In my last post I ended with the conclusion of my first breast cancer surgery. Waking up from surgery with this crazy pain in, my foot. Who would have guessed? Seriously though, I still get a chuckle out of that one today.
WARNING: This one was a hard post to write. It ends with one of the hardest days of my life.
I was sent home that day after surgery. A week or so later I found myself back in the doctors office for my post op appointment. It was sitting there in that stark office, with two tubes hanging out of my side and my husband beside me that the doctor came in, sat down, took one of those long drawn out breaths, and said, ‘We didn’t get it all.’ Apparently they removed a squarish, larger than a golf ball sized chunk, and it wasn’t enough. Two sides of this square didn’t have cancer free edges. After all of that chemo, they took out a chunk bigger than a golf ball and DIDN’T GET IT ALL. I was like, ‘What the French toast? You have got to be kidding me.’ I had to go under the knife again. The surgery was scheduled for about three weeks out. I don’t even remember if both of the drain tubes had been removed before I had to go in for the next surgery.
That time, I did not allow the masses to be at the hospital. In fact some of them I didn’t even tell until two days before, just so they were less likely to show up anyway. (But you think any of them came to see me at home after the surgery? Not a single one. Not for any of the surgeries. I digress.) I really don’t remember much about that second surgery. I guess there just wasn’t anything weird or noteworthy that stood out about it. I went in, had the surgery, a couple hours later they sent me home.
A week later, back in the doctors office. So she could tell me, once again, that they didn’t get it all. I was flabbergasted. How could they have still not gotten it all? I thought they had told me it was like the size of a large marble. How did we go from a marble to the size of a golf ball and then take out even more and still not get all of that plus some?! My questions unanswered, I was told I needed to have yet another surgery. Once again scheduled for about three weeks out. Right about two weeks before Christmas.
I remember the day I told my little people that I had to have surgery again. I was having them help me to pick up toys and sweep the floors. I tried so hard to be casual in the way that I told them, not wanting them to take it as a reason to be afraid. Even though I was struggling with that fear myself a bit. We were just going along, picking stuff up, sweeping floors and as we went, I gently told them that I was going to be needing a little more help soon, because I was going to have to go back to the hospital for another small surgery.
In an instant though, everything changed. My youngest boy, only four years old, starting sobbing like someone had murdered his best friend before his eyes. Shocked, not expecting that level of reaction to that information, I quickly set aside the broom and asked him what was wrong. He looked up at me with his big blue eyes just streaming with tears, and asked, “Are we going to have to get a new mom?” Shocked, not expecting that his mind would have even thought of that, I looked from him to the other two little people standing there. They stared in silence, their eyes begging for the answer to this question. My heart fractured into pieces that they would have this burden on their hearts and minds.
What could I do except offer them all the reassurance I could while wrapping them in my arms? Tears running down my cheeks, praying that God would give me more time with my precious little people.
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