The Lumpectomy, etc

Annie and Bert arrived from home during the final preparations for the surgery: assorted tube adjustments and changings of garb and needles in the backside (Did you know that when the nurse slaps you repeatedly while giving this injection, it hurts less??), and the worried-but-hiding-it-very-well teen hovered with me for the last few quiet minutes before the bed upon which I was to ride to the operating room arrived in a flurry of porters. A crowded service elevator ride later, and I was wheeled in to a bright green, icy cold room with high ceilings and powerful lighting. It felt like there were dozens of people there, all in surgical scrubs in a colour range designed to indicate their role in what was to follow, with faces covered by masks presumably to prevent me from seeing that they all were sixth graders on a field trip from the local middle school. I was left briefly in the centre of this room while the bustle continued around me. Strange, that. All the action spun and circled like a Disney dance routine; the bed in the middle and its occupant oddly detached from it all.

A pair of eyes leaned over me from my left.

PoE: Patree-cha?
P: Hello! How are you?
PoE: Err. Fine. Do you know what operation you are having now?
P: I am having a tumour removed from my LEFT breast.

This was not the first time that I had been asked to confirm what procedure I was there for. While I knew that it was part of the process, and designed to avoid any mishaps (like you know, doing a hysterectomy or something ridiculous) I was mindful that some people didn’t actually seem to know why I was there for certain themselves. I was happy to continually remind them. Another pair of eyes, this time from above:

PoE2: I am anesthetist for surgery.
P: Happy to meet you.
PoE2: I am putting mask on you and you will be asleep in count of ten.
P: Wanna bet.....?

And then I woke up.

It wasn’t just like that, actually. I do vaguely recall a sense of dreaming: wide, rambling dreams without edges, the song ‘What Does the Fox Say?’ running through my head- curses to Annie for last song syndrome- and then a very loud voice repeating my name, very close to my right ear. THAT’S what woke me.

The recovery room was slightly warmer than the operating theatre. My bed was one in a line of about eight, all occupied by people in varying stages of consciousness, all surrounded by another swirling mass of masks and scrubs and clipboards. A large, metallic cabinet was against the wall just to the side of a long desk. From it, nurses operated a rotating system of removing and replacing blankets that would be stretched over the recovering patients briefly, then whisked away when the beds were rolled out. I was absently aware of increasing clarity; the cabinet became more defined, the noises of the bustle more distinct. There was heavy bandaging over my breast, my throat was so sore and raw that my tongue also ached. Swallowing made me wish I could go back under. Checked my toes- they worked. So, too, did my fingers. All was well so far. There was a dull ache in the breast, and I nervously ran my hand lightly over it. I could not feel much, but there was definitely still something there. This was a relief, as it had been made abundantly clear to me that if something horrid were discovered when they opened me up, it might well just be lobbed off. Highly unlikely, considering the extent of the examinations I had undergone beforehand, but one never knows what will happen when the mask descends.

I lay there for several minutes testing my limbs and digits, feeling very proud of myself for being more alert than everyone around me, before a bustling nurse decided I was cooked enough and rolled me out to a waiting porter, who returned me to my room where my tense family was waiting.

In truth, I don’t know how tense they actually were. While I’d been under, the three of them had wandered over to the MacDonalds across the road, where Bert and Annie had somehow managed to make Mum steal a couple of plastic glasses, the account of which proved far more amusing to the two masterminds than to their glasses mule. While I was having the hysterectomy two days later, Mother quietly went back across the street and returned the glasses. Bert returned himself later and stole two others. My family and other criminals.

They were all lolling about in my room, being just so typically LONG. You’d never know any one of them was worried about anything unless you were fluent in mockery and derision, and Bert and Annie were playing around with their anxiety like a comedy duo. What people would have thought if they’d understood them, I don’t know.  Even Mum joined in, despite being a Johnston and generally above such shenanigans. Every one of them was being a smart ass and and most of it was at my expense. Other than a few jibes about the nurses refusing to let me drink anything and the soreness of my throat, the details will remain hidden in the post-anesthetic fog for now; I will wait for Annie’s next ingrown toenail to have my revenge.

The little marvel had, however, managed to sort out the internet connection for me, so within minutes I had logged into my bank account so that I could make her school tuition payment. This is when the surgeon walked in, accompanied by his intern-shaped minions. He stopped in his tracks:

S: You’re working???
P: No, no- oops, bugger, no- I’m just- hang on, let me press ‘send’- wait, almost...

To be honest, though, considering how smug he was months earlier when he told me that a Korean woman would be back at work in two weeks, I don’t actually mind overmuch him thinking that I was working half an hour after leaving the recovery room.

His smug just kept coming. He informed me that he’d removed what remained of the tumour and some surrounding tissue and it looked like all the cancer cells were gone; we would need to wait for the pathology report to be sure, but he was pretty confident. He also told me that I could drink some water whenever I wanted (‘Go, mother! Go now! Get water!’) and that I could also go get some dinner when I felt like it, as I had missed the afternoon meal. This was all good news. I must confess, that I was most excited about being able to drink. The intubation process had left me in a bit of a bad way.

Mum and I wandered downstairs later on to the cafeteria to get some Bimbap- the sizzling stone bowl kind that is my absolute favourite. Eating was painful, and not just because of the inevitable mouth burn one gets from shoveling the scorching, charred, nutty deliciousness into one’s mouth- seriously, go the hospital just to get this; it’s fabulous- but also because of the sore throat. Mum was a bit taken aback by the raw egg resting on top of the food- another surprise that wasn’t bad, just surprising. We toddled back upstairs afterwards, and settled in.

Well, settled might be a bit ambitious. That first night was a constant swirl of visits and noise. The nurses obviously came in regularly. They could not do so without turning on a couple of lights, and they inevitably came in to take my blood pressure and temperature before returning to their cart to pick up odds and sods that they reckoned I needed. Mother was astonished that they would just walk away and leave the cart unattended. I was astonished that anyone would get any sleep at all in there. It was a bit frustrating how often the nurse would press the button on the automated inflation what-cha-ma-callit and then wander off, letting it blow up and squeeze my battered arm painfully and then deflate entirely before she returned and had to repeat the process to get the reading. The record for this was four times.

In the morning, my throat was still sore, but recovery was pretty rapid. There was a steady stream of nurses and doctors, all followed closely by smatterings of young med students- kindergarteners, all- checking wounds and temperatures and blood pressures.  I was feeling very well, in all honesty reaching the ‘Am I really so ill that I couldn’t be at work?’ stage by about three in the afternoon. My mother sighed heavily at this.

She was doing well. I was not an ideal patient, in that I needed very little done for me. She occupied herself by writing in her notebook and chatting and occasionally recounting the view over the parking lot behind the hospital:

M: Patricia, you wouldn’t believe this!
P: I bet I would. I’ve seen the driving here.
M: That guy just backed into an empty parking space, with no other cars around him!
P: Sounds about right.
M: And there’s another one- he’s pulling into a space next to another car- but there are three empty ones on the other- WHOA!!! He just hit the other car!! He’s just driving off!! He’s... he’s... he’s moving to the next row and parking!
P: It gets really fun on the streets next to convenience stores.
M: (turning to stare at me, aghast) This is the Korean Air parking lot. Those guys could be pilots? They fly PLANES??
P: Well, probably not all of them.

She would wander down to the basement level to pick up some food or cough drops for me from time to time, and was quickly coming to terms with the comings and goings of the nurses and cleaners. We were impressed by the nurses, who were unfailingly perky and bubbly as they came in to administer potions and needles. It occurred to us that they were, in fact, bizarrely cheerful- most of them would just start laughing openly at me as soon as they came through the door.

Towards the end of the working day, I was visited by Hyungji and a high school freshman, whose task it was to see that I understood the procedure that would be taking place the next morning. I was led into a small office, and before I was properly assembled in the seat in from of the desk, my mother was summoned to join me. Neither one of us is entirely sure why, even now. The doctor adjusted a video camera- apparently, all these meetings were meant to be recorded, presumably to avoid litigation later- and began to outline what would happen in the operating room and beyond. There would be four incisions made: one at my navel, another at the top of my pubic bone and one on either side of my abdomen. There would be a tube inserted, and my belly would be inflated. Then, all sorts of funky cameras and knives would start rolling and flashing around in there. (My words, not hers). A few quick snips, and the whole bally mess- ovaries, uterus, myoma, all, would be removed vaginally (Sorry- should I have issued a user warning here?? Wait till I describe the removal of the drainage tube!). There would be a few dissolvable stitches on my cervix, and one in each of the incisions.

Tidy.

Unless there was a problem.
They reserved the right to change track in the middle of the operation and slice me wide open. If it proved difficult to remove things vaginally, they would just go in from the front. The recovery implications were huge: no lifting, no driving, no return to work for weeks, no exercise, no sex for three months (she kept repeating this last- I don’t know if it was because I had an especially libidinous look about me, or if it was because she saw me cringing - ‘Kid! My MOTHER is sitting next to me!!’) constant rest, yadda, yadda. Clearly I did NOT want to have this procedure done abdominally. I agreed to all, signed all, shuffled out and away.

I had asked that no one visit on the days of the operations, so my first company came that day in the form of my department from school, who clambered in all lively and bearing gifts of ice cream and juice. The description of the parking lot antics was met with sage nods. They were followed by Phavana and Aruna, who was keen to show me pictures of her not-quite-done-yet baby brother, due to arrive in December.

As the evening moved on and the company began to disperse, the preparations for the hysterectomy began. The dreaded box containing the nightmare powder and mixing flask arrived, amid many shivers and whimpers from me and sympathetic strokes and giggles from the nurse. Once more, I shall not describe the outcome. Feel free to let your imaginations run wild.


Coming up - Surgery # 2