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....