We Can Beat This

30 April 2010.

Today is the day I have surgery to remove my left breast and axillary lymph nodes. Early to rise, and my brother Ray delivers me to Dominican Hospital before 7:00 am.

As I am pre-registered all I have to do is check in with admitting and they take me to a prep room where I am given the obligatory and unflattering hospital gown to change into and then tucked into a narrow hospital bed where I will wait for an IV nurse to set up my intravenous line. The IV nurse is expert at her job and when she is done I can't even feel the IV. Sometime after 10:00 am my Oncologist, Dr Poth, drops in to say hi. Soon after I am wheeled down to the surgery ward and left in a waiting area directly across from recovery.

The surgery ward is a busy area and there is plenty of action and chatter to keep my senses, which have now been slightly dulled with Valium, occupied. My surgeon, Dr Anane-Sefah, comes by and tells me he must mark my chest and I must confirm which breast is being removed. He asks me "We are removing your left breast, correct"? and I confirm this. He then marks a nice big X on my RIGHT breast and bounds off before I can protest.

In spite of my slightly dulled senses I am fairly sure this isn't right and I'm a little bit worried but then I think maybe the X means this is the breast NOT to remove so I don't want to panic yet. It isn't long before the plastic surgeon, Dr. Pletsch,, arrives. She opens my gown then looks at the X, and asks me, "We're taking the left breast, arent' we"? I nod yes, she shakes her head and mutters something under her breath whilst she rummages about for another marker and makes more marks on my chest, this time on the LEFT side.

I have a sense of humour this morning and find odd things to make very bad jokes about - chalk it up to the Valium. Unfortunately I have been waiting for at least two weeks to make use of the one quip I can actually remember and my opportunity finally arrives when the anesthesiologist asks me to confirm that I fasted. I reply that I got there as fast as I could. He smiles and shoots something into my IV port.

It is time for my surgery and I am wheeled down a hall and through double doors into a fairly large theatre with all the usual big lights and what seems like a lot of people for just one little surgery. I am scooted over to the operating table which is virtually as hard as a board. The plastic surgeon, who is short enough that she must need to stand on a box during surgery, begins to arrange my left arm and we chat a moment. But at that instant something else goes into my IV and I drift off in mid sentence. I think the anesthesiologist was worried I had more jokes up my hospital gown sleeve.