A new normal

Happy birthday to my big girl Alice who is 19 today. This time last year her 18^th party festival was in full swing in the marque on the lawn at Muirton. I never imagined that before Maisie turned 18 we would ever be facing something like this.

 The “new normal” has begun.  Maisie moved from home into halls at the weekend and with both girls away from home term times life at home will be very different.

 When the nursed asked if she could get my bed “ready for theatre” a vision ran through my head of the Mary Poppins hospital beds spinning around the arena at the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. I saw myself on the stage at the Royal Opera House with glorious golds and opulent deep red velvets. Theatre it was, and I had stage fright.

 A string of people assessed me during Wednesday afternoon before I said goodbye to Paul at 7pm. I had “nil by mouth” from 10pm Wednesday evening through to 7pm Thursday.  The day of surgery, I had a thumping headache. I had hardly slept as a fault with the next patients morphine pump meant the alarms kept going off every 15 minutes all through the night. I saw the anaesthetist at 8.30am and she gave me permission to sip water until 11am. I asked four times for water before it arrived over an hour later .I had hoped for a long relaxing shower and a moment to feel my body and remember and how it was. I had no sooner turned on the water than a voice called me. It was a hurried last shower. I was wheel chaired down to Nuclear medicine for three radioactive injections into my left breast. The morning was long and the waiting tense. The room on the ward was full, six beds, ladies gynaecological, one other mastectomy. I was last on the list for surgery. It was probably the longest, hardest day of my life. I listened to Coldplay “I will Fix You” hanging on to every word of the lyrics.  I was wheeled down to theatre at 1440hrs.

 The heat of the ward, (Aberdeen’s hottest day of the summer), dispersed as we entered the lift followed by the long cool corridors on the surgical wards. It was extremely difficult fighting back the tears. I folded my arms over my chest to rest upon my left breast for the last time. I had an overwhelming urge to jump ship, run away, escape. The lovely smiling face of the nurse talked me through the next few moments holding my hand. The clock above the door said ten to three.

 I responded to my name, eyes opening and tears rolled down my face realising it was all over.I was back on the ward at ten to six. A couple of shots of morphine and by all accounts feeling ok. I was offered tea and toast which I managed to get down me, ravenous and thirsty having also missed supper as well as breakfast and lunch. (Hospital food not changed much over the last 30 years though!) Paul and Maisie visited at 6.30pm. An hour later I was deteriorating and feeling nauseous.

 I became quite unwell just before 11pm, resettled after anti sick injections but was further disturbed when the nurse managed to empty my drain onto the sheets and not into the bowl! Two patients spent the night coughing. Sleep was minimal.

 I enjoyed the calm and comforts of the Breast Centre Lounge. I mostly had it to myself and was able to make camomile tea and watch Saturday Kitchen on TV. My mood was up and down. Dressing still covering the site of surgery although clearly very flat underneath. The drains were a little sore going in through the side of my ribs. Removal of the first drain was rather unpleasant. The second may be worse having been in longer and going all the way from my under arm to the middle of my chest.

 I was happy to be discharged on Sunday afternoon and back to home comforts, quiet and an early night! The alarm was set to wake me at 1045pm to empty the drain, hopeful it would be the magical 30ml or less to have it removed. It had come down from 55 to 42 so not quite enough yet.

This morning, Monday, Paul ran a bath for me in my bedroom, with the view over the hill and misty rain. I lit candles in the fireplace, put on music by Abel Korzeniowski and prepared to remove the dressing. This was never going to be an easy moment and it was about as good a scene as it could be for the occasion.. I soaked for a few moments then with fingers that shook, I peeled away the dressing slowly. I didn’t look down, I saw tears roll down Paul’s cheeks, not for himself but for me. The 7-8” scar was clearly visible through the soft focus of the large paper stitches, covering dissolvable stitches underneath the skin. A long flat line. No breast, no nipple, nothing. Flat skin, covering bone. The tumour and sentinel lymph node gone. The start of the recovery. The start of the “new normal”.