One year later…. 

APPROXIMATELY one year, a few blood tests and ultrasounds later and I’m sitting in the office of an oncology surgeon at a prominent Kingston hospital scheduling a lumpectomy. Oncology is a branch of medicine that deals with the prevention, diagnosis and treatment of tumours and cancer. Surgical oncology is a specialty that focuses on the surgical treatment of a variety of tumours. Ephraim McDowell did the first reported resection of an ovarian tumour in 1809, but as early as the 7th century, ancient Egyptians described techniques for removing breast tumours.
A lumpectomy is a surgical operation in which a lump is removed from the breast, according to breastcancer.org a “Lumpectomy is the removal of the breast tumour (the “lump”) and some of the normal tissue that surrounds it. Lumpectomy is a form of “breast-conserving” or “breast preservation” surgery. There are several names used for breast-conserving surgery: biopsy, lumpectomy, partial mastectomy, re-excision, quadrantectomy, or wedge resection. Technically, a lumpectomy is a partial mastectomy, because part of the breast tissue is removed. But the amount of tissue removed can vary greatly. Quadrantectomy, for example, means that roughly a quarter of your breast will be removed.”
Got here pretty fast it seems, right? Yep, I was thinking the exact same thing, but that’s how fast everything seemed to happen. What masqueraded itself as fibroadenoma, had ballooned in size in a short space of time. My breast was starring in its own horror story. I had started to experience short, intense, random bouts of pain in the area. I was scared of having any surgical process carried out on my body. Pain was all I could think of. I had daymares of waking up in a room surrounded by metal trays of torture devices and in excruciating pain. Or worse yet, waking up during surgery. For the week that preceded the scheduled date I lived in my own personal nightmare fraught with all the surgical errors that could ever happen, all playing in my head at the same time. Thank you all the stupid horror movies I’d ever watched, lol. (It means laugh out loud, Grandma ?)
My family has always been positive and supportive to me in every sphere of my life, especially my Mom, she’s the cat’s pajamas, the beez neez, the bosslady- you get the idea. It’s with their unfathomable support I made the conscious decision to remain as positive as I could regarding the surgery and the biopsy results that would follow. There’s this Eckhart Tolle quote that I like: “Whatever the present moment brings, accept it as if you had chosen it.” So when the present moment arrived and I was wheeled into surgery I accepted it and whatever fate it would bring henceforth. A pair of kind eyes peered down at my face and introduced himself as the anaesthesiologist. He touched my shoulder-clad gown lightly as he assured me I would be fine; he asked whether this was the first time I had ever been under a general anaesthetic, I replied affirmatively. I had also discussed anaesthesia with my surgeon prior, so I understood what would be happening: I would be having both General and Local anaesthetics administered during surgery.
I entered the Theatre to the sound of Chester Bennigton’s voice and thought ‘no way are they really playing Linkin Park rock music in here?, how cool were the medical team!’, and then I immediately thought; “Do I really want the surgeon going at me with a scalpel while listening to angst music?” I’m sure the heart monitor they had me hooked up to had just spiked (lol) because soon after the surgeon said he was injecting my cannula with something from the morphine family to help me relax. I had never had Intravenous Therapy or simply had an IV inserted in my hand or any part of my body before until that day, so I really didn’t quite know how it would make my body feel. Instantaneously it seemed, I felt as light as a feather and as for the other sensations, I don’t know how to describe them to this day, but they made all the nerves in my body do the happy dance. The surgeon dotted incision marks with a black sharpie around my breast, my hands were gently restrained at my sides so they wouldn’t flail about during surgery. This was it, the anesthesiologist placed the gas mask over my face and told me to count- One, two, three I heard myself count out loud and then nothing, everything had faded to black.
Post-Surgery and Hospital woes cont’d next week.
Disclaimers: I am no medical expert, I share researched information, but I have no prior knowledge in the field of medicine, always seek the advice of a medical professional.