor you, and I hold you evermore in my heart-pocket.
Loving you in all ways.
Carol
Martha says
Thank you, Carol, for expressing the dynamics so beautifully. You are absolutely right that the experience led me to deeper levels of exploration. I feel like I’m still at the very beginning of that process! xxoo
Brian says
Hey Muffie,
You always keep me on a roller coaster ride. I never know what I’m going to read when I tune-in. Better yet, I never know how I’m going to feel when I exit. I guess that’s why I keep coming back. I always think back to those early days at Mac in the 7th grade. You we’re always up beat. I think to myself, “Hell, if Muffie can get through situation ‘x’, I just need to cowboy up and move on.”
Martha says
First, a note to other readers: The only people who are allowed to call me Muffie are those I’ve known since I was 11 or younger (Brian you’re in the clear!) or my nieces and nephews. Second, the blog is keeping me on a roller coaster ride, too. It hadn’t even registered when I posted this that October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month. I thought I was going to write about something else, but was quite suddenly compelled to put this together instead. Weird, huh?
Lajla Hanes says
Oh yes, Martha…that whole day is unforgettable….as the Hospice Social Worker, my admission to the hospital was upsetting to my colleagues who were all supportive…after getting all set for the 4pm surgery, I was allowed at 1pm to get dressed and go to a meeting….promising to be back by 2pm….what a help it was to get out of the patient mode for that wonderful little hour….working on the problems of our patients….and then confronting my own…head-on with all the love which continues to this day from my family and friends.
Lajla
Martha says
Thanks for sharing your memories of that day 25 years ago, Lajla. Getting up to go to a meeting — that must have been empowering! Sorry you had to go back afterwards for the main event. You are glossing over the hard parts, which I know were a lot worse than mine. Love you!
Bill Apablasa says
Martha,
I don’t know how you managed to wrap an entire experience into a few pre-surgery moments, but you did. Through your eloquent writing, I was able to capture the essence of your journey—your bravery, your humour, and your profound desire to turn cancer into an opportunity to grow…and share the journey with others. What a great gift you have given. Powerful stuff. Bill
Martha says
Thanks, Bill. Given the inspiration I get from your own writing and wisdom sharing, your kind words mean the world to me!