Oh goodness. I just typed an e-mail while on pain meds. Actually, "typed" is a strong word to use there. More like, "hit wrong keys and did a ton of backspacing." Haha! So, um, we'll see how this goes.
I'm typing this while my whole family is at this really fantastic-sounding children's museum in town. Let us all take a moment of silence for Kar missing out on something fun.
Thank you. It's been a lifelong problem for me - I HATE missing out on fun stuff. Which means that I usually push myself to do things that my body isn't ready for yet. Sigh. I'm trying to be good today, though. Rest up.
The surgery went well, and everything seems to be healing up okay. I have this cool stuff called Silvadene, which has silver in it, which is supposed to help you heal faster! Cool, right? I feel so luxurious and decadent, putting ointment made of silver on my wound.
The wound itself isn't terribly painful. It's the stupid draining tube that hurts. Man, I hate those things. I shall always maintain that the worst part of baby delivery is the stupid IV, and the worst part of surgery is the draining tubes.
But I do have a funny story that I forgot to tell you about my draining tubes way back last August. If you were with me then, you might recall that the bulbs that the tubes led to were unaffectionately nicknamed the Blood Grenades, right? Because they seriously look like grenades. Filled with blood.
So I had just had my double mastectomy, and my family all went to the Paul McCartney concert (one of the best experiences of my LIFE). It's important to note here that I was on pain medication at this time. So we're going through these checkpoint things so they can make sure you're not bringing contraband or firearms or whatever into the Delta Center, and everyone had to empty their pockets. I wanted to empty mine, but they had blood grenades in them. I think any normal person not under the influence of pain meds would have just walked through and not talked about it.
But, because I was on pain meds, in my drugged up stupor, I said, "Hey, what about these grenades??"
And the guards are like, "Wait, WHAT?"
And I pulled them out of my pockets. "These blood grenades. I can't unplug them and put them in your little trays..."
I think it was my mom who came to my rescue, saying something to the effect of, "Sorry, guys. She calls them blood grenades. She just had surgery. And she's on pain pills." They waved us past without further incident.
Haha! Good times. Good times.
So yeah, the blood grenade hurts quite a bit, but not the stitched up wound itself. I still don't have a ton of feeling in my left...side. There's no breast there. Just a concave indented thing. I'm grateful that I don't have pain right there. And hopefully my decadent silver ointment will do the trick to heal it.
From the sounds of it, the tissue expander option for my left side has sailed. My skin is sufficiently ruined to make that impossible now. From what my plastic surgeon says, my only option now is to have some kind of tummy tuck type of procedure. They'll harvest skin from my tummy to make a new breast for my permanent implant. And they may do the same thing on both sides, for both breasts. They wonder if doing two different procedures for two different breasts may cause them to behave differently from each other. So the easy tissue expander option might be out the door for the right side, too. I'm getting prior authorizations and referrals and all that crap right now to see this lady who does this tummy tuck thing. I guess she lives in Portland. I don't know when the surgery will be - no idea. I'll tell you when I know.
I guess my overall feeling right now is that I'm bummed. I'm bummed that things didn't work out. I'm bummed that I have to do more of a major surgery than I had planned on. I mean, I guess I could just go without a boob there the rest of my life. I just... want to look halfway normal. I want to feel good. I want to get started teaching ballet. In many ways, I've felt like my life has been on "pause" for so, so long. It's just getting old. I was just starting to feel good enough to jog, but I've been out of commission since my skin started really burning and since I lost my left boob. Again. Sigh.
I just have to keep chanting my mantra to myself. At least I'm not dead. At least I'm not dead. Maybe I should get a less dark mantra. One that's fun to chant. Can I tell you the cutest chant my friend Rach used to do with her kids to help them clean up? I seriously love it:
Pick it up!
Decide what it is!
Decide where it goes!
Put it away!
And then her kids added a line: "It's not that hard!"
I need something like this. Maybe something along the lines of:
Get on your knees!
Pray for help!
Get on your feet!
Get to work!
It's not that hard!
I'm up for suggestions. Help me make a happiness chant, friends.