Amanda Says...“UP YOU GET - WE NEED THAT BED!"

Another incredibly long sleepless night ensures that exhaustion oozes from my every pore.  If only exhaustion alone could beat cancer, then I'd have this fight in the bag already.  In order to take on and defeat this evil villain, I need to richly nourish both my body and mind with lashing of fabulously healthy food and peaceful sleep.  I'm working really hard to fill my body and mind with only natural goodness and ideally, I don't want to put any poisons in – prescribed, or otherwise.   However, drained beyond comprehension and low in mood, I feel I have little choice and make a mental note that tonight,
I shall accept help in the form of sleeping pills prescribed  by my GP.  Sleep is an evasive menace that I indeed must catch and consume and if it is going to take a few unwanted tablets to trap this essential ingredient, regain a nearly normal sleep pattern and  rebuild my strength then, reluctant as I am, the pills have to be a positive move – right?.  If not, then they are my  last desperate attempt where all else has failed.  I would never have thought it possible to survive on such meagre trappings of sleep.  The discovery has quite literally been an eye opener!  At 6am pain relief arrives and is administered by a softly spoken, smiling, angelic nurse.  I thank god for small mercies, as had the butch sneezer put in an appearance this morning, I may well have blown out far  more than a sneeze, quite possibly  a stitch or even a  mental fuse.

'Matter of factly' this mornings lovely nurse informed me that the drain in my side was to be removed – NOW! and that I must  then get dressed, pack up and leave.  The bed I was lying on was needed for someone else.   “Are you ready” she asked.  I was not!  In seconds, panic flooded through me and had me trembling uncontrollably.  I pleaded for an extra half  hour to give the painkillers I'd just taken time to fully kick in and offer some protection.  I'm not usually a chicken when it comes to pain, in fact you could probably accuse me of being a fool who has, over time, exposed herself to far more pain than is really necessary.  Yes! I have been known to inflict the odd bit of pain on myself – tattoos, piercings, a damaging violent relationship and learning to snowboard are to name but a few. The latter hurt a lot – year after year.  Come to mention it, so did the previous.  The difference being however, that I love snowboarding so much and now as a  result of the many falls, excruciating pain and stubborn perseverance I can joyously carve my way down a snowy mountain pretty damn quickly without injury.  Fan-bloody-tastic!  So just as while learning to snowboard I endured  much suffering to arrive at my intended and imagined successful joyous goal, I am hopeful too that my current suffering will eventually produce a similar joyous imagined outcome.   So there you have it, I can normally endure considerable pain considerably well. Today, however I'm just being a wimp.   In my defence, I might add that the Nurse has already warned me that removing the drain will be painful and unpleasant.  I am not looking forward to it one bit.      Eek... just another nasty to endure...

And so, just like that....  Tit had been exorcised.... Drain was too be removed... and off I was to trot back home to my normal life.  Oh - If only it really were that simple.  Why, wasn't I over joyed to be going home? I didn’t want to stay, that I knew for certain.  But for some odd reason I was finding it difficult emotionally to just jump up and joyfully leave my breast behind.  Which logically is weird when you consider the breast was cancerous.

Yes! The surgery has  indeed been performed – that chapter is complete -  and as if to confirm final closure, as I waited for the drain to be removed, the surgeon and anaesthetist visited me, separately.   Both assured me that everything had gone to plan.  That the mastectomy had been a success (I could bloody well see that) and, that the wound indeed looked great, really neat and should, in time, heal just  fine.  As each one in turn stood there staring intently at my face, I got the strange feeling that I was expected to be overflowing with emotional declarations of gratitude and praise for their recent handy work.  It felt as if they were theatre performers of a different sort - coming out from behind the final curtain for one last bow, one last round of applause before disappearing, hearts filled with pride - never to be seen again.  How performers love that applause; that praise, it helps to cement in their hearts just how successful a performance really was.  In that odd moment of silence when we stared at each other, I got the feeling that Dr's also need  love and reassuring praise.   I'm not saying my conclusion is correct or that if it is that its necessarily a bad thing! Just that the realisation felt weird!      I thanked both the surgeon and the anaesthetist  for their care but I have to admit I found it difficult to connect with any real heart felt gratitude for the part each had played in removing my cancerous breast.  More than any other emotion I still primarily felt, probably foolishly and selfishly,  that I had been violated. They, the medical professionals, had robbed me of my breast, left me with a painful void  and now, in my opinion, were ever so slightly arrogantly stood before me silently demanding gratitude and praise.  Well, Mr Dehalvi I'm awfully sorry  if you are a little bewildered or offended not to find me happy, smiling and full of praise.  No, I did not dive to your feet and kiss them, proclaiming you a miracle working medicine man  - but hey! Get real -  You did just cut off my tit and it bloody hurts – and from what I can see, it looks hideous.  The whole wretched procedure has left me feeling rather odd and a little upset.  As a result, a solemn faced “thank you for removing the cancer” is about as much thanks as I can muster up right now.    So accept it and don't tell me to 'SMILE'.  I'll smile when I'm good and ready, and it will not be at you, in thanks for having  hacked off my breast.  Good intentions or not. 

Before my operation I was asked to sign a form giving consent for my breast tissue and whatever else they removed, to be later used for medical research purposes.  I signed away.   I have no problem at all with this concept.  If my tit can in some way help to  uncover a little deathly mystery then I say go for it tit, do your damnedest against cancer.  Speak your truth and speak it loudly.  Still, all this aside, I can't help wondering – had I said no, do you think I'd have been given the option to take the said tit home in a doggy bag, and bury it as you would a dead pet.  I’m not saying I'd want too, I just wonder if it's an option.  Mmmm I must find out.....

During that next half hour Mark performed some of his best stroking manoeuvres ever, in a massive attempt to calm me.  His efforts certainly helped a little.  However, it was all panic stations on red alert when she arrived back carrying a green bag and a pair of scissors.  “Breathe deeply” I told myself kindly but firmly.  Five minutes later and it was all over.  All that panicking, fretting, wasted adrenaline, cortisone and mental anguish and torment  for nothing.  Let me tell you now – “Removing a drain is not painful”! Yes, it feels a bit weird when the tube is being pulled out from inside your body but definitely does not hurt.  Bloody scaremongering!  Bloody NURSES!, I'm pissed off that I used up more precious energy fretting when there really was no need... However that said, I was very happy and relieved to see the ugly, offensive drain and attached blood bag disappear into a nearby bin.  Weird though to think my bodily fluids are to be chucked out with the trash! How unenviromentally friendly! Surely I'm recyclable?

Apologetically, the nurse urged me to dress and pack up as quickly as I could.  She explained that bed shortages and long waiting lists were responsible for my early eviction.  Under the circumstances; being acute pain, and limited mobility, I felt the request to act sharpish was just a little unreasonable.  I slowly dressed in the only top that I had brought with me.  It was so far removed from what could be considered an appropriate fit or cut for a freshly mastectomied body.  This difficult dressing episode left me feeling rather emotional.  Sad and deflated (quite literally on my right side). I stared into the mirror at my odd unfamiliar reflection.  I couldn't  wear the sports bra I'd brought with me; it was too tight and uncomfortable.  So there I stood braless beneath a too tight, too low cut tee shirt.  My lonely left tit  hung around, unsupported  and lifeless (sulking I reckon), my right tit exorcised.  “Bloody Disastrous”!  was the thought that came to mind.  I was still stood there staring at myself in horror when the nurse reappeared.  She looked at me sympathetically, and offered to go and get me a 'softy' which she promised would help to even me out.  I didn’t know what the hell she meant by a 'softy' but I liked the idea of being evened out.  If someone could just pass me a rolling pin I'm sure I could sort out this problem myself!   Ah Kate-Anne, wouldn’t that be just grand.  I continued to stare at my chest area.  I adjusted and then readjusted and then stared some more.  By the time the nurse returned with the 'softy' I was back on the bed head in hands, battling absolute discontent and frustration.  I don’t know what I'd expected from a 'softy' but I can tell you now, I had not envisaged the foam stuffed fabric triangle  I was being handed. Good God – was this really to be my new breast.  It was beyond pathetic.  It was   unrealistic and didn’t stand a chance of staying in place without a blob of super glue!.  It was however the only option being offered.  I felt angry; take away my tit and give me this pin cushion as a replacement. How very dare they!  However, I knew anger wasn’t going to solve a god damn thing and so I swallowed it pretty quickly, making a mental note to deal with it later and not let it fester. I allowed the nurse to help me back in to my too tight sports bra and stuff my right void with the ridiculous softy. To my trained eye, the resulting effect looked rubbish.  My lovely husband and the nurse stated otherwise, but then that’s their job... to be nice to me.... Anyway, the bloody thing would have to suffice for now.  No time to play around with aesthetics – they wanted me out and they wanted me out now.   Mark and I moved out to the day room.  A conservatory that thankfully was basking  in sunlight, which made the 3 hr wait for discharge forms,  medication and a visit from the breast care nurse Sally more bearable.  Mark worked away on his laptop, regularly taking breaks to steal forbidden tea and biscuit from the already collapsing NHS. Bad Bad Man...  Amidst the pain, I napped on and off.  When Sally finally arrived to give me the discharge chat,  I had absolutely no desire to converse, she probably found this a little odd given that since our first meeting, I have unrelentingly bombarded her with constant rounds of texts, emails, calls, requests and questions.  But right now I had nothing to say, nothing to ask and there was nothing that I wanted to hear.  I felt exhausted and I quite simply wanted to go home and sleep away a little of this brutal nightmare and pain.

As we leave the hospital I realise that this is where the road to recovery really begins...