Before the alarm on my phone could begin its soothing wake-up trills, I was awake. It was January 21, the day circled on every one of the calendars in our home and the dreaded date that our family had been preparing for for many weeks. It was January 21, the day of my surgery; the farewell date for my left breast; the next part of our journey with cancer and the beginning of a new me.
I climbed out of bed and dressed in my pre-surgery outfit. Stretchy, comfy pants, tank top and zip-up sweater. My mind was not racing with the worry of the day before as I went through my morning rituals. Wash face. Get dressed. Breathe in. Breathe out. Concentrating on the normalcies; on the everyday, ordinariness of that morning distracted and subtracted from the crazy reality to come.
"Okay, LORD, this is it," I thought, "help me to trust in You. This is all in your hands. Please give me courage today."
My bathroom door squeaked open and the blonde, tousled head of Liam peeked in.
"Hi, mom. I woke up before my alarm." He announced. He had set his alarm for 6:30am so that he could see me and Paul before we left for the hospital that morning.
"Hi, baby." I said and enveloped him in a giant hug.
Soon, Paul was awake and quietly getting ready too.
Donovan catapulted out of the top bunk into my arms when he saw me creeping in his room to give him a good-bye kiss.
"Are you leaving, mom?" he whispered.
"Soon, Dons. Not yet." I responded. Donovan quickly got dressed and joined Liam and Paul downstairs.
I continued my stealthy creeping so I could kiss Gwen and Lochlan good-bye. They were both in deep sleeps. Gwen's brown hair was a messy halo around her red-cheeked face.
Smooch, smooch, smooch, I smooched her cute little cheeks, tucked some errant hair-strands behind her ear and whispered, "See you soon, Princess!"
Lochlan was in our bed, where he is most mornings. He usually wakes up for one reason or another - he has to pee, he's had a bad dream, he is afraid of the dark or the shadows from his night light, he wants a snuggle, he's hungry, he wants to talk about a dream he just had - and then crawls over me to sleep nestled right between me and Paul. Through-out the rest of the night, he sprawls his tiny body over the middle of the bed, stretching his puny limbs as far out as he possibly can in an attempt to take over as much of the bed as possible. He punctuates his sleep with sporadic kicks, elbow jabs and arm whacks just to ensure we are both aware that he is there. That last night, he drop kicked me in the chest.
He was in a deep sleep in my bed, tiny arms raised above his head like he was in a dream stick-up.
Smooch, smooch, smooch. I smooched his little flushed cheeks.
"My little King's Son." I murmured because I can't call him "my little Prince" as he is convinced that a "Prince" is a girl. We have had this discussion many times - a Princess is a girl and a Prince is a boy - but arguing with a 4 year old is about as pointless as arguing with a brick wall in the middle of winter. Arguing with a brick wall in the summer is also difficult, but it is warmer and, therefore, it feels more like there is a point in there somewhere.
Downstairs, Crystal, had arrived. She wrapped me in a wonderful sister hug, her arms steady and strong around me.
"You'll be okay! Don't be afraid! It will all be over soon." her words were as supportive as her arms around me and I tightened my hold. Sisters and best friends for life!!
Soon, Paul and I gathered up the over-night bag I had packed the night before, said good-bye to Crystal, Liam and Donovan, and drove to the Juravinski Hospital.
At the hospital, we registered and then began to make our way to the Same Day Surgery location. On our way, we were intercepted by Roleane Ligtenberg. Roleane is a breast cancer survivor who has met up with me to offer support, encouragement and advice. She is an amazing woman; cheerful, strong, and beautiful who is not afraid to use her experiences to help others. I am so blessed to have come to know women like Roleane and Sonja Heeringa, who have been on this breast cancer journey before. God yanked my family down this road that we didn't want to go down, but He has given us so much help along the way. I have never been alone or unguided on my journey! Thank you, God!
Back to Roleane: She was dressed in her nursing uniform and ready for her day's work when we saw her.
"Hi guys!" she smiled broadly and wrapped me up in giant, warm hug.
We chatted for a bit and then she wrapped me and, then, Paul in another hug. We felt fortified!
Once reception knew I was at the hospital, the wait was short. Soon Paul and I were called to the back. Rows of grey-white, pleather chairs where separated from each other by tired looking curtains. Green clad nurses with clipboards marched cheerfully around. We were led to our chair and our nurse handed us some hospital gowns.
"Okay, Brigette. Here is your pajama. Put it own backwards. Here is your housecoat. Put it over the pajamas and on forwards." She handed over some fresh-smelling, blue-patterned gowns and drew the curtains closed around us. Though the room buzzed with activity, the closed curtains gave a semblance of privacy.
"Here goes!" I said as I exchanged my clothes for the hospital finery.
"All done?" the cheery voice of our nurse queried before she delicately ripped open the curtains.
"Yep." I retorted.
"Hmm.....no.... you have it wrong." She drawled and slowly repeated the instructions from before...pajama first and on backwards, housecoat over top and on forwards. She spun about on her sensible nurse sneakers and swooshed our curtains closed again.
Paul and I giggled as I attempted to correct my clothing mix-up.
At this point, I would like to make some sort of disclaimer: Perhaps it was my chemo-soaked brain, perhaps it was some anxiety muddling up my thinking, perhaps it was some deep-seated inclination to find the greatest number of combinations possible with the pajama and housecoat; whatever the reason, I managed to incorrectly put on my garments two more times. That is three times in total because two plus one equals three! Three times my nurse had to swoosh aside the privacy curtains and announce, "You've got it wrong again!!!" The last time, her voice rose to a screech of incredulity. How stupid was this woman? She seemed to be thinking (I could read it in her eyebrow furrows). I was thoroughly embarrassed and Paul was trying not to guffaw.
"Why don't I just help you?" The nurse gently asked after my final blunder. It seemed the best decision. I was certain that if the nurse left me alone with the hospital clothes one more time, I would put the pajama on my head and then eat the housecoat. That seemed the only combination left to consider.
Once I was correctly clothed and almost awarded for that achievement, several more nurses came to put in my iv and further prepare me for surgery. Paul sat by, mostly quiet except for his one-liners. When Paul gets nervous, the one-liners just keep coming. I sat in my comfy chair, now hooked up to my iv and chortled nervously.
"Okay, so this next needle I am going to give you is a blood thinner. This needle will hurt. Like a bee sting!" announced a nurse with an unpronounceable last name.
I felt an eye-tick coming on. Awesome. A needle. That hurts. This day was not getting better yet.
"So where would you like it?" she cheerily asked, gesticulating with the dripping needle.
"In him!" I responded, pointing at Paul to buy me time to find those runaway shreds of bravery deep deep within me.
"Ha hahaha ha," we all robotically laughed and then she suggested my stomach. "It hurts less there....." she said.
"Go ahead," I sighed and the needle was plunged into me. All done and only minimal bee-sting pain.
Then someone new entered into our tiny hospital space.
"Hi Brigette!" It was my surgeon, Dr. Hodgeson. She was decked out in her surgery-wear, blond hair pulled back in a pony-tail. "How are you?" She went over a few details concerning the surgery that was coming so so soon. She leaned in close to me, brown eyes soft and compassionate.
"So if you don't mind, I just have to...." she explained and I noticed she was waving a black sharpie in her hand.
What on earth? my inner thoughts scoffed. What sort of surgeon is this who wields a sharpie and not a scalpel. Will she scribble away my problems? Write black-markered poetry upon my breast?
She took that plain black marker, started writing on my chest.....she said "Come on now, let's fix this mess...." **
(**okay....shh...she didn't actually say that. I'm borrowing a lyric from Mr. Frank Turner)
Dr. Hodgeson leaned in close, pulled open my pajama/housecoat ensemble and printed her initials over my left breast.
"NH," she scrawled, "Just to make sure." she stepped back and capped the marker.
Paul and I laughed nervously, our eyes wide with disbelief.
I was hooked up to iv, garmented, the correct body part had been identified. I was ready for surgery.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"God, please give me strength and courage. Stay with me....." I prayed.
I held out my hand to Paul. He clasped my hand in his and squeezed tightly.
"The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me;...."
Psalm 23: 3, 4a
Yet to Come:
The Purple-Nosed Mystery.
Recovery Room Drama and the Singing Senior.
Jillian Michaels Ain't Got anything on Me and My Post-Surgery Workouts!
Paul - The Wonder Husband and Perfect Care-Giver!
God bless you and yours.
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