It’s been three weeks since surgery. I’ve been really, really wiped out. I’ve spent most days in bed or on the sofa, wandering the house, doing this or that odd chore, but mostly resting. My oncologist said I probably won’t even start to feel recovered until four weeks, and not “normal” until eight weeks out. This, to my need-to-be-productive-self, helps me feel better. Two drainage tubes have made it impossible to sleep in any position except my back, and my right arm is slowly gaining range of motion back. Today’s the first day I feel like I can type for any length, and this, too, gives me hope.
If you are a regular reader of this blog, thank you for your patience.
This surgery sent me into a tailspin of depression. The truth about general anesthesia is that it is a temporary coma, and can have major effects on mood. Post-operative depression is not something I anticipated, but immediately after surgery I fell into a well of despair that had me near some monster edge. My husband and daughter were bewildered and concerned. Combined with the pain medications and the lack of mobility and drain tubes and magnitude of this surgery and this diagnosis, I was in a very dark place. I would walk into the kitchen and just stand, bearing wave after wave of utter, complete grief and despair. I’m not sure I’m describing the physical aspects of the sadness enough – my body felt physically dropped into some hopeless, dark well and I was flailing for air. Dear friends and colleagues reached out, and let me tell you every text, every visit was a life buoy. There is a kind of salvation on this Earth, and it is called Kindness. And each day is one inch better. That is my measure. One inch, or one half inch. That is what this body can do right now.
The surgeons (thoracic and plastic) took out one rib. This was the rib that was borrowed from Adam, and he can have it back.
In a nutshell: wait, see, hope. Checkups every three months. Periodic scans. Because this is a local recurrence of TNBC, there’s no hormone treatment I can take. There’s no other preventative chemotherapy available. The new immunotherapy treatments are for metastatic disease, meaning disease that’s spread to the bones, or organs, or brain, and consequently they don’t apply. I could search for a clinical trial, but my case is not typical, and I don’t have the cognitive bandwidth to do much more than read magazines and watch TV. I’m in remission now, and yet the risk for recurrence is high, over 50%, and happens within 1-2 years.
We are in uncharted territory, said my doctor, gently. We sat in silence.
What can I do? This is the part where I look down into the valley and decide. Despair or hope? Another step up the mountain, or quit?
I look around and down and see the faces of my family, friends, coworkers and a world of sisters and brothers and I draw on the kindness that is there. I am so grateful. To extend the metaphor, the air gets thinner as treatment continues. The body wears out. A person has to make more frequent stops and gather strength. But you, readers, friends, family, cancer sisters and brothers, are my oxygen tank.
4 thoughts on “What We Carry”
I love and encourage you Johanna. The valley may be dark and deep, but your friends and family gather like rays of light. Healing rays of light surrounding you.💕🌹❤️
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I have no words Pink Stinks…..but if I could hug you I would….so here’s my virtual huuuuuuuggggg! 🙂
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Thank you so much, Carol!
That’s rough. I hadn’t thought about the coma aspect of surgery, but you’re right – I guess my mastectomy was a 7-hour coma.
I hope if they aren’t out yet, the drain tubes come in soon. I absolutely loathed mine. I know healing will be long and difficult. I’m sending gentle (very, very gentle) hugs.