Surgery

I go to see my internist's partner for my preoperative examination. He has to ask me a series of required questions about my health. I answer "no" to the laundry list of questions about whether I have or have ever had any problems with my eyes, allergies, heart, bleeding, kidneys, stomach and every other part of my body. He looks up and tells me I'm very healthy. "Indeed," I tell him. "Aside from cancer, I'm fine. A model of health, really."

On September 2, Boris and I pull up to the Breast Center at Cedars at 730am. My surgery is scheduled for 900am. I'm already crying as I'm filling out paperwork. A nurse who butchers my last name calls me from the waiting room and takes me to get changed into my gown. She leads me to a bed in the recovery area of the surgery center and prepares my i.v. I am the worst patient, hate needles and cringe as the needle slips into my hand. I feel the icy liquid running up my arm and get nauseous. Gross. A volunteer comes to congratulate me on my pregnancy. I cry as she asks me how far along I am. My voice cracks as I tell her I'm 13 weeks.

I hear a baby crying and start sobbing as I see several nurses wheeling a crib into the recovery room. I think that the only thing worse than being pregnant with cancer is a sick baby.

Boris joins me in the recovery room and the anesthesiologist introduces himself. He says "so you're 14 months pregnant. My wife is pregnant, too." I try not to be bitchy as I correct him about my pregnancy and inform that a pregnancy is 10 months long, not 14. And unless his wife has cancer, I don't really care that she's pregnant. We have nothing in common. He talks to us about the risks of anesthesia to the fetus. I cry. When Dr. Funk comes to my bed she says, "tears already?" Ummmm - yes, tears already. I'm fucking pregnant with cancer. You are about to slice me open and take out lymph nodes that I need. Wouldn't you cry? She tells Boris and I that because she's removing so many lymph nodes, I'm going to have a drain put in and gives us brief instructions about the drain. I say goodbye to Boris and am wheeled away to the operating room. I remind Dr. Funk that I do not want lymphodema (permanent swelling caused by removal of the lymph nodes). She says that there's only a 1% chance of getting it - not to worry. I have to remind her that I've been on the wrong end of every 1% chance so far - so that's not reassuring. "Just do a good job," I say. The anesthesiologist tells me he's going to place a mask over my face and that's the last thing I remember.

I wake up in the same spot of the recovery room. Boris is sitting next me. Although I'm groggy and exhausted, I ask him whether the cancer has spread. He nods. I sob. He says that Dr. Funk told him that at least 2 lymph nodes look cancerous and we won't know the full extent of the cancer for 2 more days. We go home. I'm too tired and depressed to speak. Boris and I have to discuss the baby. Everyone was so positive that the cancer hadn't spread neither one of us actually thought we'd have to discuss an abortion. Even though I know this is now a strong possibility, I only take 2 Vicodin after surgery. I'd rather suffer excruciating pain than put anything possibly harmful to him in my body (um, chemo aside).

I hurt. I can't lift my arm. Or Miles. My left breast is black and blue and bloody looking. I have a disgusting drain hanging out of my armpit. I'm helpless. Boris has to help me shower and dry off. I am reminded of the first time I spent the night at his house 5 years ago. We showered together in the morning and he washed my whole body right down to my feet. This time though, it's not romantic. But it's just as tender. He changes my drain for me every morning and night. He's not phased and so loving. I keep apologizing to him because I feel like I'm ruining his life. Who could have imagined that 2 years after exchanging vows and promising to love each other through sickness and health, that we would be in this situation. Me helpless. And sick. We may have to abort a wanted child and never be able to have more. Boris reassures me over and over again that he doesn't care whether we have more children or whether I'm bald or have breasts. He just wants me to live. He tells me that he loves my brain. I tell him my brain is encased in a head full of thick, curly hair and rests just above 2 giant, perky breasts. He says, "Sharon, there are way hotter pieces of ass than you and I'm not attracted to any of them." He says "Just fight and win." And to be nice to him. He says "the next time you're about to make some snide comment, remember that I don't care what you look like, I just care about how you treat me." And he means it.

Two days later we go to see Dr. Funk. The cancer has spread to 5 lymph nodes but one node had such microscopic amounts of cancer that she's not counting it. One node was giant, twice as big as my tumor, which thankfully was small. The other nodes have very small traces of cancer in them. "That's good news," Dr. Funk says. But without full scans and knowing with certainty whether the cancer has metastasized, I'm stage IIIA. The statistics are bad. Even with chemotherapy and a mastectomy, I have a 44% chance of recurrence and 40% chance of death within 10 years. It's the rudest thing I've ever heard. "How the hell is that possible," I ask? "Why bother if I'm going to die in 10 years." She doesn't respond.

Boris and many friends keep telling me to focus on treatment, not statistics. They're just averages. But I don't know how to ignore them. I wonder if it's better to just die now so that Miles has no memory of me. I think that's better than dying in a few years and putting him through hell. My whole life I jump to the worst case scenario and usually see the negative before the positive. So I am dwelling on the 40% instead of the 60%. Every time someone says you have a better chance of living than dying, I remind them that I have a really high chance of dying. I wish they would stop telling me I'm going to be okay because really, how the fuck do they know? No one expected me to have cancer, or cancer that had spread. But I do and it did.