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?