This is 6 part series about my breast cancer and reconstruction surgeries—some real talk, a bit of education, and most importantly some humor.
The first surgery, the shock, the drains, and the moment I met my new body.
There’s no way to fully prepare for what to expect. A thousand questions swirled in my head – many of which I’d consulted Google on (zero stars – do not recommend). And yet, the morning of my surgery, all I could do was follow the instructions given to me and hope for the best. I was weirdly calm.
I woke at the unholy hour of 5:30 a.m. to shower and scrub down (for a second time) with Hibiclens. No jewelry, no makeup, no lotion, no deodorant (arguably the scariest part). Soft, easy-to-remove clothing, which wasn’t hard to find – I practically live in leggings and a sports bra. And, because life has a sense of humor, I started my period 12 hours before surgery. Pads. Check.
My sister Erin, a no nonsense nurse who can handle just about anything, flew in to spend the first ten days with me. Lucky for me, because the thought of emptying my own drains made me want to vomit. Tarik stayed back to get the girls off to school while Erin drove me to the hospital for my 7 a.m. check-in. Halfway there, I realized I forgot my scopolamine patch – critical for preventing post-op nausea – so we turned around. The irony of needing medication to keep me from puking while trying not to puke from stress wasn’t lost on me.
Once checked in, the nurse called me back. I squeezed Erin and told her she better have a coffee waiting for me post-surgery. More pre-op steps: another scrub down with sterile wipes, the very fashionable hospital gown and hair cap, and – because the universe loves a little suspense – a pregnancy test. I swear to God, if that had come back positive…#surgeryanyway.
Then came the part I had been dreading: a sterile, freezing room where I lay on a metal table and got a shot of radioactive blue dye near the tumor. This detects the sentinel lymph nodes – the ones that drain the tumor – so my surgeon could remove them for pathology. If cancer was in the lymph nodes, chemo was a given. If they were clear, chemo depended on my oncotype score. I’ve had countless shots, donated blood, even have a couple of tattoos. Nothing compared to the sting of that tiny needle.
Next, a different cold room, another metal table – this time with a sheet and pillow. High class. A team of nurses, surgery techs, and anesthesiologists surrounded me, all there to keep me alive. Appreciated. If you’ve ever had surgery, you know the bizarre moment where they ask you to confirm what they’re about to do. Logical, but unnerving. I answered something to the effect of “whacking off my boobs.” Judging by their faces, not the response they were expecting.
I lay back, ready for this cancer to be gone. Seven weeks had passed since my diagnosis, and while I was still within the recommended 90-day timeframe for tumor removal (seems insanely long if you ask me), I was beyond ready to evict – and, well, my boobs with it. The plan: my surgical oncologist would remove all breast tissue and lymph nodes first, then my plastic surgeon would scrub in for phase one of reconstruction. Seven hours total. The nurse placed the mask over my face, said something reassuring, and I was out.
Coming out of anesthesia, I’ve never been one of those people who wake up sobbing or saying weird things. Just groggy. A nurse stood beside me, adjusting my machines. “You’re all done. Everything went well.”
The first and only question I shot back? “Did Dr. Pacella do his part?!” Priorities. My plastic surgeon was on my mind immediately. What that says about me, I’ll leave up to interpretation.
The next clear memory I have is waking up in post-op recovery, wondering why my left arm hurt so badly. I looked down and saw a blood pressure cuff squeezing the hell out of it. I’ve had my blood pressure taken a million times – why did it feel like my arm was in a vice grip? I mentioned it to the nurse, and she looked both confused and slightly horrified before asking, “Which side did you have lymph nodes removed from?”
Fuuuuuuck. This one. The one she was currently trying to crush. She quickly moved the cuff to the other arm. Pro tip: after lymph node removal, avoid blood pressure cuffs, IVs, and blood draws on that side – forever – if you can help it. Lymph nodes help filter out viruses, bacteria, and dying cells. When they’re removed, the remaining ones have to work overtime, which can lead to lymphedema – a painful buildup of fluid. Also, in the immediate aftermath of surgery, it just hurts like hell.
Another fun anesthesia fact: when your entire body is put to sleep, everything is put to sleep – including your bladder. When it wakes up, it tries to make up for the lost time. For me, this meant hours of desperately needing to pee but not being allowed to stand yet. Bedpan it was. I lost track of how many times I called the nurse. At some point in the middle of the night, I couldn’t bring myself to page her again, so I called in Erin instead.
Erin, who was passed out on an uncomfortable little couch, has the ability to sleep anywhere. I had to get creative. First, I whispered. No response. I got louder. Still no response. Then, I threw whatever was within reach. ERIN! ERIN! ERIN! Finally, a bag of chips to the face. She shot up groggy and confused, but at that point, I was this close to peeing the bed. Managing my bladder became more of a challenge than managing the pain that first night, but thankfully, my body eventually remembered how to function properly.
And then, the moment of truth. Three days after the shock of all the tubes, wires, and the reality of my new chest, I was allowed to remove my mastectomy bra for the first time. And… whoa. It was horrifying. I looked mangled – like I’d been hit by a truck. There’s no easy way to describe that feeling. You just have to see it for yourself (but trust me, you don’t want to). I couldn’t even recognize the person in the mirror. But I think that’s also part of this journey – having to go through the shock and awe of the changes and knowing that it’s all part of healing. And that, in short, was my first 72 hours after a bilateral nipple-sparing mastectomy. A lot of cold, sterile rooms, a lot of needles, a lot of near-misses with peeing myself, and – most importantly – one giant step toward being cancer-free.
