Part 6: I’ll Take It
Bruce and the kids landed back in Zurich on Wednesday, exactly two weeks since that fateful call in Coop and five sleeps since my surgery.
The lead surgeon, Dr. B, came to see me later that day. She announced that she came with news, and then she shared the pathology results that we were anxiously awaiting: cancer had spread into a ligament that attaches the uterus to the body. It was too small to be detected in the CT scan, and Dr. B hadn’t found it during the surgery. No cancer was found in my lymph nodes, and no cancer cells were found in the washings they removed from my body. Dr. B explained that this small spread is due to proximity and is deemed “regional spread” rather than metastasis, and that I went into surgery stage 2A and came out 2B.
Quick as a flash, I thought, “I’ll take it,” like someone was going to take it away from me. The relief was enormous — at least I wasn’t stage 3. It was almost as good as it could get, and I felt like I had won against all odds. I could have just as easily been stage 4. How could I be the luckiest person in the world and end up no further advanced than 2B? I thought “It’s good enough. I can work with 2B.”
Recovery from The Big Surgery was hard. Far harder than I ever could have imagined. The first time I stood up and walked, I made it to the bathroom and fainted in front of the sink. I woke up with a nurse holding my torso and each leg held by a doctor as they carted me back to bed — I was still in a hospital gown and nothing else — oh, the indignity. The next day I tried to stand up again, but it was too soon after the drains in my belly had been removed, and the incisions opened up and spewed bloody fluid all over my nurses— and this happened twice. Once again, I needed to wait another day before getting upright. I started having difficulty taking full breaths, and the nurses explained that I was accumulating fluid in my lungs, a result of lying flat for too long combined with all the water they had pumped into me to raise my blood pressure. They gave me a device to exercise my lungs. Not being able to take a full breath was scary, and I worried that I was getting weaker day by day, not stronger.
The next day I successfully got out of bed, and the nurses weighed me. I was shocked to see that I was 74 kilos (163 pounds)— heavier than my highest pregnant weight! I had entered the hospital at 60 kilos (132 pounds) and hadn’t eaten anything but clear broth for several days, so I was carrying at least 15 kilos (33 pounds) in water weight. The first time I showered, I couldn’t believe the size of my backside — the water retention in my backside overshadowed any swelling in my belly. My body was huge, just not in the places that I thought it would be!
Things turned a corner from there on out, and I could see an improvement each day. Slowly, I achieved the milestones necessary to go home:
Thursday — They removed the IV in my jugular that had been a literal pain in my neck. They also removed my epidural and the pain relief that went with it.
Friday — They removed my catheter, and I showered for the first time. A shower! A shower! I felt human. I put on a dress and dried my hair. I took a picture of myself in the mirror and looked at it after I returned to bed, a reminder that I would be okay.
Saturday — I went to lunch with Bruce and the boys at the hospital restaurant. I walked there pushing my IV, wearing my belly binder as tight as possible. Outside the cocoon of my room, I felt vulnerable and weak, but alive. So very alive.
Sunday — Dr. B took out my 25 staples and the IV line in my hand and for the first time, I was unattached from everything. My body was just me again, not me connected.
Monday — I went home. Ten days. Ten days of dependence. Ten days of being in the hands of these exceptional medical professionals, who got me from guts spilled out on the surgical table to heading home. Incredible. I felt so, so grateful.
A week later it was Halloween, and I joked about using my impressive scar as a costume, painting blood pouring out of it or hands escaping from it. The kids didn’t think it was funny, but I sure did. I kept threatening to do it, and they grumbled, “Oh Mom, stop it.” Later that night, they ran around the neighbourhood collecting oodles of Halloween candy and ingesting obscene amounts of sugar. It was a wonderful return to the chaos and normality that is my beautiful family.
