"Let's take a look," the nurse said. "Oh, yeah, it's just tangled." And just like that, that "need" disappeared. My relief in knowing I wouldn't have to get out of bed just yet, was short lived. The nurses told me I had to get up and try standing, maybe even walking a bit. They couldn't be serious, I thought to myself. But, oh yes, they were indeed serious.
Try this at home ... get flat on your back on your bed ... try to swing your legs over to the edge, bring your upper torso upright and try to stand up ... seems simple enough, right? Try having to do that while attempting to protect every chest muscle possible. Torture. Pain. Impossible. Where's the morphine push button?!
The nurse was ever so patient with me. She reminded me to take it slowly. I didn't listen (I have been accused of being somewhat stubborn at times) and I immediately felt very light headed. Slow down, Cherí, easy now. I eventually made it to a position resembling upright, though remained somewhat hunched over instinctively protecting my ripped apart chest. I took a few steps and was congratulated by the nurse. Job well done. Whew, back to bed I went. That was exhausting!
Cheryl and Craig visited and brought me my cherished Starbucks. I was so excited to see the familiar white cup with the green logo on it! (Admit it, you get that way, too.) Sadly, I wasn't feeling like eating or drinking much and coffee just sounded like it would rip to shreds my stomach, which was completely empty. The beautiful cup sat on the tray, untouched.
Another visitor stopped by and, despite being still somewhat drugged up, I was completely mortified. In walked the hospital CEO, Mr. Ken Graham, to say hello and check in on me. He was the picture of elegance, prestige, professionalism, dressed in a suit and wearing his best accessory - a warming, contagious smile. I knew I looked a bit like death-warmed-over, I was in a hospital gown with green socks up to my knees, those pressure boots on, not an ounce of makeup (not even lip gloss!), my hair strands were fighting with one another, and I had drains sticking out of the sides of my body! What a first impression I must have made. The moment he smiled at me and said good morning, nothing else mattered. This was the man who, along with his family, played an enormous role in helping to save my life. I would have hugged him if I could have gotten myself out of bed. He stayed but a short minute or two, wished me all the best in my recovery, said to let him know I needed anything at all, and then was off. His smile lingered with me, though.
My doctors both stopped by to check in on me. I needed their approval before I could be released from the hospital. They both seemed quite pleased with their work and my physical response to the surgery and agreed I could be on my way. Before Dr. Singhal left the room, I asked her one question.
"Did you get it all out?" I asked of my surgical-oncologist, referring to not only the remaining breast tissue but also the cancer the general surgeon had not been able to remove from my chest wall during the double lumpectomy. There was no delay, no thought, no question in her mind as to how to respond.
"Of course. That's my job," she confidently assured me. "That's what I'm trained to do." I nodded my head and smiled. I knew in that moment just why I had fought so hard to have her be allowed to treat me. That day, she saved my life.
** Below is a photo taken the day after the double mastectomy. It shows my chest with the first stages of implants, along with the scars and drains. It's graphic, so consider yourself warned. **
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