A Cord of Three Strands

My family didn't hike today.  There was some undecided sort of precipitation happening out in the outside this morning that made us all shrink back into the inside and shudder.  Fat, freezing rain-blobs splashed violently onto our front yard, slapping at the earth so hard that small chunks of dirt flew up.  Pools of slush puddled.  Dark clouds collected overhead and the wind wildly whipped about the trees, their branches reaching out like shadowy skeletal hands.

"EGAD!" I blurt-screamed at the sight and attempted to shield my kids from the open door, "Don't go out there!  It looks awful!"

Four sets of eyes peered curiously around my maternal form to stare at the storm raging outside.  The wind's howls crescendoed angrily and the heavy raindrops hammered out a tumultuous tone.  Cold seeped in and surrounded us but we emphatically slammed shut the door.  And bolted it.  Locked out the storm.

I'm not sure where you were today.  Were you able to navigate your way?  Safely?  Were you able to lock out your storm?  I hope so.  Better than that, I pray it was so.

But let's get back to the hike....
("ARGITTY-ARGH!" Paul often groans, "It's always about the hike!  Haven't you had enough with the hikes?"
"No, no my sweet Monkey-Cheeks," I will answer patting his bearded cheek for tender-loving emphasis, "It's NEVER enough when it comes to hike-talk...")

Uh...so back to the hike again...hikes are amazing.  Hiking alone is wonderfully therapeutic, cathartic and invigorating.  Hiking with a dog is great exercise and involves poop pick-up (whee!).  Hiking with children is delightful and almost always involves an exciting mysterious adventure involving mommy rescuing Donovan from the top of a tree or taking Lochlan for a poo in a ditch or untangling burrs from Gwen's long hair or guiding Liam down a steep cliff-side.   Hiking with husbands is romantic and involves a lot of hand-holding....and gently yelling at the kids to slow down and stop climbing everything.  In conclusion and in summary, hiking is awesome.

Have you ever hiked?  If so, it's a great plan to have someone go before you.  Like a guide.  They can test the trail before you.
"Whoa, dude," they could holler back at you, "watch out for the ice here.  It's slippery!" or "Careful here...it's muddy.  Take this side trail around and you will avoid all that mess!" or "Let me hold back these branches so you can walk on by."
But more than testing that trail, a guide can prepare you for what lies ahead.

I mention this because my life feels like one big, crazy hike.  And even though I love hiking alone, my life-hike is not one that I am doing alone.  Not even close!  I am surrounded by hoards of people.....Paul, my kids, my parents and mother-in-law, my siblings and siblings-in-law, my friends, my church community, my homeschool buddies......  And I feel like there is a guide going before me, testing the trail and preparing me for what lies ahead.   It reminds me of one of my favourite Bible verses:
"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged."  Deuteronomy 31: 8
If I am on the hike of my life, God has gone before me.  He knows what path I am taking.  He prepares the way for me and is with me.

Check this out:
A few Sundays ago, I was yakkity-yakking after church while my oldest son begged, "MOOOM, can we please goooo?  You don't have to talk to everyone!" and my other children raced around and wrestled like crazed, cute lunatics.

Suddenly, a hand lightly touched my arm and a voice spoke.

"Brigette, let me know if you ever need physio or someone to teach you how to give yourself a lymphatic massage." it was Mindy Broersma, a friend from church.

"Oh, great!" I gushed.  I had been trying to locate someone who gave lymphatic massages.  Apparently after lymph nodes are removed from under the arm, the arm can swell badly.  This can lead to lymphedema, which is not a pleasant condition.  Massages help reduce swelling.
"Thanks, Mindy!" I continued.  Mindy smiled sweetly and went on her way.

"Hmm," I thought to myself, "that was super nice.  I would love to learn more about the massages but I sure don't need any physio.  Pshaw!  I'm rocking my arm motions!"

Two days later, my surgeon announced in a bland, blunt monotone, "You need physio.  Your arm mobility is too limited for radiation to occur." and then she began scratching out a prescription for physiotherapy on a nearby prescription pad.

"Oh, wait," I blundered cinching closed my gaping gown and getting to my feet, "I know someone I can call.  She's from my church..."  Mindy....

An offer of help before I even knew I needed it!  Tell me that is not perfect orchestration from a master Conductor!

When I got home from seeing my surgeon, I called Mindy.

Mindy works as a physiotherapist at MacMaster, in the outpatient cancer clinic with kids getting chemotherapy and radiation.   Ugh...kids getting chemotherapy and radiation?  That is tough stuff; but she helps them get through it.
"Sometimes I get so many snuggles from kids," Mindy told me once, "I love it!"

When I called her to ask about setting up some physio for my swollen stiff arm, Mindy told me that she had a friend who was the "guru" of post-mastectomy physio and that she would call her for me.

"Super sweet!" I said.  Wow...this was easy!  I wouldn't have known who to call or where to go otherwise.

Everything was all organized and on Tuesday afternoon, two cars pulled up to my house and two trained physiotherapists knocked at my door.  I answered.  Because when physiotherapists knock at your door, you should.  It's only polite.

In came Mindy, blonde hair pulled back in a sensible pony-tail, clutching the biggest take-away cup of tea I have ever seen, and her friend, Jodi Steele.  Jodi entered my home with a wide smile and a wider energy field.  The three of us side-stepped lego blocks, books, crayons and doggie toys and sat together at the kitchen table.  Mindy knows my story but Jodi asked me to tell it to her.  I gave her the short version or she would still be here.  Then they asked me to show them my range of arm motion.
I slipped off my zippered aqua-coloured sweater, forgetting to be self-conscious about my uni-boobed state.  These were two professionals, after all, accustomed to seeing the ravaging scars left behind from cancer.  I stood before them in a lopsided tank top.
I lifted my arm in front of me, almost at shoulder height.  I raised my arm to the side.
Wincing a little I explained, "I think the biggest problem is that I can't straighten my arm completely."
"Mmmmhmm," Jodi murmured to Mindy, "Of course not!  Look at those cords."

"Cords?  What?" I queried intelligently.

"Cording can be a side effect of a mastectomy, especially one involving lymph node removal.  We don't really know why it occurs but the cords are thick rope-like strands that begin at the scar site and often connect to the inner elbow or even the palm.  You can see them under your skin.  They are tight and massively reduce movement." Jodi explained.

"Yeah!  I have seen them!" I said and demonstrated by exposing my inner arm and trying to pull my arm straight.  Four or five ropey lines pulled visibly taut.  Gross!

"Wow!  That might be a record!" Jodi said excitedly.  "Your husband can play guitar on all those cords.  Twang twang!  But don't worry.  We can take care of that!"

Jodi and Mindy showed me a variety of exercises I could do to increase mobility.  I even get to use a hockey stick to perform them!  Then I laid on my bed while they massaged my arm to reduce swelling.  

"We are also going to massage the cord tissue.  Hopefully we can get it to snap or break," said Jodi, demonstrating to Mindy how she did this, "I just love doing this!  And we try to unhook the cords from your armpit."  Jodi began massaging deep into my armpit at this point and I could feel my toes curl with discomfort.  No one has touched that spot since before my surgery.  Since surgery, it has been swollen and sore and numb.  But the cord is thick at that site and when I try to straighten my arm, it pulls tight.  I can see it clearly now that I know what it is.  After Jodi massaged, Mindy gave it a try and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead.  This was not a relaxing spa-massage that was to be followed by a sea-weed facial mask and toe polish.  But it was a helpful massage because when I stood up a few moments later, I had gained some movement.  Sweet appendage victory!
After the massage, Mindy bandaged up my arm; another method to reduce lymphatic swelling.

"Thanks," I said waving about my mummified arm.

Soon, Jodi had to leave.  "The kids have swimming lessons!" she announced and left in a cheery, energetic whirlwind.
Mindy and I settled at the kitchen table once again and she went over my exercises and her plan to visit me again in a few days.
"Thank you thank you thank you so much," I gushed.  Taking time out of her busy schedule, to drive to my house to help me.  So amazing.  I am humbled and so thankful.

"And thanks for getting Jodi to help too," I continued, "Why would she help anyways?  She doesn't even know me....  What's in it for her?" I asked.

"Jodi's mom died of cancer when she was young," Mindy responded.  Jodi's mom had non-Hodgkins lymphoma and after she died, young Jodi said she would change the world.
Jodi certainly has changed my world.  I thought I wasn't doing my exercises well enough; I thought maybe I would have to live with reduced movement.  Now I know something can be done about this discomfort.  Something is being done.
Jodi has changed more people's worlds.  Mindy told me she had started a clinic downtown that rehabilitated people recovering from surgeries related to cancer, she has written a workbook all about lymphedema and now she teaches at a college.  Changing the world after the world changed her.  Isn't it amazing how soul-crushing pain can channel us down a certain path?  So many cross-roads happen on the aftermath of suffering.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, our pastor visited Paul and I to pray and encourage us.
At one point he leaned forward and looked intently at me, "This is not just about you, you know," he said.  (Uh....I was unaware of a collective breast cancer diagnosis, I thought with an eyebrow quirk)
"More people are hurting because of your diagnosis," He finished his thought.

A friend gave me a notebook when I was first diagnosed.  Inside, she had written quotes from two pastors.  One said, "Don't waste your sorrows"; another quote said, "Don't squander your suffering".  I have heard these sort of sayings before.  A dearly beloved friend of mine had cancer and someone gave her a book titled, "Don't Waste Your Cancer".  I remember thinking, WHAT? but I think I am getting it now.
Have you seen something good grow out of pain?
A little girl, fiercely shaking her fist at the world.  Tears streaming down her face and a vow growing in her heart.  "I LOVE you, mom!  I will change the world for you!"
She grows and does just that.  From the ashes of sorrow, she is given strength and rises up.

It's hard to see our way sometimes in this life of ours.  Especially when we are in the thick of sorrows.  Sometimes I remember the sight of a winter funeral and the mittened hand of a mourner patting the lowering coffin cradling her beloved and the grief is gut-wrenching.

"What good can come of this!" I rage. But I don't know.  You don't know. We don't know.  Because we are still way back in the right now of this storm of a life.  Good thing we have that guide, after all.  Preparing the way.  Introducing us to people we have never met before.  Setting up meetings that we didn't think we had a need for.  Going before us.  And being with us.

Thanks, Mindy, for being moved to make your offer.  For going out of your way to help.  For introducing me to Jodi and connecting all our lives together.  Like a cord of many strands.  Because we all know a cord of many strands is not easily broken.

Pathology Report

Yesterday, Paul and I were able to go on another date to the Juravinski Centre; we had not been there since my operation on January 21.  It's amazing how quickly the landscapes and settings of life change and how quickly we adjust to them.  Going inside the building felt familiar to us and we recognized the faces of many staff members.

We settled in to the hard waiting room chairs but our wait was not long.

"Brigette?" queried a nurse clutching my file that was getting increasingly larger with time.

We followed her and did the usual weigh-in.  I hate this part.  Before my cancer diagnosis, I had been eating so well and exercising regularly.  Me and my Jillian Michaels work-out videos had long standing dates and I had been "shredding it" and "toning those problem areas" with vigor and zest and awkwardly coordinated limbs.  But once my cancer diagnosis had been confirmed, a sense of despair had been accompanied by .... ice-cream....often.
I was also under the impression that cancer would whittle me away and after my first chemo session, where 5 lbs dropped off me from my explosive nausea, I was convinced.  But the whittling stopped there and the weigh-ins confirmed this with every visit.  The nurse was happy and, truthfully, it was a wonderful thing to have felt as strong as I did during chemo.  But that weigh-scale ........ boo...hiss....couldn't I just tell the nurse I felt okay without a number being assigned?

"Okay, Brigette, step onto the scale." said my nurse readying her pen (Wait!  Did she just check to see that she had enough ink to write down my growing weight amount??  Grr!)

"Just a second," I cheerily replied and stripped off my boots, my jacket, my hat, my scarf, my cell phone....and pondered how appropriate it would be to strip off more clothing items.  I noticed the waiting room quiet down as all eyes turned towards the stripping woman by the weigh scale.  I sighed, sucked in my breath (does that help eliminate pounds?) and stepped gingerly on the scale on my tip-toes....(does that help eliminate pounds?)

"Good job!" said the nurse and scratched down the number.

On to the back room where I slipped into a gown, open in front!  I have learned how to dress in this hospital, even if it did take a little extra time.

Enter Dr. Hodgson.

She flipped open my file and read out my pathology report.  Interesting side-note here is that Wikipedia tells me that the word pathology comes from the Ancient Greek root "pathos" which means "experience" or "suffering" and that "logia" means "study of".  So the report being read was a report on the study of my experiences or suffering.  Hmm....interesting thought and that file seems awfully thin to have a full report on my sufferings.....

Dr. Hodgson was speaking so I tuned in.  "So, the chemo did it's job well!  The two tumors that we were most concerned with both shrank.  One was 4cm and the other 4mm!  I removed 11 lymph nodes from under your arm and only 1 was cancerous, the others were clear."

"Soooo......that is good news?" I asked uncertainly.

"Yes, that is great news!" Dr. Hodgson confirmed and both Paul and I broke into huge silly grins.

"You will still need radiation and hormone therapy but everything looks great.  Now let's see how much you can move your arm."

I sat up tall feeling very proud as I moved my arm stiffly up and then to the side.  I felt like I had been doing amazing with my arm workouts.  They were no Jillian Michaels, but she would have been proud at the way I was working that problem area.  Several times I day I would heave my swollen arm awkwardly up and down and to the side.  While I presented my moves to the doctor, I waited to hear her gasp and praise me but I was disappointed to hear her flatly announce, "Mmmm not good enough.  You'll need physio."

"What?  Really?  I thought I was doing great?"  I blurted.  I mean, you should have seen me a few weeks ago!  Lurching and hefting, moaning and wincing would have described my workouts then.

"Nope.  You need to lift your arm up much higher for radiation to occur," Dr. Hodgson announced whilst demonstrating where my arm needed to be.

She scratched out a prescription for physio and then turned back to me.

"Okay.  How are you healing up?"  she leaned in close and opened my hospital gown to examine my healing scar.  It's a beautiful scar, really.  A battle scar sliced like a flat-mouthed smile across my chest where a breast used to be.  My heart beats visibly behind it.  The skin is knitting together so quickly, my body accepting it's new look much faster than the rest of me.

"Looking good." stated Dr. Hodgson and soon she wrapped up our visit.

My suffering had been studied and the diagnosis was looking good.  The conclusion of our visit pointed Paul and I towards our next destination.  No, not just the parking garage but onwards towards radiation and hormone therapy.

On the car ride home, we discussed everything.  The positive pathology report.  My need for physio to get that arm up higher.  This crazy cancer journey.

"We should pray!" I said, "this is great news after all!"

"Yes," agreed Paul, "but I will keep my eyes open since I'm driving, okay?"

"Of course." I giggled and began to pray.  Giving thanks to God for great news, crying out to Him with depressing news, calling on Him for strength in the face of hard news.....these are things we can do with our eyes wide open.


"Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever."
Psalm 136: 1

Super-Paul MD

The Recover Room was in wake-up mode.  Like an artificial sunrise, the fluorescent lights grew increasingly brighter.  The hands of an analog clock on the stark-white walls tick-tick-ticked towards 6am and voices overlapped each other in a complicated symphony of sound.

My cell phone chirped.  After flopping about awkwardly and managing to tangle myself in layers of hospital blankets, I had the phone in my hand.  I gripped it tightly and felt triumphant in that small feat.  Sweat beaded my brow as I wiggled, squirmed and butt-shuffled my way into a sitting position so that I could read my text.

"Morning, Baby.  How are you feeling?"  I read on my touch screen.  It was Paul.  My heart lurched with joy; I couldn't wait to see him!

"Sphlehtz," I typed.  Argh!!  Does anyone else just hate touch screens?  I know this is such a 21st Century issue and I should really stop complaining about it right now, but I cannot stop myself.   (it's part of my dramatic non-succinctness that actually makes me so adorable!  Right?)  My fingers are not ginormous so why can I not type in a simple text message without having to delete and retype it about 18 times before it says what I want it to say!  I am almost certain I could send a smoke signal faster than I can accurately text a message.  Sometimes I just send my garbled texts to people because I am frustrated with my phone and that is my way of getting back at it for being all touchy-screeny.  (Take that, Phone!  Thptttt!)

Backspace.  Backspace. Backspace.  I sucked in several calming breaths and steadied my hands over my puny phone key-pad. 

"O-k." I slowly typed into my phone.  Send. 

  

It was still before 6am but Paul was on his way to break me free from the Juravinski Hospital.  Whoohoo!  The night staff was saying their good-byes to the Recovery Room boys and girls and  then were passing on patient summaries to the morning staff.  I saw some of them look over at me in the midst of their clinical chatter and I finger-waved.  I hoped they were saying good things about me.  I tried to look calm and cute but was certain that my stubbly head, purple nose and bandaged body were presenting a different look.  

Before I could see Paul, I could hear him just beyond the curtained walls around me.  I felt a goofy grin grow on my face and then he was there.  We hugged carefully, my arms stiff and sore, his arms tentative.

"Hey sugar!" he said and it was so good to see him; all familiar beard and blue eyes in a room of unknowns, "You good to go?" 

"No.  Not yet," I sighed, "I need to be checked and assessed first."  A nurse had relayed this to me a few minutes before Paul had arrived.  So Paul perched on my hospital bed, we held hands and chatted in low voices as we waited.

It wasn't long before someone came.  She approached my bed and said she was there to check my wound and change my dressing.  Paul and she switched positions in an awkward, shuffling dance and now she stood beside me and Paul sat on a chair facing me.  

She reached for my plain blue hospital gown so that she could pull it down and access my dressings.  

"W-wait!" I stammered, grabbing at her outstretched hands

.

"Paul, I don't want you to see it.  I don't want you to see me like this..." He was facing me and, though my voice faltered, I knew I did not want him to see me just yet.  I didn't want him looking at me.  My body was wrecked.  Transformed.  Disfigured and I did not want to see him flinch, gasp or wince when he saw the new me.  Going though chemotherapy and surgery was one big battle on its own; I did not want to have to see my husband, my beloved look at me with pity or disgust.  That was a whole other issue I wasn't ready to deal with just yet.

"Maybe sit beside me and you can look another day," I pleaded with Paul.  

"No, Brig.  It's okay.  It's still you." responded Paul softly but firmly.

I lowered my hands and the nurse gently pulled down my gown.  

I bowed my head.

The nurse carefully loosened the tape holding the dressings in place; the tape and dressings were very tight and as they fell away, I felt a heavy weight lift off my chest.  I could breathe easier with the dressings removed but I was afraid to look down.  My own body felt foreign and terrifying to me.  

"You okay?" questioned the nurse.  She had noticed my lifted chin, averted eyes and the hot tears spilling over despite my efforts to hold them back.

"Y-yeah," I said and peeked over at Paul.  He was looking at me.  His eyes did not widen with fear or disgust.  He did not shift uncomfortably in his chair or seem grossed out with what he saw.  He just looked.  At me.  

Thank-you, Paul.  I felt like saying.  That means so much to me.  

Has your body changed over time?  Maybe your hair is greyer or is receding.  Maybe extra weight has transformed your dips and curves.  Maybe you have stretch marks or cellulite.  Scars.  Laugh lines.  Wrinkles.  Can you still find yourself in all that change?  You're still there.  Those changes hold stories of your life; chapters of change.  Take the time to trace over those changed body parts and reminisce.  Most changes don't happen quickly.  Have you found someone to love you through these changes?  Friend?  Spouse?  Sibling?  Hold fast to them.  They know that despite the fact that your body has changed, you are still you.  Refigured.... but there.

When Paul looked at me with an unfazed gaze, I felt stronger.  More willing to be okay with my wounds.  I wasn't quite ready to look just yet but I felt sure that when I was, Paul would be there to help me.

Paul and the nurse wrestled me s-l-o-w-l-y into nice soft stretchy clothes and we made our way home!

It was good to be home again.  I had only been gone for a little more than 24 hours but I felt so different.  I lumbered out of the car and stalked inside, hunched over like a female hunchback of Notre Dame.  

Soon a home care nurse paid us a visit and went over how to care for my drains.

Did I forget to tell you about the drain?  

Well, when you have mastectomy, the surgeon will ensure that you leave with at least one drain so that your wound does not fill up with fluid which could increase your chances of infection.  Very thoughtful of the surgeons, right?   I think because the surgeon liked me so much, she gave me two drains.  WHEE!!!  Drains look like little plastic hand grenades and they are attached to clear tubing that is fed into a tiny extra incision under your arm.  The clear tubing is attached to quite a long bit of tubing inside you that sucks out all that unwanted fluid!  Out, out, dang fluid!  

Drains are like these cool mastectomy accessories!  Plastic-hand-grenade-like jewelry.  They are cool!  I think I saw drains featured in some really fashionable fashion magazine with the caption:  "Gotta Brain?  Getta Drain?" or something like that.

Anyways, I had two drains dangling from under my arm.  Cute little guys!  I would name them but our time together will be so short.  Thereby, we shall refer to them as Drain 1 and Drain 2.  They are much less fun than Thing 1 and Thing 2 featured in Dr. Seuss stories, but they are Necessary!  

Okay, let's refocus here.  Enter, home-care nurse. (she's short, young and cute)

"So, Paul and Brigette, we have 4 home visits scheduled for you guys.  You will need to drain the Drains twice a day.  Take note of the amount of fluid each drain will have inside it and the colour of the fluid.  Paul, will you be able to do this?"  said the nurse in a matter-of-fact way.  I think she clicked a pen.

"Yes, yes I can!" answered Paul and.... did I detect the flutter of a cape from behind him as he stood to attention?  (my hero!!)  

The nurse showed Paul the drain tubes and where they were carefully stitched in place under my arm.  She taught him how to unclog the tubes and how to empty the drains.  She also went over how to clean my wounds and what signs to look for in case of infection.  Paul nodded his head patiently and even took down a few notes.  At no time did he grimace or look queasy.  

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, yep, yep, yep.  Okay."  he eloquently responded to the step-by-step instructions provided by our nurse.  She left.

Every day at 8am and 8pm, Paul kneels down in front of me.  He gingerly handles Drain 1 and Drain 2, empties them, takes careful note of the changes in amount and colour of the fluid they hold and even carefully unclogs the tubes if need be.  He is amazing.  He is wonderful.  I study the top of his head as he does so.  Double crowned.  Grey colouring sneaking around the edges of that dark mop of hair.  It's a touching moment.  Each time.  Because this, this is such a gesture of love.  I have heard it said that love is evident in actions more than words.  I have witnessed this so often over the past few months.  Love evident in actions.  Dark head bent over my drains.  Unflinching gaze looking at my scarred chest.  Hands holding a razor to shave my head.  And I am so thankful.  

Cancer has been awful.  It has been scary and riddled with yucky moments.  But it has allowed love to deepen and grow.  And that is amazing.

Thank you, God, for all those you have placed around me and Paul during these months of Cancer.  Cancer has been brutal but the people supporting us have been awesome.  Thank-you for strengthening us through them!  Thank-you, God, for Paul.  My super-Paul, MD.

  

 

"You hem me in - behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me."  Psalm 139: 5

Yet to Come:

Jillian Michaels Ain't Got anything on Me and My Post-Surgery Workouts!

What does Succinct mean?  

Hospital Princess.

"Okay, Brigette, it's time to go."  announced a cheery nurse.

I was a Hospital Princess gowned and geared up, ready to go.

"Uh, yah..." I stammered.  I mean, do you ever feel ready for surgery?  I stood, adjusting my sensible slippers and hairnet: suitable footwear and headgear for this Hospital Princess.  My nose glowed with a purplish ethereal-like light.  Paul stood up as well and steadied me.

The smiley nurse (her lips stretched wide in an impossible grin....compensating for our lack of smiles?) reached up and unhooked my IV bag from its holder.

"So, can you just hold onto your IV bag and follow me?" she asked, handing me the bag as if that had been a rhetorical question.

NO!!! I wanted to shout.  You hold my IV bag!  And I don't want to follow you anywhere.  Wheel me in some sort of ceremonial chair or carriage and play a loud fanfare that mourns my breast.  

But I did not shout or give way to hysterics.  I drew a deep breath, reached for Paul's hand with my free hand and shuffled forward.

Lord, give me strength....

How do I surrender to this moment before me?

My heart was hammering a terrified beat that drowned out the cheery chatter of the nurse I followed.  My IV bag felt so heavy in my hands.  Paul's hand was warm and strong and comforting.

"Okay, Paul, you can go down that hall and turn left," directed our nurse, "The family waiting room is right there.  Dr. Hodgeson will come out when Brigette's surgery is over and let you know how it went." 

Don't go!  I wanted to say to Paul.  Stay with me.  I am stronger with you by my side.  Don't go!

But, I could not.  It was time.

We embraced.  Paul moved towards the waiting room and I turned back to the nurse.

"Just this way!" she quipped.

She pushed open the double doors to the operating room.  My operating room.  Bright lights illuminated a narrow table upon which layers of pads were laid

I was told to lay down on that narrow table, on top of those layered pads and so I did.  I robotically arranged myself and took deep steadying breaths.

Several nurses moved closer, their eyes kind and compassionate over masked smiles.  One nurse held my hand, murmuring low words of comfort.  My surgeon reached for my other hand, her fingers dry and sure.  The anesthesiologist leaned in and made adjustments to my IV tube.  

"You okay?" someone asked.

"Fantastic," I attempted to joke but my voice sounded weak.  Big breaths.  It will be over soon.  Almost there.

"What is your favourite vacation spot?" the anesthesiologist questioned in a blatantly obvious attempt to distract me from the stainless steel instruments glinting from the corner of the brilliantly lit, white-walled room.

But it worked and I thought for some moments of the wind-swept, craggy landscape of Scotland.  Ever been there?  I have been so blessed to have been there twice.  Once with Paul and my parents; another time with Paul and my mother-in-law.  Hiking in Scotland is majestic, challenging, and involves dodging a lot of sheep.  

"Scotland." I responded to the query on my favourite vacation location.

"Really?  A cold destination?" droned the anesthesiologist, "Well, just think about Scotland.  Soon, I will begin the anesthetic...." 

A picture of castle ruins began to arise in my mind but the words of my fortress took over:

God is my fortress, my refuge, my strength

I will NOT fear.

I AM still and I know that God is here in this room.  

Lord, take my fears and help me trust in You.  You do not fail me or abandon me.  You are with me in this time of trouble and fear and anxiety.  Give me strength.  You know the plans You have for me.  For this surgery.  Help me trust in You....

.............I awoke in another room, at another time, surrounded by other people.

Surgery was over.

It happened so fast.  

My eyes fluttered open and I must have uttered some eloquent phrases of poetry that probably sounded like, "Grunty-grunt-grunt" because soon a young nurse with sparkly earrings was by my side.

"Hi Brigette.  How do you feel?" she questioned and we played the Rate Your Pain Game for a while.  I would give a number between 1 and 10 and she would reward my guesses with varying amounts of drugs.  This can be a very fun game but only if the rewards match the number.  It is hard to win this game and I began to get a little annoyed after awhile because I felt my nurse was cheating and was withholding the drugs that my numbers had warranted.

The thing about this Game is that I once watched a comedian named Brian Regan talk about the Rate Your Pain Game.  He surmised that a pain rating of 10 should be reserved for those with broken femurs and a pain rating of 9 for those giving birth.  Well, I've never cracked my femur but I have given birth four times and this pain felt very intense but not quite labor intensive.  That being said, I WAS in a lot of pain.  There was a weight feeling like it was crushing my chest.

"I'm a 4, 5, 6, 7, 8....." I groaned to my nurse.  "Please give me something for the pain!"

Finally my nurse and I were able to complete our game.  My numbers and her rewards matched and I fell asleep.  Hours passed in recovery and when I was able to stay awake for a few minutes, I was wheeled into the Same Day Surgery Room.  I was pale and had an oxygen tube hooked up to my nose.  I was sleepy but felt my heart skip a beat when I heard Paul's voice before he appeared from around my curtained walls.

"Hey baby." he said and took my hand.

"Hi," I whispered.  My surgeon had told Paul that my surgery had been a success.  They had removed my left breast and the lymph nodes under my left arm.  She was confident that they had removed all the cancer.  

Paul stayed by my side while I drifted in and out of sleep for several hours.

"Pastor Bill is coming to visit soon," Paul announced when my eyes fluttered open once again.

"Okay," I croaked.  "I should visit the ladies' room."  When his help I sat up and the sheer force of gravity on my transformed body sucked the air from my lungs.  I am prone to dramatics but this was no drama as I gasped and clutched at my chest in an attempt to relieve the pressure.  Then I felt nauseous and was sick.

Of course, this would be the moment that Pastor Bill arrived at the hospital.

I heard his voice and wiped my face.  "That's my Pastor here now." I slurred, "What timing..."

"I sort of feel like people are talking about me..."  I heard him jovially say.

"No, you can't hear us!" I responded with a smile, "There's a curtain in the way!"

The nurses and Paul cleaned me up as best as they could and Pastor Bill soon joined us.  

He encouraged us with the words of Psalm 147 "[The LORD] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds..." and then he held my hand and I held Paul's and we prayed.  There is such strength to be felt in prayer.  It has held us up over these past months of anxiety and fear.  Our family has had so many people praying for, with, and over us.  Thank you for your prayers!  They have carried us and lifted us up; they have bolstered our courage and reminded us that God is right here with us.  

Want to know how you can help fight cancer?  Pray.  

Pastor Bill left and soon other visitors were peering around my curtain.  My beautiful sister, Crystal, and her wonderful hubby, Dave.  My sweet brother, Conrad, and his amazing wife, Ashley.  Later, our beloved friend, Mike, made a bearded appearance as well.  They surrounded me and their familiar faces were a soothing salve for my spirit.  Unfortunately I kept falling asleep whilst they visited.  Since this is only acceptable behaviour when you are recovering from surgery, I made the most of it and slept for the greater part of everyone's visit.

I also did not feel well and was sick several more times.  Being sick is not fun.  Being sick after your breast has been hacked off is less fun.  Being sick with an audience around you while you spew forth sick stuff is even lesser fun indeed.  But alas, it made for great entertainment.  I think?  

Around 7:30pm, I had a fever and was feeling agitated.  The nurses were running tests and were preparing to move me and the other same day surgery patients to the Recovery Room where we were to spend the night.  

"We gotta swab that nose.  Maybe she's got an infection?  And we gotta move her now so you will all have to leave soon," directed a new nurse.  She was young with long brown hair and she clutched a clipboard.  Clipboards translate into authority so we all listened to her.  I had no choice.  I was in a wheelie-bed and could hardly move anywhere on my own.  My loved visitors smooched me and said their good-byes.  I am so blessed to have so many friends and family members who love me.  I do not feel alone.

Only Paul was allowed to follow me into the Recovery Room.  Three hospital helpers wheeled me there and drew the curtains to give a semblance of privacy.  My bed joined two others occupied by women and about seven others occupied by men.  A large lit-up desk was stationed in the middle of the room.   After ensuring I was settled in, Paul gave me one last hug and smooch and left.

I felt alone in the Recovery Room.

All the lights but the ones over the nurse's station flickered off.

Low moans and groans could be heard as patients tried to get comfortable on their beds.
Nurses bustled busily about, their footsteps fast and purpose-driven.  The "girls" were given little bells that we could ring if we needed to call our nurse.  The "boys" were told there were no more bells so they had to holler.

My nurse was busy running tests on me because I had spiked a low fever and my surgeon was concerned.  The tests were one issue, but I was certain my nurse was having great fun ensuring each test was carefully administered the moment I dozed off.

My eyes slipped shut and sweet sleepy oblivion settled in.

"BRIGETTE!"  shouted my nurse startling me awake, "I have to give you a needle.  Actually I have to give you two needles. From two separate locations.  And I have to take quite a bit of blood to get a good sample for tests."  

Of course you have to give me two more needles from two different locations, I sighed.

Jab. Sloooosh.  Jab. Sloooosh, (just inserting a little sound effects for you all.  That 's the sound of the needle and the blood slooshing into the vials).

Two bandaids fastened over my new wounds.

Eyes drifting closed.  Slumber softly sliding over ....

"BRIGETTE!" it was my nurse again.  Must she shout?  Did I detect a grin?  Was this waking up of the patient some sick sort of game for her?  "Let's take your vitals."

Blood pressure cuff squeezing me awake.  Thermometer jabbed into my ear.  All done.

Steady breaths in and out.  Limbs growing heavy and I slipped into sleep yet again.

"BRIGETTE.  Time for your suppository!" chirped my nurse.

Grrrr.....nothing like a night-cap suppository to settle the ole nerves!

(let's avoid sound effects here and just move on....)

Finally, I was left alone and the night-time noises of the Recovery Room became part of a soothing lullaby.

Someone moaned and rang for a nurse.

Someone shuffled about in their bed rearranging blankets.

Nurses murmured to each other.

Someone flicked a light on and then off.

And then someone began to sing.

It was a man's voice; an older man's voice.  He did not sing loudly or in a way that shattered the silence, rather his voice was low and lulling.  

I had felt annoyed and grumpy from being jabbed, poked and squeezed, from being suppositoried and startled awake so many times.  But this voice rising out of the quiet was deep and lovely.  I could not discern the words to the song nor did I know the tune but I felt kinship with this fellow patient.  His singing and our listening united us in the Recovery Room that night and, to his tuneless song, I slept.

There is a lot of drama in a Recovery Room at night.  It's great.  Someone should make up a mini-series about it.  Add in some romance with the medical staff, and you will have a hit show!  I don't know; maybe this has already been done?

Anyways, at around 4am, I woke up.  

My vitals were being taken again.  Squeeze, jab.

My nurse softened my wake-up by covering me with a heated blanket.  Sweet luxuries of the night!

On my left side, beyond my curtained walls, I heard two men chatting.  Loudly.  Very loudly.

"How old are you?  You look good." One tremulous voice trumpeted.

"Eighty-three." another voice blared. 

"Huh?  Eighty-five?"

"No no, I said eighty-three.  I still live on my own.  I cut my own grass even."

"Huh?  What?"

"Shhhh, boys.  Quiet down, please.  We have three girls here who have had major surgery and they need to sleep."  That was the nurse.  I love how we are all boys and girls here; it gave the whole experience a sort of kids' campout feel.  Maybe that was the experience they were aiming fo?  Marshmallows would have helped!   

Despite their warning, the boys to my left kept up their cacophonous conversation.

"I haven't drunk this much water in my life. <<slurp slurp>>, " barked the eighty-three year old.

"Huh?  Me neither.  But I need to pee before I go.  Otherwise I have to have a catheter put in.  I don't want one..." yelled the hearing impaired man.

This Recovery Room drama was like a radio play.  I listened on.

Shuffle shuffle.

"Well, I'm gonna go walk and see if that helps me pee!" bellowed Mr. Eighty-three.  

shuffle shuffle  slurp slurp

The shuffling came closer and soon I was able to match the voice with the man.  He was tall with gray thinning hair.  He wore his own pj and housecoat, not the hospital sanctioned gown that I wore.  His blue eye mask was flipped up onto his head like a jaunty pair of sunglasses and he walked with a straight posture.  He was avidly slurping at some ice water as he walked by my bed.

His eyes met mine in the dim light of that Recovery Room.

"Hiya Belle," he barked gently lifting his white, lidded cup to me in a sort of salute. 

"How's it going?" I responded and felt a smile spread wide across my face.  

He shuffled past and I never saw him again.

It was late.

I was tired but I still felt a ridiculous smile tugging at my lips.

Belle?  

I've never been called Belle before; but for that night, I felt like the belle of my own ball.  Some weird sort of ball, perhaps, where the disco lights were replaced by dim fluorescent lighting and the music was the quavering voice of a man.

But sometimes, you just gotta work with what you've got.

I slept.

"For I know the plans I have for you, " declared the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to hard you, plans to give you hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29: 11

Yet to Come:

Paul - The Wonder Husband and Perfect Care-Giver!

Jillian Michaels Ain't Got anything on Me and My Post-Surgery Workouts!

What does Succinct mean?