Thursday, January 25, 2007

Visiting Hours: Chapter 20

At 6:00 a.m. the hospital woke up and so did I. Dr. Doogie showed up for my daily checkup. He asked me how I was feeling and we chatted as he checked my vital signs. I told him that I was feeling fine except that I was still having trouble breathing, he told me to keep using the breathing tube. Thanks!
Along with the other indignities I was put through, every few hours a nurse stopped by to empty my catheter bag and drains. What are drains-you ask? I will tell you. In surgery the doctor puts these draining tube things into your body where the surgery was. At the end of the tube is a plastic bulb. The bulb is squeezed to create a vacuum and the vacuum pulls the extra fluid through the tube and into the bulb. Every few hours a nurse empties the bulb and—you guessed it, measured the amount of fluid in the drain.
I had three drains in my body, one in my stomach, and two in my chest. They didn't hurt or anything, I just found them annoying. I was told that the drains would stay in until there was very little liquid going into the bulb. The same woman who showed me how to use the funny breathing tube also showed my how to empty and measure the drains. This was important because most women go home from the hospital with the drains still in their bodies, and need to know how to properly empty them and measure the drained fluid, an experience that I was not looking forward too.
When Nurse Patton came in to my room to check on me I started to whine about the drains.
"So, how did you guys torture your patients before some sadist invented the drain?" I whined sarcastically. Nurse Patton actually had an answer. “Remember those old westerns we all watched on TV years ago?” She asked.
“Yea” I said suspiciously. She continued, “The ones were the hero gets shot, and a woman tends to his wounds, changing his bloody bandages all day long?"
"Yea." I said, wondering where this conversation was leading.
"Well, that's because of the fluid coming out of a wound. The problem with that method was the constant changing of bandages was hell on a person’s skin." Then she smiled and said. "Some very caring person invented the drain to save people's skin.”
O.K. now I understood why I had the drains. And I also so understood that measuring the amount of liquid leaking from the location of the surgery was one of the indicators used to gage the rate of a patient's healing. I understand the need for the drains, but I still don't like them.
As visiting hours began Helen’s friends and family started appearing, I put on my head-set and started listing to “At Home at Mitford” again. The story follows a minister called Father Tim as he went about his day, at first it seemed that nothing really exciting was happening in the book, then you realize what a great minister Father Tim was. He visited this person here, and that person there, before you know it he had solved many little problems that had the potential to become big ones. He seemed to hanging out-not working, then the reader realizes that he was working all the time.
I started thinking about Mark, and the many hours he spent chatting with parishioners, a visit here, a phone call there, the counseling sessions held in the church office. I thought about all the time he and “the guys” spent in our garage hanging out and working on one of his cars. I wondered just how much counseling went on while the wrench was being passed around, and I also wondered if we could deduct any of the money he spent on his beloved old cars as “a business expense.”
I knew that Mark was well loved by the members of our church, they were always telling me how wonderful he was. The book showed me another side of him. It made me realize how hard he worked. I tended to think of him as my goofy husband and not and as other people's Pastor. After reading Ms. Karon's book, I started to look at my husband differently. When Mark came for breakfast, I told him about the book. I gave him a brief summery of the story, and said that I was impressed about all the "little" things that the minister did to improve the lives of the members of his church.
"That pretty much describes my job." He said, "I spend hours putting out little fires, before they became three alarmers.
When Mark needed someone to talk to about the pressures of his job he would call his father or sister who are also ministers. He rarely talked to me about church business, mostly because I didn't care. Now I was interested. Funny how this little piece of fiction could change our marriage, I had decided then that I would become more active in my husband's church, and never again give him a hard time about the long hours that he worked.
-
Dr. Sullivan came by again and he brought me good news. The preliminary exam of the lymph nodes was negative; it looked like we caught the cancer in time. This was good news, but he reminded me that the results of the secondary test would take a few more weeks, so we would not be sure until then, but again he felt very optimistic. I was finally starting to feel that every thing was going to be ok.
Dr. Sullivan examined me and told me that I was doing well; I told him that Dr. Asgari wanted to release me from the hospital later that day and that I did not feel I was ready to go home yet. Dr. Sullivan told me that Dr. Asgari had the final say about when I would be released and that Dr. Asgari had a reputation of releasing his patients early. Dr. Sullivan agreed with me that I should stay an extra day. I wondered why a plastic surgeon and not the primary surgeon had the final say about my length of stay in the hospital.
“Tell him that you need to stay that extra day” he said.
“Just like that! Say I think that I am not ready to go home yet?” I asked?
“Just like that” he answered.
-
I got tired of not being able to take a real breath. I sat up as straight as I can and coughed, pain, pain, pain. I coughed again, pain, pain, pain. And again, there were tears running down my face because I hurt so much. Then suddenly all kinds of disgusting stuff came out of my mouth, I didn’t know that the human body could hold that much mucus.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” A real-clear-deep-breath. You know, breathing is underrated. I laid back in my bed and just enjoying breathing.
-
Later, I sat up in my bed, breathing and reading. I switch to a Dean Koonz book called “Ice Bound” and did I mention breathing? I was really enjoying the book, Mr. Koonz and I have a hot and cold relationship, I never know when I start reading one of his books if I am going to like it or not. This one I liked, it was about a group of scientist who go to the arctic to conduct some experiments and get trapped. Nurse Patton came by and told me it is time to sit in the chair again. She helped me get out of my bed and into a chair. I was surprised to find that she was just as strong as Nurse Max. I sat for awhile switching from reading the arctic book to listing to the Mitford book, because reading still tired me out.
Later after I was brought back to my bed Dr. Asgari stopped by to check on me again, he then told me that I can go home later that day.
“No” I said.
“No?” he answered.
“I am not ready to home I can barely sit up, I can’t walk, I am in deep pain and I still had a catheter and all those stupid drains stuck in my body."
“I’ll tell the nurses to take out the catheter, but the drains stay, you don’t know it yet but you are healed enough to be checked out.”
“No”
“Fine." He said in an exasperated voice. "You can stay another day.” He said tersely. "I will see you tomorrow.” And he huffed out.
-
Mark popped in just before lunch, we were both pleased when I was brought real food. Sure there was soup, but there was also a sandwich and dessert. Helen’s husband Henry is there too, so we open the curtain between our beds and the four of us have lunch together. Helen teased me about getting real food because she was still on the liquid diet.
Being tired of talking about operations and hospital stuff, I asked Henry what he did for a living; He told me that he was a flavotist.
“A whatist?” I ask.
“A flavorist” he answered. Actually he was a chemist who's company created the flavors that we the consumer enjoy so much when we eat processed food, or anything with a flavor. I love it when I meet people who have jobs in fields that I didn’t even know existed.
“Henry, can you answer a question about the flavors in children’s medicine? I asked.
“I’ll try” he answers.
“Why have all the children’s medicine switched from orange and cherry flavor to that awful grape? Not only that, but then they spends millions of dollars on advertising telling the public how much children love the grape flavor, my kids hate it!!! He laughed at the fact that my kids hated the grape flavoring, then he became very intense as he explained the change in flavors in children's medicine.
“It’s the American mother’s fault.” He said, his voice getting louder as he spoke “They demand 100% alcohol free in all children’s medicine. A little bit of alcohol can make a huge difference in the taste of a product. You see with a small percentage of alcohol we can use cherry or orange with no problem.” He was getting even louder now “But, the moms demand 100% alcohol free, and that tastes terrible, and the only flavor that is strong enough to cover the bad taste is grape.” Helen was giving him that wifely pat on the shoulder that meant ‘clam down.’ I obviously hit a nerve, opps.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Two Funeals and a Wedding: Chap 19

My first morning in the hospital meant my first hospital meal. Helen and I were both put on a clear liquid diet, so for breakfast we each got some kind of broth. Yummm.
After eating our gruel, Helen got of out of bed and started walking around our room rolling her IV pole with her everywhere she went. I was jealous and amazed at her agility. After all, her surgery was only a few days ago, and she was up and about while I could barely move.
Visiting hours began a little after breakfast and Helen’s entourage started to show up, thus beginning the day’s activities. About mid-morning the flowers started arriving. Lots of them, I figured that maybe my father or sisters might send something, and they did, but I also received flowers from other people as well. There were flowers from an Aunt and Uncle, and flowers from some of my friends and Mark’s boss too. My side of the room was bursting with color and scent. My love of fresh flowers is widely known because of a story that I like to tell. It is about an event that happened when Mark and I were first engaged.
Before I tell the story I have to say something about my husband. There are women who complain that the man in their life is not romantic, this is a complaint that you will never hear from me. Because my story will show that not only is Mark a romantic, but he is very resourceful was well.
When Mark and I met he was working as a sexton in a church. Among his duties were to set up and clean up the sanctuary for Weddings and Funerals.
At weddings and funerals tradition dictates that the church sanctuary be decorated with flowers. Once the event is over, there are usually more flowers than people who want to take them home. The brides and grooms are off on their honeymoon so they don’t want them, and half of their families had come from out of town so they can not take the flowers home. The same thing happens at funerals. If there are a lot of flowers, the family will take some of the arrangements to the burial site and some other arrangements home, frequently leaving the rest at the church saying something like:
"Why don't you give the flowers to avcharity." Most of the time the flowers are left in the church to decorate the sanctuary for Sunday service, then thrown out.
One weekend, Mark's church, it's minister, the organist and the sexton were very busy because there were two funerals and a wedding, a big wedding. There were a half a dozen large flower arrangements left behind and a few smaller ones too. Mark asked the minister if he could take them home and the minister was glad to get rid of them.
Using a key that I had given Mark, he brought the flowers into my apartment. When I came home my living room looked like a scene from a Fred Astair movie. The room was filled with six large gorgeous flower arrangements, some white and others bursting with color. There was a note that read:
"Any jerk can send a dozen roses." How can you not love a guy like that? So now for the second time in my life I found myself in a room surrounded by beautiful flowers.
-
Mark came bursting into my hospital room excited:
“You will never believe who I just ran into at the hospital lobby!” I gave a few guesses that were wrong, then he continued,
“I ran into Beth from our first church, she was with her mother…ummm…”
“Doris” I state, I have always been better at remembering names then he has.
“That’s right, Doris.” Mark said. I remembered both women. It seemed so many years ago that Mark was assigned his first Church, and
we moved into our first home.
The first church that Mark was worked at was a small part-time Church whose minister was usually a student or a semi-retired minister. It was perfect place to start or end a career. We were there for four years and both of our daughters were born there. I have happy memories of the town and our time there. But no place was perfect and Beth had one of the ugliest divorces that I had ever seen. Beth left her husband of twenty years and he didn't want her to leave. The custody battle for their teenage daughter lasted until her 18th birthday when the daughter promptly told her father that she never wanted to see him again.
Later Beth met very nice man named Teddy, and his ex-wife made Beth's ex-husband look looked a saint. Eventually everything worked out ok. Beth and Teddy got married and lived happily ever after. That was until last year when Beth was diagnosed with “Breast Cancer”. Beth was a few steps ahead of me, so when Mark saw her and her mother in the hospital lobby he was updated on his old parishioners, and they had a long talk about her and my cancer and she wished me well.
So, Mark came into my hospital room with news of our old Church and friends. He told me about Beth's experience with a double mastectomy and reconstruction and how she was doing very well. It made both of us feel better. I introduced Mark to Helen and her guest. After a little while I told Mark that I was tired and I wanted to sleep for awhile. He told me that he would be back at dinnertime. I drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the day. I only woke up when a nurse needed to check my vitals.
-
I want to take a minute here a talk about the nurses. I have had many friends who were nurses, I just never really thought about what they did. I remember my old friend May-ling who worked with senior citizens. She told me that her job was to keep her patients as conformable as possible. And that is exactly what my nurses were doing for me. Trying to keep me conformable-in between the torture that is. The nurses worked in three shifts: day, night and overnight. Each group had its own personality. The day shift was mostly female, mostly white and mostly over forty, it looked like the mom and grandma shift. I called my day shift head nurse, Nurse Patton. She is best describe as a tough old broad. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, gray hair and a strong as an ox. She was a woman who ran a tight ship. Her movements were brisk and precise. She barged into a room, performed her duties, then moved on to the next patient.
Every two or three hours a nurse came in, took my blood pressure, my temperature, checked my hook-up to my IV and empty three drainage bags and my catheter bag and measured the contents. I sure that this was important, but I found it very weird.
At three in the afternoon the night shift came on. This shift was filled with younger people. Most of these nurses were in their twenties or early thirties. There was a greater racial mix, and this shift had the highest number of male nurses. Nurse Motorcycle Max (remember him?) worked this shift and he was in charge of my case at night.
The overnight shift I vaguely remember because I slept through most of their shift. A nurse did come into my room every few hours the check Helen’s and my vital signs. This shift seemed to be filled with woman, I’d say between the ages of thirty and sixty. The thing that struck me as odd was that most of these women were African American. I have no idea why, it just was.
-
Back to my day, Motorcycle Max came into the room to check vital signs. This time his shirt was a solid color, but not the subtle blue or white that the other nurses wore, no Max had on a bright blue shirt that suited his personality. He was outgoing and very funny. The only problem was that my body hurt whenever he made me laugh. He did his job expertly, yet he always seemed to be having fun. I was feeling a little better by the time his shift started. That was until he told me that I had to sit in a chair for one hour after dinner. I asked him very politely:
“ARE YOU CRAZY!!!!???” He laughed, then said that he would be seeing me later.
-
Mark came by at dinnertime, around 5:00 o’clock. He brought something for himself to eat and I had more clear broth. It wasn't exactly romantic, but it was nice to spend a little time alone with my husband, no kids, just us. Oh yea, and Helen and four or five of her closest friends.
I discovered that the combination of people, air freshener and flowers was to be too much for me, so I asked Mark to take some of the flowers home with him. He stayed for about an hour or so then left, flowers in tow.
Except for the fact that still I couldn't breath as well as I would have liked, I was feeling a little better. Then Max came by and told me it was time for me to sit in a chair. He stood on the left side of my bed, had me put my arm around his shoulders and helped me get out of bed. It was a s-l-o-w and painful process. He helped me get into a comfortable position, handed me one of my books called, Victory's Daughters, and left. At first I was in a lot of pain and I was very angry.
“How dare they treat me like this, these nurses are so cruel.” But as the hour progressed, I started feeling better. At the end of the hour, Max returned. He got me back in to the bed, another s-l-o-w and painful process. He made sure that I was ok, and checked on Helen. Strange, but I felt better after all the moving around. It was kind-of the feeling you get after a good workout, slightly in pain, tired, yet stronger.
-
I drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours. When Max returned, he was carrying a container of blood, my blood. He told me that my surgery went so well that the surgeons did not need to use any of the blood that I had donated for the surgery. One of my doctors told Max to give me one of the containers of blood to help me help me feel better. Another nurse came into the room. At first I didn't know why.
I start thinking that I hadn’t gone though the surgery just to die of tainted blood. So I said in a joking way I told Max that I wanted to check the container to make sure that it was my blood they were planning to give me and not someone else's. I expected rolled eyes or a smug comment when I said that. Instead Max walked closer to me holding the container so that I could read it. He showed me where my name was and where content information was written on the container. Then said:
“More patients should ask to see what we are giving them, most don’t.” He walked back to the other nurse and I learned why she was in the room. The two of them had some kind of standard form that made them double check any blood before if was hooked up to a patient. Max read the information off the container and the other nurse checked it against the chart. I saw this procedure again when they gave me the second pint of my blood. It was a smart system. I am sure the double and triple checking has stopped what could have been mistakes.
-
Finally visiting hours were over, and it would be two or three hours until a nurse would stop by the room. Time to relax, I turned on the TV. Remember there were TV's all over the hospital? They seemed to multiply like rabbits, and they were driving me crazy. But this time I had the control, I could turn on or off the television at will. I could control the channel and the volume.
It was strange how madding I found being trapped in a room where someone else controlled what I watched. I am not the only one who found watching someone else's choice of entertainment annoying. In his book “The Ayatollah in the Cathedral-Reflections of a hostage", former Iranian hostage Morehead Kennedy wrote about how the hostages were forced to watch bad American movies and pre-recorded TV shows over and over again. The person in charge of the hostage's entertainment never let them choose what show they could watch:
"…like the most saccharine Walt Disney films-most objectionable of all, Fantasy Island. And however tactfully we tried, we never did manage to turn his attention to some of the more interesting film cassettes piled up on the floor."
Loss of control about what was being shown on the waiting room TV's was what drove me crazy, not TV's in general. Now I was in control. The sound came from speakers in the hospital bed, so unless your roommate played their TV real loud, you only heard your own TV. I was afraid that Helen and I might have dueling TV’s but that didn't happen. First we both kept the sound of our TV's very low, when we realized that we were watching the same show we opened the curtains, watched TV, talked and started getting to know each other. She was really an interesting person.
I liked Helen, even though she was a needy person, she asked very little of me, until it was time to go to sleep. With exceptions (like major surgery) I have a difficult time falling asleep. I sleep mother-sleep. If you have children you know what I mean. If a convoy of trucks drives through my bedroom, Mark will sleep through it. If one of the children has a nightmare and started yelling, Mark would sleep through that too. If one of my kids has a slight cough I am wide-awake in a heart beat. I like my bedroom door closed and the room dark. Even so I hear everything.
So, when the show Law and Order was over Helen and I agreed to shut of the TV's and go to sleep. Since Helen could walk around, and I could not get out of bed by myself, I politely ask Helen to close the door. The light coming from the hallway was shinning right into my eyes. That was when I discovered that she was also a claustrophobic.
“No, no, no. The door must stay open.” She said. Well that’s ok for her, but my bed was on the side of the room that was next to the door and hall. Even at 11:00 p.m. there was plenty of activity in the hall. Helen closed the curtain that surrounded my bed which helped, but there was still too much light and too much noise for me too sleep. Helen closed the door-for about one minutes, then hobbled to the door and told me that
“The door HAS to be open.”
“All right, I’ll try to sleep.” I said, but I couldn't. This made Helen feel bad. We talked it out until we found a solution. She took some paper towel from the bathroom, got it a little wet, the placed the paper towel over my eyes. The dampness not only made the paper towel feel nice, but it made the towel stay in place. The wet paper towel blocked out just enough light so that I was finally able to fall asleep.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

You like me! ou Really, Really Like Me!!! Chapter 18

Mark was allowed to stay for awhile, but I was so out of it that we didn’t talk much. Soon after he left, I fell asleep. Since I was in a hospital, the nurses woke me every few hours to take my vital signs.
In my normal life, I go to bed some where between 11:00PM and mid-night and if left alone will sleep until 8:00 or 9:00AM. But since I have to get my children ready for school, the alarm wakes me at 6:30AM. I usually wake up very tired and very grumpy. So, you can imagine how surprised I was to find my self, without the benefit of an alarm clock, waking-up at 6:00AM. Who knows why I woke up so early? Maybe it was the brightness of the room or maybe it was the activity in the hall outside my door. I don’t know. What I do know is I had an opportunity to sleep as late as I wanted, and my brain woke my up at 6:00AM. Bummer.
I heard two voices right outside of my room talking (did I mention that I have really good hearing). I think the day shift was coming on and the voices I heard were two nurses. The night nurse was filling in the day nurse about their shared patients. The first voice rattled off some names and room numbers and basic information. I was not really listening. Then I heard my name, then I paid attention.
“Room 105, mastectomy; she is doing great!!!”
“Great, I am doing great! I hurt from head to toe, except for the parts of my body that are numb, and she thinks that I am doing great? Then how bad are the patients who are not doing great feel? ” These thoughts were going through my head as a doctor making his rounds walked into my room. I had read somewhere that one should never, never, ever be a patient in a hospital in the month of July if you can help it. That is because July is the month that med-students graduate to become residents, and residents become doctors or something like that. So there are all these men and woman running around with their shinny new diplomas and stethoscopes.
So, into my room walks a young man, about 5’8” dark hair, dark eyes, white coat, stethoscope around his neck and a big smile on his face.
“Good morning, I am your doctor, my name…”
“Doogie Howser, did this guy tell me his name was Doogie Howser?” Actually I don’t hear what his real name was. In my mind I called him Dr. Doogie because he looked like he was twelve years old and this was the guy who was charge of my case. Well, if the surgery didn’t kill me, the hospital stay would.
-
After Doogie left I had time to look around my room. The room was designed for two patients and it was your standard two patient hospital room: two beds divided by a white curtain, a bathroom and a window on my roommate’s side, the door to the hall on my side. We each had our own TV and side table. When either of us had a visitor the other could hear all conversations.
It was during my first waking hour that I met my roommate. Her name was Helen; she had short brown hair and glasses, and looked like she was in her late fifties. I spent the next three days with this woman who was very kind, very sick and a little crazy.
Helen had something wrong with her intestines. I think that she had about half of them removed and the other half were not working very well and-frankly she produces some pretty bad odors. She tried to cover them up with a spray type air freshener. Unfortunately she chose some strong floral sent that made me sick. Her scents added to all the flowers that were being delivered were making the room unbearable.
Helen’s surgery was two days before mine. Because of the nature of her problems I felt that Helen should have been in a room by herself. At first I was angry at the hospital for being too cheap to give her a single room. Later I find out that she was given a single room, but after one day she requested to be moved to a double because she wanted a roommate. It turns out that Helen is one of those people that can never-ever be alone. She needed to have someone around her at all times. Lucky me.
My first encounter with someone like that, was a woman that I had met when I was working as a department manager at a store called Bradlees (this was an East Coast chain of stores that was kind of like K-mart). This woman was hired as a manager. We had each had a baby recently, so we enjoyed talking about the joys and exhaustion of being a new parent. One day I mentioned my one and a half day stay in the hospital, and that my parents, my sister Janis, my in-laws, and both of my sister-in-laws, not to mention my husband had stopped by to visit. And her response was:
“Oh you poor thing, just like me hardly anyone came to visit you.” What!
Back at the hospital, the moment that visiting hours started Helen had a visitor, most of the time it was her husband, who was a very nice man. Other times it was her daughter or one of her many, many friends. Someone must have been coordinating the visits because as soon as one person left another showed up. That meant there was constant activity in the room. Most of the time I found it very annoying because I like quiet. Because I wanted to spend my time in the hospital resting I had asked my friends not to visit or call me there. But sometimes having her friends around came in handy. They were always asking me if there was anything that I needed, so I had all the ice chips and water that I wanted.
I had brought two or three books to read and another two books on tape to listen to, not to mention a half a dozen music cassettes. At home I am a wife and mother who is on call 24/7, I was really looking forward to some rest, I thought that I would sleep a little, read a little, listen to music or a story. Obviously I don't spend too much time in hospitals. Between the doctors, nurses, my few visitors and Helen’s retinue, my hospital room felt like grand central station. When visiting hours were over, Helen wanted to chat with me. The only time it was quiet was when one of us was sleeping.
-
I spent my first full day after the surgery drifting in and out of consciousness. I tried to listen to one of the books-on-tape but I kept falling asleep. It was not the book, in fact I was listening to a book that I have been wanting to read for a long time. The book was called “At Home in Mitford” by Jan Karon, I’ll talk more about this book later. What I want to talk about now is the daily life of a patient, and surprisingly, how quickly I got used to the routine.
As I said the hospital came alive around 6:00am, when Dr. Doggie showed up and checked a few of my vitals and asked how I was doing. This guy had a really good bedside manor. If he is as smart as his is kind, he will do well in his career. The biggest problem I had (besides the pain) was that I was having a hard time breathing. This must be normal because every new patient in my section had one of those funny breathing tubes that I learned to used it before my surgery.
I would breath into it and try to make the little ball rise to the appropriate line like the lady had shown me, but I couldn’t get the ball that high since taking a deep breath was impossible. I felt like there was a big clump of phlegm caught in my throat. Breathing in to the funny tube helped, but it didn’t solve the problem. I found myself scratching at my throat as if that would make the phlegm go away. It didn’t. I wanted the doctors to operate on me again to get the phlegm out, or at least stick a suction tube down my throat. I asked Dr. Doogie what could be done I begged for him to help me. He did not know what to tell me so he went looking for a more experienced doctor.
The experienced doctor came to my room. This man looked like a real doctor, he was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He was of Asian ancestry. He told me the only way to get rid of the phlegm in my throat was to cough it out.
“Cough it out? Do you now how much it will hurt to cough it out?” I asked him. He told me that if I wanted to get the phlegm out of my throat, that coughing was the only way. This was one of the few times in my life that I actually wanted to kill someone, but lucky for both of us I was too weak. Later I tried a weenie cough or two. The attempt racked my body with pain so I stop then blew on my funny tube and suffered.
-
Did I mention that Memorial is a teaching hospital? I read somewhere that teaching hospitals were among the best places to be treated because they were always up on the latest medical information. I have no idea if that is true or not, but it sounds good. Anyway when I filled out the millions of pre-admission forms there were a few interesting documents. One was a walking will. This document let me state what kind of life saving procedures I did or did not want. I thought this was a good idea. Mark and I had a long talk about it. We wanted to make sure that everything was spelled out before hand, so that if something went wrong, my family and my husband would not end up in one of those stupid court fights, trying to decide whether or not I would want to be kept on the feeding tube. I didn’t.
The other interesting document stated that was a teaching hospital so they wanted permission to video tape my surgery, and to allow med-students following doctors on there rounds to watch when a doctor examined me. Ok, I thought, this was for science so I signed. I don’t know whether my particular surgery was taped but I did meet a lot of med-students.
Did I also mention that I am very modest? After all I am a minister's wife and a librarian’s assistant. So there I was in my hospital bed, all that I was wearing was a hospital gown. I brought pajamas, but because it hurt too much to move I never changed. The hospital gown had two snaps on each shoulder. When I noticed them I wondered why, I soon found out. It started with the arrival of Dr. Doogie. He came into my room and checked my chart, he talked to me for a few minutes, then asked if he could check to see if I was healing properly, he was the only doctor who asked permission. Then he unsnapped the right side of my gown and looked at my scars. He told me that my breast was healing quite well, then he re-snapped the gown. Again he was the only doctor who snapped my gown back up, then he left.
Later another doctor came by with a crew of med-students to check on my progress. I’ll call him Dr. Rude. Dr. Rude explained to the students (about six or seven of them) what kind of surgery I had and how I was progressing. Then he walked over to my right, unsnapped my gown exposing my right breast, explained that I had both a mastectomy and reconstruction, and that every thing went very well, and that I was healing at a very encouraging rate. He then closed my gown by placing the snap parts back on my shoulder, but failed to re-snapped my gown. He and the students left. Not only did he disregard my modesty, but he left my gown unsnapped. I didn’t have much use of my right arm yet so I could not re-snap my gown myself. I had to wait for a nurse to stop by and ask her/him to re-snap me.
In the afternoon Dr. Sullivan stopped by to see me, he was in a great mood. He greeted me with a big smile. He told me how well the surgery went. He also said that although he wouldn’t be sure until the pathology test came back, he felt that the cancer had not spread.
“Tissue has a certain feel when it has been infected with cancer, your tissue did not feel that way.” He stated again that I would have to wait for the pathology report to come in but he was optimistic. He too unsnapped my gown and was pleased at the progress of my healing. He placed the snaps (unsnapped) back on my shoulders and left.
little later Dr. Asgari stopped by. It was strange, he was so happy when he walked in to my room. With his arms enthusiastically waving and a big smile on his face (Dr. Asgari smiling, who would have thought it?).
“You have great blood flow!” he ranted. “Great-Blood-Flow!!!” He explained that when he does a trans-flap, he divides the stomach into four sections. The first three are together from the left of my stomach area to center, there the blood flows horizontally. The forth quarter is on the right side of my torso and the blood flows vertically. Dr. Asgari told me that he rarely uses the forth part because the blood flow is typically not good enough. But my blood flowed wonderfully (except when I was donating blood). He had more than enough stomach parts to build a beautiful new breast.
As he was saying this I remembered Frances telling me that a friend of hers had wanted Dr. Asgari to do a trans-flap on her, but he refused, because she smoked, and smoking effects the blood flow. He would do implants on a smoker, but never a trans-flap. So there I was, the woman with the great blood flow that can make this stoic doctor smile. He unsnapped my gown, to check out his handy work, declared it a success, then puts the snap parts (unsnapped) back on my shoulder and leaves.
This goes on for the next two days. I must have had the best reconstruction that this hospital had ever seen, because doctors seem to wandering in and out of my room all day long. I was beginning to think that men are putting on a white coat just to look at me. I swear that the last guy who checked me out worked for the food service department. Ok, that was a joke, but it seems like my breast got more attention in the three days that I was in the hospital, then they ever did when I was single.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Surgery: Chapter 17

We woke up before dawn on the morning of July 17 because we had to be at the hospital by 6:00 am. The only good thing about driving anywhere so early is that there is very little traffic. We got to the hospital and found a parking space without a problem (so this is what time you have to get here to find a parking space). We went to the surgery check-in place. The woman there was way too bright and cheerful for 6:00 AM I asked her:
“How can you be so happy this early?” She told me that she loved the mornings. The woman was a young, pretty and dressed very nicely. I could tell that she loved gold jewelry. She had on so many necklaces that she made Mr. T look under-dressed. After checking in, we went to another area where Mark and I were separated. He had to stay in the waiting room (I can not grade this waiting room because I have no memory of it), while I followed another woman to the patient area. This woman was slightly older than the first woman. She was not as cheerful and not wearing any gold (cause and effect?). But she was very nice and showed me where to change from my street clothes to hospital clothes, then she put my clothes in a bag and tagged it.
Next I went into a room that could best be described as a patient’s staging area. Mark was there to meet me.
This area was bizarre; there were six patients, each in our own curtained-off area. Doctors, nurses and technicians were coming and going into each area. One Asian woman came to my bedside to get information, then someone else came in and took even MORE information. I was given an ID bracelet and put on an IV. Eventually a blondish man came in to my area and introduced himself as Dr. Davis-my anesthesiologist, finally. He was very handsome. I had seen so many good looking people employed in that hospital, that I was starting to wonder if someone from central casting was running the personnel office.
Dr. Davis and I talked for a few minutes. He explained the process (in laymen’s terms) of the anesthesia. Then he asked if I had any allergies.
“No, I don’t have any allergies, but I do suffer from ‘Cheap Date' Syndrome.” Dr. Davis burst out laughing. Mark was sitting next to me holding my hand and laughing too.
I turned to Mark and said.
“See, he understands.”
Dr. Davis composed himself, then said:
“I think what you’re trying to tell me that you are drug sensitive, right?” I nodded yes. He then said: “I just never quite heard it put that way before.” We talked for a few more minutes then he left.
Since Dr. Davis laughed at my joke and because I was able to check his breath to make sure that it didn't smell of alcohol (by talking low so he had to bring his head close to me to be able to hear me) I decided that he was ok.
At this point a woman came up to us and introduced herself as my surgical nurse. My mind started calling her Glamour Nurse. She told me it was time to go in to the operating room.
Her tone of voice told me that she was a no-nonsense gal. She had highlighted hair. "Glamour Nurse" was older than most of the women who had been prepping me. She seemed to be around my age I think, but it was hard to tell because she was wearing a surgical mask and all I could see of her face was her eyes. What struck me as odd was all of the eye make-up that she wore. It was only 7: a.m. and we were on our way to an operating room, not a Nightclub. Why would she be wearing all that make-up? I wondered. Then again, why did that other woman wear all those gold chains? I guess that in an atmosphere of sickness and death, each person finds something to make themselves feel better.
-
I was wheeled into the operating room by "Glamour Nurse" and someone else. The gurney came a stop, and I started looking around. The room was not what I had expected. It was huge. Three of the walls were painted yellow and the forth wall was floor to ceiling cabinets that looked like transparent glass or plastic. The cabinets were filled with items used in the operating room. It looked very organized. My closets should look so good! The room had lots of scary looking equipment. I didn't know what half of the machines were. I also noticed that the room was cold… I don’t like cold.
As they moved me from the gurney to the operating table, I was surprised how narrow the operating table was, I kept thinking:
“This bed is too narrow. I move a lot when I sleep and I am going to roll off!” What was I thinking? This wasn’t the hotel Ritz, this was an operating room. I decided the table was narrow so that the surgeons could work on their patients without reaching so far, but I still felt like I was going to fall off.
As I was being hooked up to the equipment, both Dr. Sullivan and Dr. Asgari approached me. I read somewhere that surgeons liked to disassociate themselves from their patients before surgery because the doctors need to focus on the process, not the patient. Since I knew this before hand I told myself that I would be on my best behavior.
So there I was, lying on the skinny table looking up at three masked faces. On the right is Dr. Sullivan, his gentle smiling brown eyes looking down at me in a reassuring way. In the middle Glamour Nurse with her over made-up eyes looking at me, then scanning the room watching the other nurses, doing their work. On my left was Dr. Asgari, his brown eyes acknowledge me and then move away and he was deep in thought.
Behind me I heard the anesthesiologist, he started to talk to me again and we started to joke with each other. I couldn’t resist, I tried to bring the other doctors in on the joking. They tried to join in for a second or two, then stepped away from me (I hope to re-focus). After another minute or two of joking, Dr. Davis became quiet and professional and I hear those dreadful words.
“Now count back from 100.”
“100.” At least he didn’t tell me that a member of my family ruined his life.
“99.” I love Mark and the girls, I will miss them when I die.
“98.” I will see my mother soon.
“97...” ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
-
Beep…beep…beep…everything looked blurry, then clear.
“I am alive.” I whisper to myself. I looked around. I was in a room that I had never seen before. It was a large room with curtains sectioning off my little area.
“I am alive.” I whispered again, this time a little louder. I was hooked up to some a machine.
“I AM ALIVE!!!” My brain shouted. A nurse was sitting to my left. She was another young, pretty woman. Next to her was another patient on a gurney. The nurse must have been monitoring both of us.
“Welcome back.” She said in the kindest voice that I had ever heard. “How do you feel?” she asked. Sounding very un-original, I said:
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
She just smiled, then said: "I called your husband as soon as you came out of surgery. How far away do you live?”
“About twenty minutes.” I answer.
“Figuring time to park he should be here any minute.” She checked what ever I was hooked up to and went to her monitoring desk, which I could see from my bed.
Before the surgery, Mark and I had agreed that he would to go home rather than wait for me at the hospital. In movies and TV shows, when someone is in surgery, their family is seen in the waiting room pacing back and forth and bugging every doctor or nurse that comes in to view. That may make great drama, but in reality I think it is dumb.
Frances had told me that her double mastectomy and reconstruction had taken about ten hours. My doctors told us that my surgery would take six or seven hours. I am a very pragmatic person and I think sitting in a hospital for seven hours is a waste of time and Mark is not good at doing nothing. If I knew that he was waiting for me in the hospital, I would be worried about him pacing in the halls. Since we both felt that I needed to concentrate on me, we decided it would be better for him to go home and work on his 66’ Dodge Charger, and come back to the hospital after the surgery.
Working on the car always makes him happy. He can easily lose himself working in the garage, and time passes quickly for him. We asked that Mark be called as soon as I was wheeled out of surgery. By the time I woke up, he would be there by my side. So much for the best laid plans.
I slowing moved from being groggy to being fully awake. No Mark. The nurse came by and checked on me and we chatted. No Mark. The guy next to me moved to a room where his whole family was waiting for him. Still no Mark. The nurse calls my house again. No answer.
In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a worst case scenario- type person. By this time I was convinced that Mark was dead in a car accident. I was starting to get very upset, so was the nurse. Someone came by and told her it was time to move me to my room. I had been in recovery much longer than I should have, and they needed to move me to my room. The nurse won't let them move me, saying that she would check the waiting room one more time. A few minutes later running back to the recovery room saying:
“We found your husband, and you won’t believe this.” She told me that my surgery went much faster that expected, the operation was only four hours long. They called my husband when they were supposed to, someone sent a volunteer to the waiting area to find Mark as planned. She must have just missed him, so everyone thought that he was not there. So he sat and waited for someone to get him, while they were waiting for him to show up, Anyway they found him.
-
Once Mark was located I was moved to my room. The irony was that since Mark is a minister he can move around the hospital with fewer restrictions that the average visitor. Mark could have entered the recovery room at any time!
He didn’t hunt down anyone to ask about my stats for two reasons. First, he is a very polite person. Second, as he looked around the waiting room he saw people who had a family member who entered surgery around the same time that I did, and they were still waiting for information about their loved one. At least Mark knew I had survived my surgery, so he waited, until my nice nurse finally made the connection between Mark and me.
-
Mean while, I slowly woke up. Along with the joy of realizing I was still alive I also came to the realization that my body was numb. As the anesthesia wore off, I started to feel pain. Although the pain was concentrated in my torso, I hurt from my hair to my toes, with the pain increasing every second. I didn’t think it was possible for a body to hurt this much. After all, I have experienced pain before. I had given birth to two children. But this hurt much more. I didn't think it was possible for my body to handle any more pain.
Soon I was unhooked from the monitor and some people pushed my gurney through the catacombs of the hospital. We turn left, then we turn right, in an elevator-up, down who knows. We go over hill and over dale, and through the woods (ok I just made that one up.) It seemed like they were pushing me forever. My biggest fear was that I would become one of those ‘left in the hallway people: Luckily my gurney kept moving. Eventually I arrived to a room.
The first thing I noticed was a handsome young man standing next to an empty bed. He was wearing some kind of loose white shirt that looked like it had mice riding motorcycles on it-man those drugs were gooooood. On his command the gurney was moved parallel to the empty bed.
“On three.” Motorcycle Max said.
“Your not moving me are you?” I stupidly asked.
“One.” He continued.
“This is going to hurt.” I thought.
“Two…three” they lifted me from the gurney to the bed.
“Ouchhhhhhhhhhhh” I yelled. If I thought that I was in pain before, it was nothing compared to this agony. This was the worst pain that I had ever experienced. I hope that I never feel pain like that again.

A Night of Romance?: Chapter 16

And wait….
In her book "Just Get Me Through This" author Debra Cohan wrote about different things that women did the day before their mastectomy.
Since I was convinced that I was going to die on the table, I wanted to make sure that Mark’s and my last night together would be special. If you watch as many movies or read as many books as I do, then you know that in fiction a person’s last night alive is a special one. So, just like John Travolta and Kara Sewick in the movie “Phnom,” we did what every couple in love does; we made our last night together a romantic one.
First, I called to the girls to tell them that I loved them because I wanted to say goodbye. Next Mark and I had a romantic but small meal (no food or drink after midnight). Then I took long candle lit bubble bath as the book told me, to give me time to say goodbye to my breast. Then we planned an evening of lovemaking. What nobody talks about in romance novels is how awkward it is to have sex is when you think that you are about to die.
From the moment that we started kissing, I felt that making love was a mistake. But I continued for my husband, because I felt that he wanted, no he needed the intimacy. I just didn't realize how weird it would be to use sex to say goodbye. The irony was that Mark felt the same way that I did. He also felt very uncomfortable but continued because he thought that I wanted the intimacy of the moment. I guess you could call that night the modern day version of “The gift of the Magi.”
Anyway during this awkward moment the phone rang, we don’t as a policy answer the phone when we are fooling around (I have had friends that do). We knew that it wasn't the kids because we had already called them, so we ignored the phone. Later Mark went down stairs to get a snack and he checked the answering machine. Beep…
“Good evening, this is Dr. Davis calling, I will be your anesthesiologist tomorrow and I wanted to touch base with you before your surgery. I am sorry that I missed you tonight and I will see you in the morning.” Beep… I could not believe it, we missed the call that I had been waiting for because of “Death Sex.” I told myself that if I lived through this, the next time that I had surgery scheduled-we would rent a movie the night before… a comedy.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Prayers: Chapter 15

And wait…
On Sunday July 15th prayers were being said for me. Not only were the members of my church praying, but people in churches around the state were praying. In fact there were people all over the country praying for me. I kind-of felt like the character 'George Bailey' from the move "It's a Wonderful Life" a man who had a whole town praying for him. How did I get some many people to pray for me? I'll explain.
First; there was the congregation of my church who had been praying for me since they first learned that I had cancer. Also, many of my wonderful co-workers, most of whom were church goers (they were Episcopalian, Methodist, Presbyterian, Catholic and Mormon). have put my name on their church's prayer list.
Second; there was my family. I did not have a religious up-bring. In fact my parents never took me to church when I was a child. There were some religious conflicts when I was growing up. My father was raised Catholic, and most of his side of the family remained Catholic. My mother was first raised Lutheran, and then somewhere along the line my maternal grandmother became a Jehovah Witness. On that side of the family the religious beliefs run all over the place, from Presbyterian to Greek Orthodox. So with my aunts and uncles putting my name on each of their church's prayer chain I had many different houses of worship in dozens of states and Canada praying for me.
Then there was my husband's family with their generations of devout Methodist Ministers, my father-in-law and my sister-in-law (who are both ministers) have put my name on their pray chains also. So that is how I got so many people praying for me.
Speaking of my in-laws, they drove up from their home in South Jersey to pick up my girls. My in-laws kindly offered to take my kids home with them for the next few days, suggesting that it would be easier for everyone if Ronnie and Leah stay with them while I went to the hospital. Mark and I thought that it was a great idea because the tension was getting pretty thick around our house.
-
And wait…
On July 16th my husband 's boss Katharine showed up unexpectedly at our house. Yes ministers have bosses besides…Him. Let me take a minute to explain the hierarchy of the Methodist Church. First, this is a world wide religion. Each country is broken down in to districts or conferences. Mark is a member of the Greater New Jersey Annual Conference. Each conference has a Bishop and several district superintendents or DS's depending on the size of the district. Each DS has x-number of churches or charges. The first time that I tried to explain this to my father his first question was:
"No Pope?"
"That is correct Dad, no Pope."
Every year each church holds a Charge Conference which is presided over by the DS. At the Charge Conference the minister and members discuss the events that have taken place over the last year and set goals for the next year.
Every year each charge (or church) sends representatives (both ministers and lay people) to the three day Annual Charge Conference (a minister's convention, there is a joke there somewhere), which is presided over by that Annual Conference's Bishop. At Annual Conference, ideas, changes, wants and needs are discussed.
Every four years there is a General Conference where representatives from each Annual Charge Conference from around the world meet and set the stance of the United Methodist Church (your church donations at work). Each Conference is linked to the other Conferences and each Methodist Church. So each church and each minister is connected to each other. Get It? Then you are way a head of me.
Anyway Katherine showed up at our house to pray with us. After I got over the shock of her showing up, I found myself enjoying her visit very much. After a few minutes of small talk she opened her Bible and read some scripture that she had selected for me. The three of us held hands and prayed. She then told me that there was an international Minister's prayer chain on the internet and she had put my name on it. So that is how I had gone international. I was even bigger than George Bailey…double cool.
-
I confess, even with all of these people praying for me, I was still terrified. I felt pretty confidante about Dr. Sullivan and Dr. Asgari, but the anesthesiologist scared the hell out of me, because he/she was an unknown. After all, I spent weeks searching for Dr. Sullivan and he recommended Dr. Asgari who had great references. But the hospital assigns an anesthesiologist to each surgery. So I will get assigned one by the luck of the draw.
Maybe it was because I watch too many of those TV News Magazine type shows, but it seemed to me that every other week there was a story about a patient dying because the anesthesiologist was drunk or on drugs. Remember those stats; 1 out of 250,000 die on the table because of anesthesia-related mistake. There is more.
Back in college I showed the bad judgement of dating one of my professors (do you get the feeling that I didn't do well with men until I met Mark?). Anyway, the professor had a reputation of being what my mother would have called a "cad."
I was very much in love with this guy, in spite of the fact that he was sixteen years older than me and in the process of his third divorce. His mode of operation was to have one steady woman in his life and a few more on the side. He liked to tell people with his sly grin and a twinkle in his eye that "Many people thought incorrectly (wink-wink) that in the book 'Looking for Mr. Goodbar' the character of the cold, seducing college professor was based off of him." If you have read the book or seen the movie you know that this was nothing to be proud of.
I mention this old boy friend and his reputation because of another story that he loved to tell. It was about his mother, an operation, and her anesthesiologist. It goes something like this.
So, there my mother was, lying on the operation table when the anesthesiologist approached her asking;
"Is your name Sandra Fitzgerald?"
"Yes," she whispered, then he asked,
"Is your son Seth Fitzgerald?
"Yes" she said. Then he starts yelling at her saying,
"YOUR SON STOLE FROM ME THE ONLY WOMAN THAT I EVERY LOVED!!!, HE RUINED MY LIFE!!!" He then lowered his voice and as he put the mask over her face said, "Now count back from one hundred." my poor mother went under thinking that the doctor was going to kill her…HA! HA! HA!…

This was a funny story when you were sitting around a bar with friends, but I did not find it funny when I remembered it the day before I was scheduled for major surgery.
-
I was told that the anesthesiologist would call me the day before my surgery. I was looking forward to the call. I wanted to talk to him so I could get a feeling of the doctor. I have sharp instincts about people (except when I date them). History has shown that when I get a bad feel about someone I am usually right. I also wanted to discuss that fact that I am drug sensitive. I am not allergic to any drugs, but I seem to react to them differently than most people. If I am given a drug based on weight and height most of the time I end up being over medicated. I need one aspirin when other people need two. Also I can get drunk on two beers. I felt it was important to tell him/her that, so I was looking forward to the phone call.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Donating Blood; Chapter 14

And wait…
While I was in the hospital for my pre-admitting test one of the women who helped me suggested that I donate my own blood so it would be on hand in case I needed a transfusion during my surgery. Good idea I thought. After all, I certainly had the time. So I made the arrangements and was told that I had enough time to donate twice.
-
Since school was out for the summer so Mark and I decided to bring the girls to the blood bank with us. I didn't want to go alone because I had a history of bad reactions to donating blood and I wanted Mark there in case I had another bad reaction.
The first time I gave blood, I was in my twenties and I was working for Eastern Airlines as a reservationist. The building that I worked in was the largest reservations center in American. With over a thousand employees, it was logical to have a blood drive at the office.
I thought that it was great to be able to donate blood during my shift because this would mean that I would be paid to give blood and drink juice and eat cookies. So, I went to the donation room where the medical people had set up, I filled out the paper work then took the next available cot. The technician inserted the needle in to my arm and the blood started to flow in to the catch bag. After a while I didn’t feel very well. I started feeling both sick and sleepy. A doctor was walking up and down the rows of cots looking at the donors. He stopped next to me looked for a moment then turned to the technician who was monitoring the people in my area. He said while pointing to me:
"Take the needle out of her arm." The technician touched my catch bag and said:
"She is almost done." The doctor took a step toward the tech and said in a not so friendly voice:
"GET THE NEEDLE OUT OF HER ARM-NOW, SHE IS TOO PALE!!!"
The tech took the needle out of my arm and helped me to stand. I stood for few seconds, and then promptly fainted, (bet that helped recruit donors). When I came-to, the tech helped me to a table where there was juice and cookies. I took a few bites, and then fainted again; this time there was no one there to catch me. I slid off my seat and under the table. Needless to say it was fifteen years before I tried to donate blood again.
The next time I bravely tried I had been married for a few years. Being
a minister's wife I wanted to be more active in community service. When a parishioner asked me to donate blood at a local VFW blood drive that she had organized I said yes. Anyway I was older and wiser and I ate better too, so why not.
The second time I donated blood I did not faint. The weird thing that happened that time was that my blood just didn't want to leave my body. So, there I was lying on a cot with a needle in my arm and my blood s-l-o-w-l-y draining in to the catch bag. Meanwhile on each side of me the donors were coming, donating, and leaving. My blood was still drip-drip-dripping. When a doctor came by me this time he said as he was laughing:
"I see that your blood is very attached to you." Yea, yea everybody is a comedian I thought.
I tried again a few years ago. Twice a year the B'ville Library has a blood drive, so I tried again. Mark went with me this time and everything went very well. My blood drained at the right speed and when the doctor walked by me, all he said was "Thank you for coming." We ate our cookies and juice and both Mark and I were given a Give Blood T-shirt as a thank you.
The last time I tried to give blood they wouldn't it. Something about my iron count being too low. So on the whole my luck giving blood has not been good, that is why this time when I donated I wanted Mark there to help me if I need it.
The blood donation center at Memorial was on the same floor as the radiation center, which meant going down to floor 4D again. After a quick stop to the out-patient registration deck, it was off to donate blood. We arrive at the blood bank and SURPRISE! I had to fill out more forms while Mark and the girls stayed in the waiting area. This waiting room was an L-shape. The reception area was right at the front (+). We were immediately taken care of (+). The room was painted in hospital uninspiring, with artwork to match(-). Then there were some boring chairs and couches located at the bend of the L (-) followed by a small area with a refrigerator full of juice and a coffee table with snacks (+). All in all I gave it a C it was not bad, but not good either.
The donating room was a small room with four or five very comfortable bed/chairs to lie/sit on. The technician guided me to the chair nearest to the door then hooked up my arm and asked me if I was comfortable.
"Could up help me with my walkman?" I asked the woman. I wanted to set the walkman next to me on the bed/chair and turn it on, but because one of my arms had a needle in it, I needed help. Why did I want to listen to one of my books on tape? Because the bed/chair is located right under a BLARING TV(--) that’s why.
After I finish we headed toward the exit, unfortunately this was a hospital, which means that there were people walking though the hall with bandages, and on crutches. We pass one patient parked lying in the hall on a gurney, moaning in pain. All this upset Leah. She was in tears by the time we got to the car and she asks that we never bring her to that scary place again. Mark and I promise her that we would not.

And wait…
A week later Mark and I were back at the blood bank. Funny but when you give blood at a blood drive they make you wait x-amount of days before they will let you donate again. Yet this time I was able to give blood with only seven days in-between.
We didn’t have a problem getting a sitter for the girls, the problem arose when we walk into the blood bank and the tech noticed my pale face and running nose.
"Do you have a cold?" the woman asked. I want to say something like, no I don't have a cold, I always look this bad. But instead I said,
"Yes, I have a cold."
"Sorry," she tells me, "but you can not donate blood if you have a cold."
"It is only a little cold." I told her. No good. They would not let me donate. I had to be healthy for x-amount of days before they would take any blood. It was getting very close to my surgery date, but I was not worried, I told the tech that it was ok because my husband and I were the same blood type and he would donate blood for me.
"Are you pre-menopausal?" She asks.
"Am I what?"
"Can you still get pregnant?"
"Yes, I think.” I tell her.
"Then your husband can not donate blood for you." She went on to explain that if I got pregnant while his blood was still in my system then there would be an increased chance of some kind of birth defect. I had no idea.

And wait…
I went back to the blood bank again. This time I went alone because we were unable to find anyone to watch the girls. I told Mark that I would call him if I felt that I could not drive by myself.
First stop, the out-patient check-in. This time the window was manned by a very pretty twenty-ish Spanish woman. I filled out the standard insurance forms. She looked them over to see if they were filled out right. After looking at the employment box she looked up at me then asked,
"Is you husband a minister?"
"Yes," I answer. She continued,
"That makes you a minister's wife."
"Why, yes I guess it does." I wondered where this conversation was going.
"You must be very holy." She said. How do you respond to a remark like that? I just nodded my head and left.

And wait…

Monday, January 15, 2007

Chapter 13: What Do We Tell the Children?

During this time Mark and I spend a lot of time talking about what we were going to tell the girls. At this point they knew that something was wrong, but they were not sure what. They noticed the tension in the house, and the extra phone calls. I usually talk to my sisters and father a few times a month, now I was talking to them a few times a week. My kids knew that something was up.
Mark and I talked to friends and family about how to approach the subject of my illness and we consult a few books on the subject. Each had a different point of view. Some said to tell them everything, and some said to tell them nothing. We went with the "tell them everything" theory, probably because it is in my nature to blab. Maybe it was because I used to watch soap operas, or maybe because I had read so many novels, it seems to me that many of the plot lines of these types of entertainment are centered around misinformation.
Stories ranging from then soap opera "General Hospital" to one of Mark's favorite movies "White Christmas" center around someone hearing a part of a sentence and misunderstanding what was being said. Then they fill in the blanks and come to the wrong conclusion. This is great fun for fiction, but could cause problems in reality.
We told the girls that I had cancer and that I had to go into the hospital to have an operation. We explain that when I came home it would take weeks for me to heal, and that I would need their help with things like bringing me glasses of water and so on.
"Are you going to die?" My little Leah asked with tears in her eyes, Sam started to cry also.
"NO!" I said trying to sound convincing. "I am not going to die, but I will be real sick for about a month or so." I hugged them both and we try to answer all of their questions. The knowledge that I had cancer frightened them, yet they were actually relieved, because they knew something was going on and now they understood why I had been so sad.

And wait…

I called Diane and told her that my surgery had been rescheduled and asked if she can readjust the cooking schedule. She called me back to tell me that she was able to reschedule everyone but Ruth. My friend Ruth was the mother of one of Leah's friends. Ruth still wanted to cook for us on the thirteenth because she didn't want to loose her place in the cooking line-up. So she told Diane that she would bring over dinner so I could have a night off. Cool. So at 5:00pm on Friday the thirteenth my family receive our first meal from The Traci’s Friends Delivery Service, the meal was wonderful.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Chapter 12: Who Moved My Surgery Date

And wait…
Okay, it was now July 2nd and I had done my little bit to save the world, now I had to save my mind. I had too much time to think and feel sorry for myself. At this point I could have spent a lot of time on the internet getting more information about cancer and mastectomies. I am pretty good at surfing the net. At work I helped students find information for their homework all the time, but I was leery of the internet. For every good piece of information that I found, there was an equal amount of bad information. I found some statistics on line that stated that in the year 2000 there were 2,100 deaths from complications and adverse reactions to anesthesia in the United States. Which I learned meant that anesthesia kills 1 out of every 250,000 people who go in to an operating room (like I really want to know this, as if I was not scared enough). I decide to turn off the computer and find something else to focus on.
My family is of course the center of my life, but thinking about them made me think about their life without me. Well, that didn't help my mood much. It was time to turn to my old stand by, books. I usually try to read about three books a month. This time I went on a reading frenzy. Among the books I read was one called "Absolute Power" by David Baldacci, I enjoyed it very much. I remembered that Clint Eastwood made a move from the book, I make a mental note to find a copy of the movie (can we say, based 'loosely' from the book?). Next I read "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austin and I now understand why the book is considered a classic, it was great. I like different kind of books; I am very eclectic in my reading. I also read a lot of non-fiction. Next I read "A walk in the Woods" by Bill Bryson, a man who would become one of my favorite writers. Who knew that hiking could be so funny?
It was around this time that I found a book that profoundly affected my life, called "Who Moved My Cheese" by Spencer Johnson. It was strange that this book should catch my eye at this time of my life. I became aware of the book because of its high circulation. The book was being checked-out of the library all the time. "Who Moved My Cheese" is a small book that the average person could read it in one sitting. The story was about change and how different the four individuals in the book reacted to it. At one extreme is someone who embraces the change and handled it well. At the other extreme was someone who was so frighten by change that he was unable to react at all. Then there were the other two who were somewhere in the middle. The book asked-which one are you? I guess I was about to find out.
-
My boss wanted to know how much time I would need off from work. Our library is small, there were only fifteen employees, so my being out would effect the scheduling. Because each time I couldn't work someone else had to work in my place. Luckily it was summer and the library had shorter hours, so filling in for wasn't that difficult. I figured that I would need about two weeks to recover, but before I said anything to my boss I wanted to check with Francis.
"Six weeks is what you will need." She told me.
"SIX WEEKS!!! ARE YOU CRAZY?" I responded.
"Six weeks." She said with an emphatic tone, then continued “a trans-flap is a serious operation. You have never experience such pain. You will need time to recover."
"Pain-HA." I said indignantly, "I gave birth to two children-HA!"
"So have I, and I tell you there is no comparison." She told me looking down at the floor and nodding her head. Francis had given me outstanding information up to this point so I started to turn white and feel a little bit faint.
I asked my boss for six weeks off. My co-workers told me to take all of the time that I needed. Wow, I worked with some really great people.
In her book "Just get me through this" author Debbie Cohen wrote horror stories about women who had breast cancer and who were given a very hard time at their jobs. Ms. Cohen cites examples of women who were treated as if they just had a lobotomy instead of a mastectomy. She wrote of co-workers who didn't want the cancer survivor returning to work. When the survivor did return she was treated cruelly or like she was a leper. Not me, my co-workers were kind and helpful.


And wait…
Meanwhile I was starting to get depressed again and started planning my own funeral. Again Diane came to my rescue. Both the church people and my co-workers knew that Diane and I were friends and they kept approaching her to ask what they could do to help me. Diane and I brain stormed and came up with an idea. She offered to coordinate special meals-on-wheels for my family. Starting July 13th anyone who told her that they want to do something for me could sign up to bring my family dinner. We figure five, maybe six people tops would sign up. As soon as people heard about the list they started signing up. Even a few of the mothers of my kid's friends wanted to cook. Diane told me that I didn't have to think about making dinner for a month. Cool.

And wait…
Seven more days…I found myself scrubbing my house, I want it to shine. Cleaning house before I left it for a few days goes back to my airline days. I found that it was much nicer coming home from a trip to a clean house than a messy one.
"Hon!" My husband said to me, "My mother just called and wants to know when you are having your pre-admittance test done?"
"What's a pre-admittance test?" I asked him, I had no idea what he was talking about.
"My mother said that before any surgery a patient has to have certain tests. You better call you surgeon."
-
"Hi this is Traci calling and I am scheduled for surgery on July 13. Do I need any test dome before the surgery?"
"Of course you need pre-admittance," the woman on the phone said to me, her tone implied that I was stupid. She continued, "Everyone needs pre-admittance test, we told you all about them."
"No you didn't"
"Yes, we did."
"N-o, y-o-u d-I-d n-o-t!!"
"Y-e-s w-e d-I-d!" We sounded like five-years-olds.
"Whatever." I said. At least now I sounded like a teen and not a pre-schooler. "Just tell me what test I have to have done and how do I schedule them?"
"I'll set every thing up for you and call you back with the when and where. After all there is no hurry, as you know you're surgery has been changed until the seventeenth, bye." Click.
" WHAT!!!"
-
And wait…longer

A few days later I found myself back in the Memorial Hospital, in the pre-admissions department. The women who worked there were great. They helped me fill out all of the forms, including a 'walking will' which stated what I wanted or did not want done medically if something went wrong during the surgery. This paper did not helping me to feel any better, I was getting more and more frighten of the surgery every day.
While I was filling out all of the paperwork, one of the women asked me if I had seen any of the cancer counselors. I told her that I had not, so she made a call. A few minutes later the counselor walked in to the room and asked me to follow her. We went in to her office.
She introduced herself as Grace, she looked a little younger than me, and she was trim, with long brown hair. She was very professional looking, but she had very kind eyes. We stared to talk.
For the first time I understood what was going happen to me. Dr. Sullivan explained the surgery part fine, but I had no idea what my stay in the hospital would be like. Up until now the only time that I had been admitted to a hospital was when I gave birth to my daughters. In maternity wards, women are pampered. The surgical ward would be different. I would not be getting my own room. There would be many people who would need a lot more attention than I will.
Grace walked me through the surgical process. She told me when and where to check-in (for once I will not be an out-patient) how I would be prepped, and what things would be like after I woke up. Ahhhhh, waking-up, I like the sound of that. Then she showed me this weird tube thing that everyone gets after they have surgery. It was some kind of breathing tube. She showed me how to breathe in to it then she made me try. I felt silly. As I breathed into the tube, I saw a little ball thing measuring how hard I was breathing. She told me that this silly thing would become my best friend after my surgery.
Grace then gave me information about the National Cancer Association and arranges for them to contact me. She also gave me some meditation tapes and books. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I am no good at meditating. Whenever I tried, either my minds wanders to a book that I have read or I day dream about winning the lottery. Mostly I just fall a sleep. I took the tapes and books and thanked her. She asked me if I had any questions.
"Well," I said, "my mastectomy will be on my right side, and frankly I have had problem with chronic pain in my right arm and shoulder for most of my life and I didn't know if that would effect my surgery." I told her about the odyssey of doctors I had gone to, none of whom could do anything about my arm. I said that I had learned to live with the pain.
"Have you told your surgeon about your arm?" Grace asked.
"No, I haven't"
"Then I suggest that you call him…today." I left the hospital in a much better mood than I came in with.
-
I called Dr. Sullivan as soon as I got home and left a message with his staff, hopping that they would remember to give it to him. To my surprise, he called me back with in an hour. His staff maybe inefficient, but he was not. I told him about my arm and shoulder, he listened patiently, and then asked me one question, did the pain limit the use or movement of my arm. I told him no. He said than that whatever the problem was; it should not his effect his approach to the surgery. Good.
And wait…

Friday, January 12, 2007

Chapter 11: 4th of July

And waiting…
My doctors were working at a snails pace and all the waiting was making me depressed. I had to work hard not to be in a permanent funk.
Like many women, I suffer occasional boughs of depression. Luckily mine rarely lasted more than a day or two. Maybe it is because I have good body chemistry or maybe it is because when I feel down, I get up.
I have found that the best way to stop feeling sorry for myself is to focus on someone else. Try to do something nice for another person. I was not looking for a big project, something small would do. I don't usually have to look far because I find that if I keep my eyes open, an opportunity to help someone will present itself.
One such opportunity showed up when Emma, one of my favorite older church ladies, handed me a bags of books after church one day and told me that she wanted to donate them to the library. I thanked her and I thought that that was the end of it.
Later at a church coffee hour (a time of fellowship after church each week), I made a point to sit with Emma and thank her again for the books. The best way to describe Emma is to say that she was a character. Emma was in her eighties, about five-foot nothing and a bundle of energy. I got tired just watching her work a room. The children all call her 'The Candy Lady' because every Sunday she brought a bag a candy to coffee hour and gave each child (and adult) a piece or two of candy. I liked her because she cracked me up and I admired her because her husband had Alzheimer's and she had been taking care of him for years.
Anyway, Emma and I stared talking about books. During our discussion I discovered that she had lost most of her eye sight and the reason that she gave me so many books was that she could no longer read them. I was shocked. I had no idea that she could hardly see. I asked her if she listened to any books-on-tape.
"Books on what?"
"Books-on-tape." I said. I went on to explain to her that best selling books were recorded so people could listen to them.
"How do I get one?" she asked. I told her that we had books on tape at the library and I would be happy to bring her some. I asked her what kind of books she liked and told her I would bring her some every week. And that is what I did. Each week I would check-out two or three books-on-tape, make a list of what I brought her and record if she liked the book or not. It was a simple thing to do, yet it brought us both so much joy.
I needed another project to keep me occupied through all of the testing and waiting. I got my next project idea from an off-handed remark made by Claire, who is another (much younger) one of the church ladies,
Claire did a lot of volunteer work at the church. One of the things that she did was once a month gather all the donated food that had been put in the collection box that we keep in the church and take it to the local food bank. One Sunday as I was helping her put the food in her car, we both notice how little had been donated and she remarked:
"The food bank looks so sad this time of the year. People just don't donate as much food in the summer and they do around Thanksgiving and Christmas." That was it! That’s when I decided to coordinate a summer food drive. First I though to do a 'Christmas in July' theme, then I thought nahhhh too goofy, I left acting goofy to my husband. So I decided to have a 4th of July picnic food drive.
I have been involved with food banks in one form or another for years. My interest started in the late seventies when I became a fan of the late Harry Chapin. To see a Chapin concert meant not only listing to his wonderful music, it also meant listening to him lecture about how obscene is was that in our country of abundance, people/children went to bed hungry every night. I never went to a concert with out a few cans of food for the local food bank. Funny how being a Chapin fan turned out to be good training for being a minister's wife.
The first person that I call with my idea was Diane and we put together a typical BBQ menu: Hot dogs, hamburgers, buns, pickles, catsup, mustard, chips, chicken, soda, fresh fruit and corn-on-the-cob. I had talked to the woman who ran the food bank a few weeks earlier and asked if they had refrigerators to store the perishables, she did. We ask the congregation to donate food, money and freezer space. We got everything that we ask for and more. Everybody really jumped into the spirit of giving and I found myself very busy organizing everything.

And waiting…
For the next two weeks when ever a member of the church ran into either Diane or me they told us that they thought the food drive was a great idea. People drop-off bags of buns, condiments, pickles and beans at my house, other people gave Diane or me cash, telling us to buy what every meat or perishables we needed. On the morning of July 2nd, Diane and I took the cash and headed out to the local supermarket. We both brought our children. We turned the shopping trip in to a math game for the kids as we tried to get the best deal for each item. The kids helped. They liked to try and figure out which brand of pickles would give us the most jars for our dollar. Because of a big holiday sale we did better then we anticipated.
We bought hamburgers, hot dogs, coleslaw, and potato salad, enough to feed between ten to fifteen families. We still have cash left so we bought twenty bottles of soda, but like everything else that we bought, the soda was on sale. We still had money left. We bought bags and bags of potato chips. We still had money left over; we decide to donate the extra money to the food bank. It took two mini vans and my car to get all of the food to its destination. When we arrived, a volunteer (a very nice older gentleman) came over to help us unload. He asked us if we had a picnic that was canceled. We told him no, that this was the result of a food drive. He was amazed by all of the corn-on-the-cob and fruit. Soon staff members and other volunteers came out to help us unload the cars.
The manager was overwhelmed. I reminded her that I called a few weeks earlier. She just smiled and said 'thank you' but gave me a look that said 'I didn't think that you could pull it off'. I walked back to my car feeling the high of a job well done. I thought that our effort would feed people for days. What I didn't know was that this food bank (which was located in one of the wealthiest counties in the state) distributed about three hundred and fifty bags of food a day…a day. So our little effort barely scratches the surface. But it was a start!

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Chapter 10: The Lucky Number Thirteen

Finally the date was set. The operation was scheduled for three weeks later on Friday the thirteenth of July. Now you might think that the date itself might have freaked me out, but it didn't. I was upset because I had to wait for three weeks (I just wanted it over with) but having surgery on a Friday the thirteenth was fine with me. Since I met Mark, the thirteenth became a lucky date. Mark was born on a Friday the thirteenth and so was Leah. Ronnie was born on a Wednesday the thirteenth, and on June 25, 2001 Mark and I celebrated out thirteenth Wedding Anniversary. Weird huh?.
-
Now I waited, I am not very good at waiting. Patience is a virtue that I lack. My sisters and my father were calling me every other day they wanted to know
why I had to wait so long for my surgery, so did I.
My sister Valerie and I started talking about my mother and her course of treatment. I mention that I thought that when mom (Nora) finally had her biopsy, she got the results the same day, and had her surgery the next day. Valerie said that she would check with our dad.
A few days later Valerie E-mailed me the information that I wanted. It seems that in October of 1989 my mother had a mammogram that was "questionable" and was told to have another mammogram in a few months, sound familiar? I think that at this point my mother, like a lot of people, let fear override logic so she waited three years before she had the second mammogram. I knew that there was a time lag between the two mammograms; I just didn't realize just how much time had passed. I think knowing that my mother had waited so long, prompted me to get my second mammogram when I did.
Nora’s second mammogram was in June of 1992 and that test led to her biopsy. I was wrong. The surgery was not the next day, but five days later. So for my mother it was less than a week between the biopsy and her mastectomy. Heck it took me almost two weeks just to get the results of my biopsy. Things move much more slowly in up here then in Southern Jersey. I always thought it was the other way around.
My mother never had chemotherapy. They put her on Tamoxifen right away. Fifteen months later Nora had her first bone scan, and the test showed some problems. In January of 1994 my mother was told that the cancer had metastasized. The doctors tried radiation, but it didn't help much. Nora had become paralyzed by the winter of 1994 and by the end of the year all treatment stopped. Nora lived (if you want to call it living) until April of 1995. It was important that I know all of this, because I would have to make many decisions about my treatment in the next few months and I felt that my family medical history is important in making these decisions.
-
Six years…there was six years between the day that my mother was told that she had a suspicious mammogram and the day that she died, six years. When I started reading the statistics about breast cancer I found that survival rates were listed in five-year increments. For example; I found a chart from the year 2000, that showed survival rates for stage one (which is what my mother and I had) for was 95% end of five years (remember in chapter 7 I mentioned that I found different survival rate charts in different books). What I didn't know and still don't know is does the clock start from the first bad mammogram? In that case my mother lived for five years. Or dose it start from the date of the diagnosis? Or does it start from the date of surgery? Then she didn't make the five years. I just don't know. The chart also stated that at ten years the survival rate is 65% Ouch! The rate improved when different treatments got added on, such as radiation, chemo and Tamoxifen.
Six years. I am my mother's daughter. I am more like my mother than either of my sisters. Six years. If I follow my mother's pattern then I have six years from the first bad mammogram. That gives me till some time in the year 2006. At that time my children will be fifteen and twelve. That will put them in early adolescence, I can not die in 2006 my children need me too much.
Mark is a great father, but he can not be a great mother…he can not be any kind of mother. They need me to take them shopping for their first bra, and show them how to shave their legs. And what about when their period starts? My girls have a wonderful extended family, a great grandmother and four caring aunts. There are just some moments that are meant to be between a mother and a daughter, and I was determined to be there for them.
The information Valerie sent surprised me, because I didn't know that my mother got her first questionable mammogram in 1989. I mean that was the year that I got married. Why didn't she go back sooner, why? And, how come her surgery was so done so quickly after her biopsy? I have a lot of questions and there is only one person who can answer them, my father. He took such good care of my mother, he knows every detail of her disease, but he is so distraught by my diagnosis that I just can't ask him these questions, I just can't.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

After my experience at the plastic surgeons, the last thing I wanted to do was see another doctor, but I didn't have a choice. Mark and I dropped the girls off at Diane's, and then it was back to Memorial hospital. This time we went to a different section of the hospital called The Cancer Center. The Cancer Center was a newer building attached to the left-hand side of the
older main hospital building, it had it's own entrance and parking…valet parking. Did I mention how cheap I am? I will go to greatlengths to avoid valet parking. I have walked blocks out of my way at restaurants and banquet halls to avoid those guys. It’s the waiting for my car that annoys me almost as much as the cost of the parking and tip. Maybe if I drove an expensive car I wouldbe treated better, but my experience have all been negative. When Mark and I were looking for a place to have our wedding, any banquet hall that had valet parking was crossed off our list.
The parking lot that was closest to the main entrance was $2 an hour for everyone except the patients. We were suppose to park free if we got our parking stub validated. Actually, the price varied, depending on who was working the check-out booth. Some days I paid nothing, some days $1an hour and other days $2 an hour, hmmmmmm. The not knowing was madding, but making the extortion payment to the toll both guy was still cheaper than the valet parking, which was two dollars an hour plus tip. Needles to say we parked in the lot by the main entrance and walked to the Cancer Center.
The main parking lot was on the other side of the main building. When we parked there we had to walk to a sidewalk that paralleled the front part of the circular drive that was in front of the main entrance to the hospital. At the end of the sidewalk we turned right and walked down a steep slope then turned right again until we reach the entrance of The Cancer Center.
We walked pasted the valet parking guys and enter the building. Then, we had to go up one floor to get to the second level on The Cancer Center-which was the same level as the first level of the main entrance-I'm so confused.
We found the waiting room easily. Now this…was a waiting room! The room was large and could hold over thirty people. It had a color scheme of green, beige, yellow and black. These were not weenie colors, they were bold (+). There were many chairs most of which lined the walls and there were many well placed end tables (+). There was a group of about six or seven
chairs extending into the middle of the room back to back which broke up the room. It didn't feel like I was sitting with a big crowd, it felt almost intimate (+). The chairs alternate between solid color chairs and chairs with a leaf design. The waiting room served seven doctors, a few technicians and the chemotherapy area. There were two receptionists windows and one was almost always manned, that meant that I didn't have to wait forever to find an employee (+). There wasa closet with plenty of space and plenty of hangers for coats (+), and there was a lot of reading material, a very pretty fish tank (+) and NO TV (++) I gave the room an A+.
I checked-in and filled out a zillion forms then sat down and prepared for a long wait. A few minutes later my name was called along with four other people. We past through a door into a bigger room. There was a counter with chairs on the left (for billing
problems I think) and a small office on the right. We followed a woman a blond woman who had an Eastern European accent. The pathway seemed to lead forward, I though that we would go that way, but she made right turn so we did also. After a few steps we were at the lab area and I realized that we were called there to have blood drawn. There were two technicians
who took a vile of blood from each of us. When we were done we were sent back to the waiting room. A few minutes later the door opened again and a different woman called my name. Mark and I went to the door and the woman introduced herself as
Dr. O'Mally. She looked younger than me. Yes, I've reached the age when my doctors are younger than I am. This woman looked somewhere in her late thirties, she stood around 5'2" or 3" and her blond hair looked natural. She was pretty in an Irish, make-up free kind-of way. She wore a classic skirt and blouse and flat practical shoes. She told us to follow her then turned andheaded down the hall. Mark and I struggle to keep up with her.
Dr. O'Mally's office was at the end of the hall. We got there in record time. The décor of the hall and doctor's office was a variation on the waiting room theme. The carpet was green and the walls are a beige type color. Dr. O'Mally office was small and windowless, there was a big desk with a computer on it and two chairs for visitors. The chairs had the same leaf design as the chairs in the waiting room. I noticed as we walked (ran) down the hall that in some of the doctor's offices the chairs had the leaf design, while others had a black and green strip pattern. Do the boy doctors get the stripes and the girl doctors get the leaves? Hmmmmm.
Behind Dr. O'Mally's desk was a floor to ceiling bookshelf. In almost every other doctor's office I visited, I noticed some personal touches on the book shelf pictures of their family, trophies, art work, some indication of the doctor's personal life, here nothing. Well, almost nothing. Way up on the top shelf there was a beautiful picture frame, but it is empty. Weird.
As we sat down I was starting to think that I would get two doctors in a row with no personality. Wrong. This woman was bursting with personality. She was smart, funny and had a great bed side manor. She just had a lousy decorator. Unlike the two male doctors that I had seen recently where I was shy and let Mark do most of the talking, I felt very comfortable
with Dr. O'Mally, so we talk easily. She told me that she was surprise to see me, because she normally does not see a patient until after their surgery. But Dr. Sullivan knew that I wanted second opinion about the mastectomy. I know…I know to get a second
opinion a person should never go to a friend of the first doctor. My father also wanted me to see a second surgeon, because he believed (and he had the research to back him up) that too many women are not give the lumpectomy option. A small part of the reason I didn't want to see a second surgeon was time. It took me a long time and a lot of effort to find Dr. Sullivan. Another factor was the money, remember I'm cheap. Besides all that, I felt that Dr. Sullivan made his point for mastectomy vs. lumpectomy. It made sense that if the tumor was on the top part of the breast, i.e. 10:00 o'clock to say 2:00 o'clock that a lumpectomy will work.
But my tumors were on the bottom of the breast, at the 6:00 o'clock and 8 o'clock position. How does a surgeon cut out only thelower half of a breast and keep the natural shape of the breast? I felt that he might as well remove as much breast tissue as possible. After we talked for awhile Dr. O'Mally brought me into the exam room. After our experience in the plastic surgeons exam, Mark wisely chose to stay in her office.