It’s Friday afternoon and I have some things to celebrate. Not in particular order, but here we go:Luke survived his wilderness overnight. I was a bit worried—given that it began snowing last night and continued into the morning and I was feeling cold and wet for him and hoped, hoped that he was warm and dry but knew there was a big possibility that he wasn’t. I am proud of him for putting up with it all—and was awfully glad to have him home again, home again, jiggity jig, to climb into a hot tub, drink some chocolately cocoa, and unwind from what must have been a fairly intense night. He's growing up quickly, but I am still grateful for the times when I can scrub his back in the tub, put some marshmallows in his cocoa, and just be there to listen. And with all this other stuff going on, it was nice to just be a mom—instead of a patient—for a change.
My waning patience for being a patient aside, I am making strides towards being a survivor, and here’s why:
The drain is out. Hurrah! The damned drain is out. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t such a horrible drain. Not even a nasty drain, because it did its job, and really, when I imagine what post-op must have been like for so many people before the drain was invented, well, it must have been a bit of a nasty mess. I may just get a little nostalgic about my drain; after all, it was tethered to me for nearly a week, suctioning and draining the excess blood from inside the wound and delivering it to through thin plastic tubing to its resting place, a plastic squeezy bulb (hence, the turkey baster comparison) that I emptied, measured and recorded several times a day, reminiscent of keeping track of feedings after giving birth (which, of course, got so ridiculous after a while, given the inability of my babies to get on any kind of a schedule ever, and the sheer number and length of feedings that they required—making any kind of record-keeping impossible and silly). Despite its efficiency and importance to a smooth healing process, the drain really is a rather simple device, something a toddler might like to play with in the tub, for instance, or a makeshift way to demonstrate air pressure in a third grade classroom (or as part of a homeschool project! Damn! Opportunity missed!)—but because it plays such a critical in post-operative healing, it has earned a very distinguished name, the Jackson-Pratt Drain (otherwise known as the JP Drain; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson-Pratt_drain), though I have no idea who Jackson or Pratt were (the lucky inventors? Beloved cats of the inventors?)
Dr. Pitts—the wonderful plastic surgeon—has been keeping an eye on the drain from afar. I’ve had to call her office every morning to let her know what my collection rates have been, and once they were under 30 ml in a 24 hour period, then the drain could come out. The visiting nurse, Sara, has been coming each and every day, to change my bandages, check on the drain, and make sure everything is healing up well. She’s been amazing. Her visits have been very reassuring to me—and this morning I realized that my last collection tally was at 18 ml, which put me under the magic mark, so when Sara came at noontime, I wanted her to verify that it was indeed time for the drain to come out. And she did. A quick call to Dr. Fox’s office in Greenfield, and it was scheduled to come out at 3:30 this afternoon. I am very grateful for Dr. Fox and his nurse Ruth—they welcomed me into their office with so much warmth and kindness, took the time to hear how I was doing, answer my questions, listen to my concerns, and offer their services—putting in a port before chemo treatment, being there for any kind of assistance I might need throughout this process—and took out the drain, with care and precision. It smarted, to be sure, and it’ll continue to drain a bit at the site for a couple of days, but it also feels really good to have it out, as if I’ve just taken a big step forward. Adios, JP Drain. Hasta la vista, baby.
The good news is that now that the drain is out, I can take a shower tomorrow. A shower! Sponge baths just don’t cut it. Tomorrow, I can take all the bandages off without having to worry about getting the drain tube snagged on something, I can feel the steamy heat open my pores and warm me up, I can let the water run down and actually soap up a bit. I still can’t wash my hair by myself, and I’ll be tender and sore (pat dry, pat dry) and you know, being with my new naked self in the shower is going to take some getting used to, and there are things that will feel scary and strange. But it’s progress, and I’ll bask, or bathe, or shower, actually, in that.
Afterwards, I only have to bandage up the old drain site. A simple gauze pad with bacitracin, or a big bandaid. Without the compression wrap around me, I’ll be able to fill my lungs a little more easily, and breathe in and out without feeling the pinch of the wrap and the soreness of my chest. Maybe my sore gimpy throat will finally heal up, and my voice will return back to normal. I don't really like sounding like a whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking broad. And without the drain, I can now ditch the Vicodin, which makes me constipated, loopy, and dopey, and switch to Advil, which I hope will be the next step in restoring my digestive system back to its usual balance. Of course, since I’m still on antibiotics, and it is my third consecutive course at that, I may have to wait a bit before things are entirely back in sync.
I also spoke with the pathologist at Mass General today, a super nice guy named Todd Abbott, and he gave me good news: after slicing and dicing and staining and doing all their magic tricks, the lymph nodes showed absolutely no signs of cancer. It’s reassuring to know that in addition to examining the frozen section of the nodes during surgery, they also re-examine that as well as every bit of tissue that is removed, using every test they’ve got. As well, he said that they found a small amount of residual invasive cancer around the original lumpectomy sample—so my decision to have a mastectomy was the right one, and the cancer is out, all out, the margins are clear, all clear, and that is good news, indeed. My doctors will get the report on Monday; lucky me that I got to talk to Dr. Abbott himself today, and did not have to wait to receive this good news. Progress.
It’s dinnertime, and my mother and I are about to sit down to a delicious dinner cooked by my friend Gina. Chicken, ginger carrots, mashed potatoes. It doesn’t get any better. Gina has graciously and generously offered to organize some community meals on wheels for us, and I appreciate it so much! Thank you, Gina. It’s hard to explain how much it means to me—to all of us—to have people thinking of me and actually taking the time out to cook us a meal, send flowers, write a sweet card, drop by for a visit, or take a second and send some good Juju my way. It’s made all the difference in the fact that I feel strong and positive today, and am making progress towards a full recovery.
Our trees were flooded with blackbirds today, red-winged mostly, hundreds of them, who flew in flocks from trees to feeders to ground to eat the seed we’d just put out and sing their songs of spring. Outside, walking to the car to head to the Aloha-Drain-Stop, their calls were deafening, and so awesome! It rivaled the spring peepers and wood frogs that will fill our wetlands in a few weeks—in volume and pitch and an expansive sonic beauty that filled the whole area with a fervent proclamation that spring is coming, despite the three inches of new wet snow on the ground, that it will be here, and soon, and with it, will bring change and growth and the promise of something better. That’s something that we can all look forward to.
A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song.
The drain is out. Hurrah! The damned drain is out. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t such a horrible drain. Not even a nasty drain, because it did its job, and really, when I imagine what post-op must have been like for so many people before the drain was invented, well, it must have been a bit of a nasty mess. I may just get a little nostalgic about my drain; after all, it was tethered to me for nearly a week, suctioning and draining the excess blood from inside the wound and delivering it to through thin plastic tubing to its resting place, a plastic squeezy bulb (hence, the turkey baster comparison) that I emptied, measured and recorded several times a day, reminiscent of keeping track of feedings after giving birth (which, of course, got so ridiculous after a while, given the inability of my babies to get on any kind of a schedule ever, and the sheer number and length of feedings that they required—making any kind of record-keeping impossible and silly). Despite its efficiency and importance to a smooth healing process, the drain really is a rather simple device, something a toddler might like to play with in the tub, for instance, or a makeshift way to demonstrate air pressure in a third grade classroom (or as part of a homeschool project! Damn! Opportunity missed!)—but because it plays such a critical in post-operative healing, it has earned a very distinguished name, the Jackson-Pratt Drain (otherwise known as the JP Drain; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson-Pratt_drain), though I have no idea who Jackson or Pratt were (the lucky inventors? Beloved cats of the inventors?)
Dr. Pitts—the wonderful plastic surgeon—has been keeping an eye on the drain from afar. I’ve had to call her office every morning to let her know what my collection rates have been, and once they were under 30 ml in a 24 hour period, then the drain could come out. The visiting nurse, Sara, has been coming each and every day, to change my bandages, check on the drain, and make sure everything is healing up well. She’s been amazing. Her visits have been very reassuring to me—and this morning I realized that my last collection tally was at 18 ml, which put me under the magic mark, so when Sara came at noontime, I wanted her to verify that it was indeed time for the drain to come out. And she did. A quick call to Dr. Fox’s office in Greenfield, and it was scheduled to come out at 3:30 this afternoon. I am very grateful for Dr. Fox and his nurse Ruth—they welcomed me into their office with so much warmth and kindness, took the time to hear how I was doing, answer my questions, listen to my concerns, and offer their services—putting in a port before chemo treatment, being there for any kind of assistance I might need throughout this process—and took out the drain, with care and precision. It smarted, to be sure, and it’ll continue to drain a bit at the site for a couple of days, but it also feels really good to have it out, as if I’ve just taken a big step forward. Adios, JP Drain. Hasta la vista, baby.
The good news is that now that the drain is out, I can take a shower tomorrow. A shower! Sponge baths just don’t cut it. Tomorrow, I can take all the bandages off without having to worry about getting the drain tube snagged on something, I can feel the steamy heat open my pores and warm me up, I can let the water run down and actually soap up a bit. I still can’t wash my hair by myself, and I’ll be tender and sore (pat dry, pat dry) and you know, being with my new naked self in the shower is going to take some getting used to, and there are things that will feel scary and strange. But it’s progress, and I’ll bask, or bathe, or shower, actually, in that.
Afterwards, I only have to bandage up the old drain site. A simple gauze pad with bacitracin, or a big bandaid. Without the compression wrap around me, I’ll be able to fill my lungs a little more easily, and breathe in and out without feeling the pinch of the wrap and the soreness of my chest. Maybe my sore gimpy throat will finally heal up, and my voice will return back to normal. I don't really like sounding like a whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking broad. And without the drain, I can now ditch the Vicodin, which makes me constipated, loopy, and dopey, and switch to Advil, which I hope will be the next step in restoring my digestive system back to its usual balance. Of course, since I’m still on antibiotics, and it is my third consecutive course at that, I may have to wait a bit before things are entirely back in sync.
I also spoke with the pathologist at Mass General today, a super nice guy named Todd Abbott, and he gave me good news: after slicing and dicing and staining and doing all their magic tricks, the lymph nodes showed absolutely no signs of cancer. It’s reassuring to know that in addition to examining the frozen section of the nodes during surgery, they also re-examine that as well as every bit of tissue that is removed, using every test they’ve got. As well, he said that they found a small amount of residual invasive cancer around the original lumpectomy sample—so my decision to have a mastectomy was the right one, and the cancer is out, all out, the margins are clear, all clear, and that is good news, indeed. My doctors will get the report on Monday; lucky me that I got to talk to Dr. Abbott himself today, and did not have to wait to receive this good news. Progress.
It’s dinnertime, and my mother and I are about to sit down to a delicious dinner cooked by my friend Gina. Chicken, ginger carrots, mashed potatoes. It doesn’t get any better. Gina has graciously and generously offered to organize some community meals on wheels for us, and I appreciate it so much! Thank you, Gina. It’s hard to explain how much it means to me—to all of us—to have people thinking of me and actually taking the time out to cook us a meal, send flowers, write a sweet card, drop by for a visit, or take a second and send some good Juju my way. It’s made all the difference in the fact that I feel strong and positive today, and am making progress towards a full recovery.
Our trees were flooded with blackbirds today, red-winged mostly, hundreds of them, who flew in flocks from trees to feeders to ground to eat the seed we’d just put out and sing their songs of spring. Outside, walking to the car to head to the Aloha-Drain-Stop, their calls were deafening, and so awesome! It rivaled the spring peepers and wood frogs that will fill our wetlands in a few weeks—in volume and pitch and an expansive sonic beauty that filled the whole area with a fervent proclamation that spring is coming, despite the three inches of new wet snow on the ground, that it will be here, and soon, and with it, will bring change and growth and the promise of something better. That’s something that we can all look forward to.
A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song.
~ Joan Walsh Anglund
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