An improvised life

My surgery was four weeks ago tomorrow, and its aftermath has melted my cockiness. It feels like someone opened my chest and duct-taped it shut in the exhaled position. Which is just about what happened: The surgeon scraped every last iota of breast tissue, including the fascia of my chest muscle, because the cancer went to within a millimeter at the deep margin (the back of the breast). I also had 22 lymph nodes removed, and now know more about lymph than any normal human should. The lymphatic system is a sort of shadow transport system that moves interstitial fluid and the various waste products that collect there. The lymph system helps filter debris, fight infection, and keep the body’s fluids in balance by returning filtered fluid to the bloodstream. [i] When you zap 22 lymph nodes, it’s like damming a bunch of tributaries. If I’m lucky, alternate channels will form and keep the lymph flowing smoothly; if not, back-ups of fluid in my arm will cause swelling and discomfo

I have no insights to offer at the moment, so instead I offer a play-by-play of my mastectomy and axillary dissection experience for those interested in the lurid details.   Last Tuesday I got up at 3:45am (in itself a feat for me) and took my second “surgical shower:” you wash according to your regular habits; turn the water off; wash yourself from the neck down with a non-lathering surgical soap (active ingredient: chlorhexidine gluconate); turn the water on; rinse. You do this before bed and again in the morning before surgery. It’s a loathsome process but I’m grateful Swedish is so anal in their anti-infection procedures. I couldn’t eat or drink before surgery, couldn’t put on any lotion or make-up or jewelry, have no hair to arrange, and my clothes would soon be exchanged for scrubs, so there wasn’t much to think about before leaving the house. Except food, but I’m obsessed with food so I did my thinking in advance. I’d packed homemade granola and a box of almond milk