Day 14: There is absolutely no way that this journey doesn't have God's interventions written all over it. All over it! It's oozing mercy and provision and I love that. (I also don't know how women go through these types of decisions without having Jesus' saving grace in their life. I would have had a much different outcome without my faith in his charting the course.) Every twist and turn defied medical reason. Both surgeons stand amazed at what could have been verses where we are.
Plausible outcome: mastectomy, about a week later poor blood flow, thus leading to tissue loss and possibly a skin graft. Delayed reconstruction up to 6 months for best outcome, then definite use of extenders to stretch out the muscle to hold the implant.
What happened: Prayer! And lots of it from so many people, some I don't even know. Mastectomy, a week later excellent blood flow, a week later (not six months) insertion of implants (not extenders) and so far these new drains are way better than the old ones. I'm so much more comfortable in these and my anxiety is almost non-existent. (flashback to those awful nights we had last week. See previous posts). All of this defied what we expected.
Now, that doesn't mean I see God's hand only because our course defied medicine and went well, I also see God in the chaos of this journey. I truly feel I needed to go through the emotional slump to gain a few things: belief in genuine friendship, empathy for mastectomy patients, a stronger relationship with family and spouse, and the list goes on. I truly struggled last week before reconstruction started. I felt scarred, damaged, emotionally broken, frustrated at the restrictions..... It didn't make sense to me why I struggled as hard as I did. I'm usually pretty solid when life throws you curve balls. I'm the one you want to be carrying for you in the medical emergency. I'm level headed in crisis. I know how to make solid decisions under stress. I know how to find positivity in just about anything. Well let me tell you that changed last week. I literally hyper ventilated on every occasion when I saw what was under the bandages. I sobbed. I grew angry. And I was in pain. There wasn't a single point in the first 6 days where I didn't hurt despite good narcotics. And it didn't make sense to me because I'm just not built that way. Pain is a powerful motivator and can wreck every part of your day. I was exhausted, I was broken, I was needing both physical and emotional restoration. And I needed to be all of those things to appreciate where I am now and the role God played in this, as well as the role of each of you. I needed to be reminded of faithful friendship, and your genuine concern for me spoke volumes to my heart. I reconnected. I'm becoming restored.
Today has no resemblance of previous days. Mom says I have my spunk back. I have a new glow. Gone are the tears (so far). Gone is the exhaustion. Gone is the hyper ventilation. I'm over the hump. And ready for the next steps. We will see what tomorrow brings as I'm starting to feel uncomfortable at the surgery sights. But I'm hopeful.
This week I'm restricted from just about everything. I do get to shower after 48 hrs even with the drains in. That should be interesting. I can't lift or hardly even move my arms (picture a pterodactyl with super short arms) -both due to pain and surgeons orders.
No walking at all except for necessity to the bathroom and back per se. A week from today we have our next appt, we are hopeful all four drains will come out. I will be tightly "packaged" for several weeks and hopefully freedom with life as I used to know it in 2 months. I look back and see the trivial aspects of this journey and almost laugh at how big of a deal this became for a month of miserable, but it did. For whatever reason we want to cling to, this mastectomy became a super big deal for me. Compare it to what other people really go through in life and this seems silly. (I watched "seven pounds" last night with mom. Talk about perspective.) But it's my journey and it affected me (temporarily).
Thank you for letting me use this venue to process. I needed to get these thoughts out of my head. What started out as updates for you became processing for me.
Highlight of yesterday, feeling amazing (6 hours after surgery! I think the anesthesia was still in effect) and staying up until midnight with Ron and mom watching movies. Priceless.
Aug 26, 2012 - Day # 19 - Cards in the mail
Some lady named Amy Moore is sending me a card in the mail every single day! She must be some special girl's best sister ever! And I'm still getting cards from all over eastern N.C. From people I don't even know. Seriously worried about the weight on top of my mantle. Card-o-paloosa! — with Kristi Hardison and Amy J Moore.
Aug 25, 2012 - A rendering of Aug 7 - Day #0; Part 2 (First surgery)
Day 0 Part 2: Cream colored ceiling. Strange lady sitting next to me writing in some blue binder. Weird tight feeling on my chest. IV line hooked to a clear bag above my head. Awful sore throat. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Must-sit-up. Super bad idea. Lady leans over to guide my head back to the pillow. Faint realization.... I must be in recovery and this strange lady must be my surgical nurse. More realization...Oh no, it really happened! Where is Ron???? I really needed him here when I woke up. That was so important to me. Where is he???
Glancing down, I can see every bit of my abdomen. My pelvis. My leg. My foot. NOT my breasts! They really are gone. My thoughts were not of how great this is to no longer be at risk for breast cancer. Nor of how great it is that we have these medical advances available to women like me. Not of God's unfailing provisions. My thoughts were instead of my selfish human perspective of "they truly are gone." Under this surgical vest, there lie absolutely nothing. Nada, zilcho, zero. Instead, scarred leftover tissue that made the cut for use later in reconstruction. Deflated pouches of nothingness. 20 years of development gone in a poof! Abra cadabra. Zippity Zam. 4 surgical hours. Gone! Fast shallow breathing. "I need you to get my husband!!!!" "Please, I need Ron!" It wasn't frantic, just a super strong request that got her attention.
There is a lot of grey here. I remember bits and pieces. Some of this, some of that. Rolling down to my hospital room for my overnight stay. Climbing out of bed to go to the bathroom with four nurses helping my transit (I was super groggy and wobbly). I honestly didn't fully know where we were. That grogginess had an intense hold on me. Then, the unthinkable...vomiting. Nothing like vomiting while walking. Vomiting after chest surgery where every movement can be felt down to your toes. Vomiting on someone else's shoe. Vomiting when you haven't eaten in 12+ hours. Now, desperately wanting to make it to that bed two feet away without face planting myself in a drunken stupor on the not so soothing cream color vinyl floor. Why is my backside so cold? Please don't tell me I walked down the hallway with my gown wide open. Please, I know some of these people! Chick-fil-A. Wonder if someone can get that for me? Can someone PLEASE make that beeping sound stop! (See, anesthesia really messes with your mind).
We made it through the evening with my thoughts slowly returning to rational with each passing hour. I did get my chicken sandwich, but I guess the airway tube scratched up my throat so much I couldn't really eat it. But, not for lack of trying. Then, it got dark. I have no idea what time it was, but Ron was sacked out in a recliner beside my bed. A faint yellow light trickled in under the door and blue lights from my infusion pump making the room an odd greenish hue. It's funny to me that I remember that so vividly. I lay starting at the ceiling wide awake feeling pretty lonely...and weird...and different. (Recall: I'd had a lovely four hour drug induced surgical nap earlier in the day so I felt no need to sleep.) Once again groggy from the repetition of pain meds every three hours. Because the continuously infusing IV fluids, I was ringing the call bell every 2 hours or less for yet another wobbly shuffle back to the bathroom. Surely, I was becoming a high maintenance patient nurses talk about out at the front desk. "Oh no, there's Old Lady McCollum's bell again. How many times can one person need to go to the bathroom? All she says is 'Get me this, get me that'. Rock, paper, scissors. Karen loses and heads to my room. But those nurses were oh so kind when they crossed my threshold. Happily getting me ice chips, or meds, or escorting me back and forth for the umpteenth time. Always smiling despite it being three in the morning on a super long shift with all rooms full. Grateful was I. Grateful. And I tried to consciously remember to thank them at every turn. I wanted to be low maintenance. But those stupid IV fluids...
Then, at six, in came the surgical fellow and I lit up like a Rockefeller Christmas tree. See, I knew that surgical fellows meant morning rounds and that was the only thing standing in my way from a paid ticket out of here and a car ride home to a comfy cozy no more wide open surgical gowns, IV lines, loud beeping noises, too tight compression stocking living room! Come in, say what you need to say. Blah, blah Percocet every four hours, blah blah sponge baths, blah blah this and blah blah that. Surely Ron was getting all of this down. Come on very nice fellow, can't you be any quicker? My couch is calling my name.
Fellow : "Mrs. McCollum, I need to take off your vest so we can check the surgical incisions..." SCREECHING halt!!!!! Slam on the brakes! Hold all your stinking horses. Wide eyed terror filled expression (Me, not the fellow).
Me thinking: Huh? What??? Where's my lead surgeon who told me not to even THINK about opening it and looking? You are doing what and why? This very minute?
Background: Lead surgeon was brilliant in instructing me not to open it for any reason. She knew nothing good could come of me seeing her master piece (it's common knowledge surgeons love to show off their work.) Yet she, being the heart felt clinician that she was -as you would have to be working in breast oncology- wanted to save me from seeing the aftermath. She knew from my very first consult appointment that I was overly grief stricken about the period between surgeries. She had seen the tears as she described the before and after. She even got watery eyes with me. So she brillantly disguised the true intent (salvaging my sanity) with medical lingo and reasoning to camouflage the plan. "Sally, do not look under this bandage".
Fellow: "It's policy for me to check the incision sight to ensure you are safe for discharge."
And there in lie my quandary. If I want to go home, I have to let this 20 something young man, fellow in training might I add, open up this surgical vest for him, myself, and Ron to view it's content. You see, I had absolutely no plans to let ANYONE see this handiwork. Surgery #1. Stay all bandaged up for two weeks. Surgery #2. Voila! Normal chest again! This silly surgeon wanna-be is destroying my brilliant, sanity saving, well devised and lead surgeon approved master plan. What-is-he-doing???
The unmistakable sound of Velcro. (Insert the now famous fast paced shallow breathing.) Right side off. Left side off. All I could think was Holy moly! That looks awful. More than awful. Devastatingly awful. Unrecognizable. Not of this world. Embarrassingly horrible. First, one tear down this cheek, then their watery salty friends join in for good measure because they hate to be left out.
Super delightful fellow in training closes the vest back up, hands me my paper work with last minute instructions and quietly walks out the door with well wishes floating in the air behind him. I, however, sat dazed and speechless staring at my now closed vest. What once was a well concealed package with mysterious and only faintly imaginable contents now became a fully discovered, undeniable, messed up reality. The image now burned into every single memory cell of my brain ready to cause me anguish for some time to come. Don't get me wrong, Fellow was delightful and under any other circumstance extremely likable. Professional and thorough. Rule follower. But at this very second, he was Judus with a shiny new coin in his hand after the last supper. And now my heart, my positive demeanor, and master plan sat crumbled on the hospital floor. And there sat my amazing Ron, who had just seen the unfolded package himself, holding my hand.
Afterward: As irony would have it, 15 minutes later the lead surgeon walked in with her trade mark friendly smile to check on me. "Sally, don't forget to just keep it all bandaged up until our next appt. There's no need for you to ever open it or look at it. It will heal best if you just leave it alone until our next appointment." - She had driven in super early in attempt to beat the rule following fellow to my room. I tell her it's too late. She had just missed him. Her face falls when I told her he checked the incision. Now her well intended thoughtful master plan for me lie crumbled next to my pieces on the hospital floor. She, too, stood holding my hand.
In hindsight, I imagine God even had a purpose for this expecting unveiling and for this Judas. I'm still sorting what that might be. Maybe I needed that experience. Maybe, I require a true vision of the mastectomy leftovers to better prepare other women that might struggle with the emotional adjustments of delayed reconstruction. Or just maybe that event wasn't even for me, but rather for something in the kind Fellow's journey. After all, I've always thought a Christian's life is rarely for the benefit of self but more about becoming a vessel focused on impacting the life of others. I may never know the true why of that morning. But I do know God has purpose. He has a strategic kingdom impacting plan. He sees my big picture and he sees your big picture. Even in the "awful".
Must-sit-up. Super bad idea. Lady leans over to guide my head back to the pillow. Faint realization.... I must be in recovery and this strange lady must be my surgical nurse. More realization...Oh no, it really happened! Where is Ron???? I really needed him here when I woke up. That was so important to me. Where is he???
Glancing down, I can see every bit of my abdomen. My pelvis. My leg. My foot. NOT my breasts! They really are gone. My thoughts were not of how great this is to no longer be at risk for breast cancer. Nor of how great it is that we have these medical advances available to women like me. Not of God's unfailing provisions. My thoughts were instead of my selfish human perspective of "they truly are gone." Under this surgical vest, there lie absolutely nothing. Nada, zilcho, zero. Instead, scarred leftover tissue that made the cut for use later in reconstruction. Deflated pouches of nothingness. 20 years of development gone in a poof! Abra cadabra. Zippity Zam. 4 surgical hours. Gone! Fast shallow breathing. "I need you to get my husband!!!!" "Please, I need Ron!" It wasn't frantic, just a super strong request that got her attention.
There is a lot of grey here. I remember bits and pieces. Some of this, some of that. Rolling down to my hospital room for my overnight stay. Climbing out of bed to go to the bathroom with four nurses helping my transit (I was super groggy and wobbly). I honestly didn't fully know where we were. That grogginess had an intense hold on me. Then, the unthinkable...vomiting. Nothing like vomiting while walking. Vomiting after chest surgery where every movement can be felt down to your toes. Vomiting on someone else's shoe. Vomiting when you haven't eaten in 12+ hours. Now, desperately wanting to make it to that bed two feet away without face planting myself in a drunken stupor on the not so soothing cream color vinyl floor. Why is my backside so cold? Please don't tell me I walked down the hallway with my gown wide open. Please, I know some of these people! Chick-fil-A. Wonder if someone can get that for me? Can someone PLEASE make that beeping sound stop! (See, anesthesia really messes with your mind).
We made it through the evening with my thoughts slowly returning to rational with each passing hour. I did get my chicken sandwich, but I guess the airway tube scratched up my throat so much I couldn't really eat it. But, not for lack of trying. Then, it got dark. I have no idea what time it was, but Ron was sacked out in a recliner beside my bed. A faint yellow light trickled in under the door and blue lights from my infusion pump making the room an odd greenish hue. It's funny to me that I remember that so vividly. I lay starting at the ceiling wide awake feeling pretty lonely...and weird...and different. (Recall: I'd had a lovely four hour drug induced surgical nap earlier in the day so I felt no need to sleep.) Once again groggy from the repetition of pain meds every three hours. Because the continuously infusing IV fluids, I was ringing the call bell every 2 hours or less for yet another wobbly shuffle back to the bathroom. Surely, I was becoming a high maintenance patient nurses talk about out at the front desk. "Oh no, there's Old Lady McCollum's bell again. How many times can one person need to go to the bathroom? All she says is 'Get me this, get me that'. Rock, paper, scissors. Karen loses and heads to my room. But those nurses were oh so kind when they crossed my threshold. Happily getting me ice chips, or meds, or escorting me back and forth for the umpteenth time. Always smiling despite it being three in the morning on a super long shift with all rooms full. Grateful was I. Grateful. And I tried to consciously remember to thank them at every turn. I wanted to be low maintenance. But those stupid IV fluids...
Then, at six, in came the surgical fellow and I lit up like a Rockefeller Christmas tree. See, I knew that surgical fellows meant morning rounds and that was the only thing standing in my way from a paid ticket out of here and a car ride home to a comfy cozy no more wide open surgical gowns, IV lines, loud beeping noises, too tight compression stocking living room! Come in, say what you need to say. Blah, blah Percocet every four hours, blah blah sponge baths, blah blah this and blah blah that. Surely Ron was getting all of this down. Come on very nice fellow, can't you be any quicker? My couch is calling my name.
Fellow : "Mrs. McCollum, I need to take off your vest so we can check the surgical incisions..." SCREECHING halt!!!!! Slam on the brakes! Hold all your stinking horses. Wide eyed terror filled expression (Me, not the fellow).
Me thinking: Huh? What??? Where's my lead surgeon who told me not to even THINK about opening it and looking? You are doing what and why? This very minute?
Background: Lead surgeon was brilliant in instructing me not to open it for any reason. She knew nothing good could come of me seeing her master piece (it's common knowledge surgeons love to show off their work.) Yet she, being the heart felt clinician that she was -as you would have to be working in breast oncology- wanted to save me from seeing the aftermath. She knew from my very first consult appointment that I was overly grief stricken about the period between surgeries. She had seen the tears as she described the before and after. She even got watery eyes with me. So she brillantly disguised the true intent (salvaging my sanity) with medical lingo and reasoning to camouflage the plan. "Sally, do not look under this bandage".
Fellow: "It's policy for me to check the incision sight to ensure you are safe for discharge."
And there in lie my quandary. If I want to go home, I have to let this 20 something young man, fellow in training might I add, open up this surgical vest for him, myself, and Ron to view it's content. You see, I had absolutely no plans to let ANYONE see this handiwork. Surgery #1. Stay all bandaged up for two weeks. Surgery #2. Voila! Normal chest again! This silly surgeon wanna-be is destroying my brilliant, sanity saving, well devised and lead surgeon approved master plan. What-is-he-doing???
The unmistakable sound of Velcro. (Insert the now famous fast paced shallow breathing.) Right side off. Left side off. All I could think was Holy moly! That looks awful. More than awful. Devastatingly awful. Unrecognizable. Not of this world. Embarrassingly horrible. First, one tear down this cheek, then their watery salty friends join in for good measure because they hate to be left out.
Super delightful fellow in training closes the vest back up, hands me my paper work with last minute instructions and quietly walks out the door with well wishes floating in the air behind him. I, however, sat dazed and speechless staring at my now closed vest. What once was a well concealed package with mysterious and only faintly imaginable contents now became a fully discovered, undeniable, messed up reality. The image now burned into every single memory cell of my brain ready to cause me anguish for some time to come. Don't get me wrong, Fellow was delightful and under any other circumstance extremely likable. Professional and thorough. Rule follower. But at this very second, he was Judus with a shiny new coin in his hand after the last supper. And now my heart, my positive demeanor, and master plan sat crumbled on the hospital floor. And there sat my amazing Ron, who had just seen the unfolded package himself, holding my hand.
Afterward: As irony would have it, 15 minutes later the lead surgeon walked in with her trade mark friendly smile to check on me. "Sally, don't forget to just keep it all bandaged up until our next appt. There's no need for you to ever open it or look at it. It will heal best if you just leave it alone until our next appointment." - She had driven in super early in attempt to beat the rule following fellow to my room. I tell her it's too late. She had just missed him. Her face falls when I told her he checked the incision. Now her well intended thoughtful master plan for me lie crumbled next to my pieces on the hospital floor. She, too, stood holding my hand.
In hindsight, I imagine God even had a purpose for this expecting unveiling and for this Judas. I'm still sorting what that might be. Maybe I needed that experience. Maybe, I require a true vision of the mastectomy leftovers to better prepare other women that might struggle with the emotional adjustments of delayed reconstruction. Or just maybe that event wasn't even for me, but rather for something in the kind Fellow's journey. After all, I've always thought a Christian's life is rarely for the benefit of self but more about becoming a vessel focused on impacting the life of others. I may never know the true why of that morning. But I do know God has purpose. He has a strategic kingdom impacting plan. He sees my big picture and he sees your big picture. Even in the "awful".
Aug 25, 2012 - A rendering of Aug 7- Day #0, Part 1 (First surgery)
Day 0 Part 1: I realize I never captured the actual day of the mastectomy. Early on, I didn't yet know if I could commit to going public with this specific journey. I wanted to advocate, but was i ready to put it all out there? It seemed all to personal a topic. It seemed foreign. It seemed unreal. Well it quickly became very real when we got in the car that morning to go to the hospital. I don't even recall what we talked about in the car. I do recall my saying everything is going to be different when I wake up and I warned Ron I didn't know how I was going to react. I'd pictured it a hundred times by now and I knew it would be not so good but reality is powerful. This part made me very nervous.
When we got there and walked in, there sat my mom, dad, sister, in laws, and sister in law. That got me! Just to know they came out of support for this decision we had made. It made my moment.
"Mrs. McCollum, please come to the registration desk." I had put off signing in to the very last minute. I didn't want then to know I was there early for fear they would take me back early. Delay, delay, delay. The kindest lady say at the desk. She asked my name, address, etc. Then verified I was in for a double mastectomy. Well, darn it. Hearing that word "mastectomy", and I busted our into tears again. The precious lady responded with " you're beautiful now and this won't change anything." I could have kissed her cheek had I not been wiping my face so frantically. I knew that, but boy was that kind for this stranger to say to the girl crying at her check in counter. Angel, I tell ya.
I had to go back by myself at first. Crying the whole way deem the stupid cream colored hallway. They're always cream you know. The poor intake nurse, she must have not even known what to say to me. She just shined her kind smile at me and held my arm. Another angel. Then, the cubical room. Get changed into the lovely air conditioned gowns I adore. The scrub cap. Get my vitals. Start the IV line (it only took four attempts! I'm an iv line nightmare.) Then wait. By myself. While my mind wanders. Wait some more. Wait. Look at the monitors. Notice my super high blood pressure. Wait. Count the heart beats. Make up a song to the rhythm. Wait. Curse the iv line that is killing my arm. Curse hodgkins disease. Curse medical literature. Curse me reading literature. Wait.
Finally, there I see Ron smiling at the cubical curtain. He gets to come back so we can have our final consult with the surgeon. Off comes the gown I so pain stakingly had just put on, fashionably tying it in three places. Out comes her lovely black magic marker. By the end of this, I look very much like a tattoo artist's playground who was testing every pattern available to a wishy washy client. Dots here. Lines there. X marks the spot. She even signed her initials on her handiwork. This is a requirement for all surgeries to verify patient and MD agree what is happening. She is amazing, but really there is NO dignity in this journey. Next, a chat with the anesthesiologist (she knew I was a pharmacist) and in the end a spinal block would be my best friend and fate along with another arsenal of inhaled agents. Then, they ask Ron to leave. Now, why did they have to go and do that? Here come those stupid tears again! I'm a sap. A true sap. For the record: I didn't cry even once with my knee surgeries. If he leaves this room....
Lights, camera, action! I'm in the OR with about 12 clinicians all doing this and that. It's like an ant farm! Last thing I remember is the syringe of the eye catching milky white propofol being hooked in. They know I detest the taste and smell of milk, right? Wonder who that lady is that is holding that tubing? There are those cream walls again. Wonder what Ron is thinking....
When we got there and walked in, there sat my mom, dad, sister, in laws, and sister in law. That got me! Just to know they came out of support for this decision we had made. It made my moment.
"Mrs. McCollum, please come to the registration desk." I had put off signing in to the very last minute. I didn't want then to know I was there early for fear they would take me back early. Delay, delay, delay. The kindest lady say at the desk. She asked my name, address, etc. Then verified I was in for a double mastectomy. Well, darn it. Hearing that word "mastectomy", and I busted our into tears again. The precious lady responded with " you're beautiful now and this won't change anything." I could have kissed her cheek had I not been wiping my face so frantically. I knew that, but boy was that kind for this stranger to say to the girl crying at her check in counter. Angel, I tell ya.
I had to go back by myself at first. Crying the whole way deem the stupid cream colored hallway. They're always cream you know. The poor intake nurse, she must have not even known what to say to me. She just shined her kind smile at me and held my arm. Another angel. Then, the cubical room. Get changed into the lovely air conditioned gowns I adore. The scrub cap. Get my vitals. Start the IV line (it only took four attempts! I'm an iv line nightmare.) Then wait. By myself. While my mind wanders. Wait some more. Wait. Look at the monitors. Notice my super high blood pressure. Wait. Count the heart beats. Make up a song to the rhythm. Wait. Curse the iv line that is killing my arm. Curse hodgkins disease. Curse medical literature. Curse me reading literature. Wait.
Finally, there I see Ron smiling at the cubical curtain. He gets to come back so we can have our final consult with the surgeon. Off comes the gown I so pain stakingly had just put on, fashionably tying it in three places. Out comes her lovely black magic marker. By the end of this, I look very much like a tattoo artist's playground who was testing every pattern available to a wishy washy client. Dots here. Lines there. X marks the spot. She even signed her initials on her handiwork. This is a requirement for all surgeries to verify patient and MD agree what is happening. She is amazing, but really there is NO dignity in this journey. Next, a chat with the anesthesiologist (she knew I was a pharmacist) and in the end a spinal block would be my best friend and fate along with another arsenal of inhaled agents. Then, they ask Ron to leave. Now, why did they have to go and do that? Here come those stupid tears again! I'm a sap. A true sap. For the record: I didn't cry even once with my knee surgeries. If he leaves this room....
Lights, camera, action! I'm in the OR with about 12 clinicians all doing this and that. It's like an ant farm! Last thing I remember is the syringe of the eye catching milky white propofol being hooked in. They know I detest the taste and smell of milk, right? Wonder who that lady is that is holding that tubing? There are those cream walls again. Wonder what Ron is thinking....
Aug 25, 2012 - Day # 18 - Breaking out
I breaking out of here tonight even if it kills me. (Shhh! Our secret!) A craving for sushi calls for desperate measures. I'm going stealth ninja.
Four hours later.... Best-breakout-ever! I dressed in black so I would blend in with the night, sat down low in the back seat of the car with tinted windows, held my belly to disguise myself as a pregnant woman, talked without making eye contact with the man taking our order, and held my head low while shuffling back to the car (sadly all of those things are true but can be explained by the mastectomy, however it works well for the ninja story). The only thing missing was super stealth speed. I just didn't have that in me to muster up.
Four hours later.... Best-breakout-ever! I dressed in black so I would blend in with the night, sat down low in the back seat of the car with tinted windows, held my belly to disguise myself as a pregnant woman, talked without making eye contact with the man taking our order, and held my head low while shuffling back to the car (sadly all of those things are true but can be explained by the mastectomy, however it works well for the ninja story). The only thing missing was super stealth speed. I just didn't have that in me to muster up.
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