The double mastectomy is done, and my wife is back home. I thought there might be some sense of resolution by now, but I was wrong.
Even getting a time to be at the hospital the morning of the operation wasn’t easy. The staff was supposed to call her the night before surgery by nine o’clock but didn’t. When she called, they told her the people in charge of making the calls had gone home but they’d have the nurse give us a call but she was busy making her rounds right then. It was more like ten o’clock by the time the nurse called back with the information.
When they took her back to be prepped, my wife told me she wanted to flash me one last time before the breasts were removed. There were too many people standing around waiting to wheel her out so she didn’t get to do it. Our son and daughter sat with me for the two-plus hours. I saw other doctors come out with big smiles and glad-handed family members and told them everything had gone swell. My wife’s surgeon came out looking like a gloomy Gus, didn’t shake hands and said we were half-way through the total treatment and we could go back to see her in about an hour. He turned on his heels and departed.
I’m a storyteller. I have a good imagination, and it was going wild in all the wrong directions. My adult children are more adult than I am so they grounded me to reality. I kept telling myself the doctor had had a busy morning operating on people, and his back probably hurt.
My wife herself made me feel better when we finally got to see her. She was all bright eyed and bubbly. They brought in a lunch which she said looked good but she’d rather sleep. I asked her what the doctor had said to her after the operation; she replied he told her she might have to stay an extra day or two and then he turned and left the room. The next morning we called to see if she would be discharged and sure enough she was staying another day. This didn’t bother me because I thought a 24-hour stay was a bit short for major surgery. When we came for a visit she was happily eating a Salisbury steak. She still was not having much pain which was good with her. Once again her discharge was delayed. Again I was relieved to have her under professional care for another day.
By the time we did take her home on Monday, we were told by staff that she was the best patient on the floor, tough as nails and happy as could be. She was a little surprised. She had never thought of herself as tough when it came to the hospital care. She was even walking better than she was before the operation. Again we had to wait Monday night for a call to let us know when the home caregiver would arrive on Tuesday. The person was later than thought and cut into my wife’s afternoon nap time. The good news is that someone will come in everyday to change the dressing and empty the drainage bags.
She goes back to the doctor in two weeks to find out what the test results are on the tissues removed during surgery and exactly what kind of treatment will follow—perhaps more chemotherapy and radiation on top of that.
Good news. If it’s all such good news, why are we both so tired?