It's Surgery Week. Let's Talk About Nerves.

4 days until surgery. The madness Richter scale is rising. I'd say we're at a 5. No, 6. 

6 and mounting steadily.

I recall informing people during the early stages of my treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flip here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here.

If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy.

Of course, timing is everything.

My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like... a rabid runaway train heading full-speed towards a collapsed bridge. With the exciting movie score replaced by panicked primal screams.

Those first two weeks I was light years away from anything remotely resembling "zen." I was scared. Angry. Anxious, mostly. I didn't know how in the heck we were going to get through the next year.

Some of my fears were sensible. How were we going to take care of Ingrid when we were both too tired to move from the couch? How were we going to make mortgage payments? How would we keep our refrigerator stocked? How were we going to coordinate puking time slots with ONE bathroom???

For two weeks, I was in full-on freak-out mode. Probably only Paul noticed. Because I am an expert at hiding my crazy.

Then during Sunday mass we heard this fortuitous Gospel: Matthew 6:25-34. It's an exceptionally beautiful passage about NOT WORRYING. It's the one with the "birds of the air" and the "lilies of the field." Here:

"So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?' Your Heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the Kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself."

Those words were the balm that my jittery mind needed. I went home and printed them out and stuck them on my fridge. And then scribbled them in my journal. Because I'm slow at these things, and I need constant visual reminders.

"DO NOT BE ANXIOUS." Easier said than done, yes. But absolutely necessary if I ever planned to make it through the next several months.

I did make it through. Hi. I'm Liz. Still here, still (almost) sane, still making mortgage payments and feeding my family.

I'm slated for surgery in 4 days. My surgeon will remove both of my breasts (one for prophylactic measures) and all of the lymph nodes in my right underarm. He'll also remove my mediport (sayonara sucker). My plastic surgeon will insert expanders, which will slowly stretch the skin. (I know. It freaks me out, too.) It will be several months before they can put in implants because I need to get blasted with radiation first.

sidenote: Please, don't hassle me about my decision to go down this surgical route (reconstruction, removing a healthy breast, etc). People have opinions on everything under the sun, and for whatever reason, breast reconstruction strikes a nerve with certain pontifical persons. I've put a lot of thought into my choices, and I am not making these decisions lightly. Keep in mind, reconstruction after breast cancer is NOTHING like getting implants. OK?? Different procedure, different outcomes, different emotional things going on. I am not getting a "boob job." I am getting CANCER out of my body. 

Anyway --

My anxiety through all of this has been like bookends, sandwiching a few months of calm. I've come full circle now, back to the nail-biting stomachaches of my initial diagnosis. Three cheers for Lorazepam! 

And, truth be told, even my transitional period of "zen vibes" was peppered with worry. Perusing my journals, I found an entry in May where I confessed to crying for a full week. Basically over nothing. But then my smart husband reminded me:

"Uh, Liz. This isn't 'nothing.' It's not just some minor bump in the road that every couple encounters. This is big. And it's hard. And you just got your body pumped with drugs. So go REST because this is big, hard, shitty stuff, and your brain can only take so much before it cracks."

It was such a gift, then, when my Godparents offered their beautiful home on Lake Canadaigua for a brief respite before surgery. They are the loveliest people, and being on the water with my favorites was exactly what I (we) needed.

Our fearless passenger: Ingrid was born to be on the water.

 

I believe those 3 days made up the longest stretch of time I've gone without dwelling on my upcoming procedure or  Paul's cancer. That's something. We drank beers on the pontoon boat, we laughed hysterically on the jetskis, and we reminisced about Breaking Bad  in the hot tub under the stars. We collected seashells and memories. It was marvelous. It gave us the distance we needed from our worries to just be with each other and enjoy life. 

I lied, though. I did think about my surgery. But only once or twice, when it was brought up in conversation. At one point, my sister's boyfriend asked a rather oddly phrased question: "Liz, are you excited about your surgery?"

I laughed and replied with a quick sarcastic response. Um, yes, I am sooo excited to have my body disfigured and go through several weeks of feeling like I have cannonballs strapped to my chest. I am the luckiest!

But he was serious. (?!) Once I worked through his question, which was probably garbled by a couple of IPA's, I understood what he meant. He was asking me (rather astutely, actually) if I was excited to GET THIS CANCER OUT OF MY BODY ONCE AND FOR ALL. Was I excited to be CANCER-FREE? 

I can get so caught up in the awful things that surgery means to me. (disfigurement, pain, helplessness during recovery, lack of control, etc.) But, really, I should be looking at surgery differently: it's going to fix me. It's going to take my breasts, yeah, and I'm angry about that. But it's also going to give my cancer the boot.

So ok: I guess I am excited about surgery. Or I should be. If I think hard enough about what it really means, I can be happy about it. If it can save my life and keep me around for my gorgeous daughter, then I say: take whatever body part you must.

So. Precisely three years after I was admitted to Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital as a rotund and blissful mom-to-be, I will be admitted there once more. Less rotund, less blissful. But still hopeful. And, dare we say, excited??