Turn Mommy Off

It's the day before surgery. Again. Dr. Slate calls and I tell him I hope he's not telling me surgery is canceled. He's not. He's just calling to check in and see how I'm doing. I ask him if Dr. Phillips is totally recovered. He tells me that he did 3 surgeries with Dr. Phillips yesterday and he seemed okay. "He seemed okay is not a ringing endorsement," I say. "I want to hear that he's amazing and in the best shape ever." "Of course," says Dr. Slate, "I just meant he was already okay yesterday and those surgeries were just practice for yours." I sure hope so. Everyone keeps asking me how I'm feeling and how I'm holding up with this sad tone in their voice and it's driving me crazy. I wish I didn't have to talk to anyone but my boys (i.e. Miles, Baron, and Boris).

I'm incredibly sad all day but spend the day as usual with the boys. They're going to spend the night at my parents' house since I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 in the morning. I have several discussions with Miles throughout the day about my upcoming surgery. As I'm putting him to bed and after viewing my boobies for the last time, he lays in my arms and recounts the end of his day: "Sasha push Miles. Miles sad. Miles cry. Mommy hug Miles. Sasha Sad. Mommy go hospital. Mommy have ouchie. Ouchie go away." Then it's silent for several minutes. I think he's lost in deep thought or processing really complex information. He goes on to say "Green digger. Bulldozer dig deep hole." And he continues to repeat those thoughts over and over again for a long time. We bounce from Sasha pushing him to my ouchie to the bulldozer. I kiss him a zillion times, put him into his crib and tell him I'll see him in a few days. Thankfully it's dark in the room so he can't see me crying. When I come downstairs I am ecstatic that Baron is still awake even though he should have been sleeping almost an hour ago. I get to feed him one last time. I hold him and kiss his tiny face and tell him I'll see him in a few days and that I hope he's sleeping through the night when I get back. I can think positively, right?

Boris and I have our last supper for a few weeks at our favorite sushi restaurant. We come home to an empty and quiet house and take a few pictures of the ladies before they're gone. And then we pass out from stress and fear and exhaustion. I haven't set an alarm in 2 years and nearly fall out of bed when the buzzer goes off. I'm up immediately. I brush my teeth like a madwoman because I remember Boris telling me that my breath was offensive after my lumpectomy and jump in the shower. I can't eat, don't need anything other than some pajamas as I'll be in bed for the next few days so I throw on clothes and wait for Boris.

We arrive at Cedars and register. I cross out the section of the contract allowing residents and students to "learn" on me during surgery and then am lead into the pre-op room. I meet the "anesthesiologist" who is still a resident and cross-examine him about his training and experience. He passes and skillfully inserts my i.v. causing me little pain. The real anesthesiologist comes in to meet me and asks me several questions about my history with anesthesia and whether I'm allergic to any drugs. None that I know of. Boris joins me a few minutes before Dr. Slate enters the room. He's carrying a small briefcase which he opens and empties with great care. He's a perfectionist and you can see it in everything he does. He pulls the covers around my bed and hooks them shut with clothespins to ensure total privacy. I repeatedly tell him that I don't really care who sees my boobs, but he cares and doesn't want me to be uncomfortable. He measures me and starts drawing all over my chest. He makes thick, navy markings from my neck down to my belly button, under my breasts, across the nipples. I keep looking down to watch and he keeps asking me to look straight ahead. "Your breasts hang differently when your head is down," he tells me. "You are the calmest person I've seen before this procedure," he remarks. Dr. Phillips comes in and he and Dr. Slate discuss the road map on my chest. And then they're ready and tell me they'll see me in surgery. Boris kisses me goodbye many, many times and tells me it's going to be okay. I cry as the nurse wheels me away. The anesthesiologist tells me he's going to give me something to help me relax but the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room.

I hurt. A lot. And I'm so itchy I could cry. I'm groggy but remember the nurses driving me crazy trying to take my blood pressure and my temperature. I can't help but think who the fuck cares about my temperature? Please just let me be. Boris tells me they're just trying to help. He goes home to put the boys to bed and my Dad comes to take his place as I'm being tortured by yet another nurse. This one keeps trying to do something to do my leg. It's taking forever and when she's done she pulls the sheets over my foot. But the sheets are all tangled up and it feels terrible and I can't get her to understand what the problem is. I keep asking her to pull all the blankets over my foot and explain that she only pulled the top sheet over, not the bottom sheets. She can't figure it out and I'm so annoyed. I ask my Dad to scratch my face since I can't move my arms and am almost crying as I tell him to make the nurse fix the fucking sheets. After way too many tries, she gets it. A group of nurses wheel me from the recovery room to my room.

I want to die as the nurses transfer me from one bed to the other. It's so unimaginably painful. And they're still harassing me about blood pressure and lord knows what else. I just want someone to scratch every inch of my body I'm so itchy and want to be left alone. My Dad scratches my face for an hour. Dr. Slate comes to see me and wants to know why no one else has realized I'm having an allergic reaction to the Dilaudid that's supposed to be easing my pain. "You're flushed and it's not normal to be this itchy. The nurses should have noticed this while you were in recovery," he says. He instructs the nurse to switch me to Morphine instead. And I'm given Benadryl. Thank god. What would I do without him? I complain that I'm surrounded by annoying and retarded people (my Dad excluded, of course) and am so glad he noticed what no one else did. Unfortunately, the insane itchiness lasts all night. I wake Boris up multiple times to have him scratch my face or head or leg or seriously anything he can get to. I'm too weak to lift my glass of water so I have to wake him for that, too.

I barely sleep. The nurses are in and out monitoring my temperature and blood pressure. Apparently I'm running a fever. Rather than give me a Tylenol, the nurse puts an ice pack on my head. I'm serious. It keeps falling down my face or off my head completely and I can't fix it. I have to keep calling her in to the room. "Does this actually do anything?" I ask. "It's really annoying." She swears it does and finally puts it under my head. At 6:00a.m. I realize that not only am I suffering from itchiness, but my right hand is totally numb. I tell the nurse but she doesn't seem to care. She also won't give me another Benadryl because it hasn't been a full 6 hours since my last pill. Are you fucking kidding me? I ask her if it's the same Benadryl I can buy at any drug store. It is. I ask Boris to go buy me some so I can put myself out of this misery. In the meantime, I ask her if she's told Dr. Slate that I am so itchy I'm moving my body in ways that surely can't be good for me so soon after surgery to try to relieve myself. She says "I've told him that you are really itchy." "That is not what I asked you," I snap. "I asked you if you told him that I am moving my body in ways I shouldn't because I am so itchy and have no way to feel better." She says no and says she'll tell him. "I don't believe you," I say. "I want you to call him from my room so that I can hear your conversation with him," I tell her. She agrees to have Dr. Slate call me. I speak to Dr. Slate on the phone an hour later. He tells me that unfortunately, there aren't other strong pain medications that I'm likely to respond better to. My options are to be in less pain but itch like hell, or be in more pain and itch less. I opt for the latter and am taken off the Morphine drip and put on oral pain medication. As fabulous as Percocet is, it's not really equipped to alleviate the extreme pain I'm in. He also instructs the nurse to give me more Benadryl immediately. I don't want to rip my skin off anymore, so I guess that's good. One of Dr. Phillips' residents comes to see me and I tell her about the numbness in my right hand. She says it's nothing and there's nothing that can be done. "So I just suffer in agony and get no sleep?" I ask her. Apparently.

When Dr. Slate comes to see me for the second time of the day (we heart him so much) he tells me there is no way I'm going home tomorrow. Every time I saw him prior to surgery I informed him that I was going home from the hospital in 2 days. He would always respond "I am not going to restrain you, but let's just see how you feel." I know he's right and don't argue. Crap.

As I'm telling my Dad that I've been taken off Morphine thanks to Dr. Slate since no one else around here is competent, he asks me if I remember what happened with the nurses as they were moving me in to my new bed. I don't. Do you remember asking one nurse "what part of don't touch me don't you understand? and telling another 'get away from me?'" Sounds familiar. I think one of the nurses kept touching my boob and she was killing me. "What else was I supposed to do?" I ask my Dad. "Nothing," he says. "I just think it's amazing that you were ordering everyone around and fighting for yourself even in a drug induced stupor that you can't even remember. If I ever need taking care of, I hope I have you on my side." But of course.

2 hours later I hurt less and itch less so things are looking up. Except that my hand is still completely numb and the "pins and needles" in my fingers are excruciating. I complain to anyone who will listen. My nurse thinks it's because I have been in the same position for so long and helps me stand up and sit in a chair for the first time. The tightness in my chest is so unbelievable I can't breathe. I can't believe it hurts this much to get out of bed and sit still in a chair. But it does. My right hand however feels much better. I sit in the chair for 30 minutes which I think is a miracle but the nurse doesn't find so impressive. She wants me to sit there a while longer so that someone can change my sheets but I tell her I might die if I don't lay down 10 minutes ago. I lie down and Dr. McAndrew comes to see how I'm doing. I tell her about the itching and the numbness in my hand, but that it seems to be much better. She leaves and of course my hand goes numb again. This time for hours. I get up and move around but nothing helps. I even take a walk around the floor which the nurse does find impressive. I tell my nurse a zillion times that something is wrong and that I fear my hand might fall off. Boris swears it won't. I can't sleep it hurts so badly. Finally the nurse calls a doctor. Excuse me, a resident (for fuck's sake!!!) who is as equally useless as every other resident who has come to see me. He looks at my arm and hand and touches it. He runs his finger over the bandage where my port was and asks what it is. "It's where they removed my port," I tell him. "What is this?" he repeats. OMFG. Shoot me. "Like I said 3 seconds ago, it's where they removed my port. Is something about that sentence confusing to you?" Jesus. He tells me that the numbness is nothing, that there's nothing that can be done and that it will go away in time.

I wake up after what feels like 10 minutes of sleep to my next door neighbor hacking up a lung. Boris gives me sponge bath and I feel much better. It's been well over 12 hours since my hand went numb again. Dr. Phillips' understudies come to see me and again tell me it's nothing and that there's nothing that can be done to help. A few hours later a woman comes in and introduces herself. She's from whatever department the port installation/removal is in. She starts to ask me some questions about my port. I just look at Boris in awe. He tells her that my port was removed. "Oh. Was there something wrong with it?" she asks. I am dying. "I didn't need it anymore," I say in total disbelief. "Hmm. Well when was it taken out?" she asks. "I cannot talk to her," I tell Boris. Boris tells her it was removed during surgery and this woman actually says "this surgery?" Boris nods and she gives some lame excuse about how she had to check and blah blah blah but um, my chart is on the fucking door and my surgery notes clearly state "bi-lateral mastectomy with port removal from right arm," not to mention everything at Cedars is on a centralized computer. Maybe she can't read? I tell Boris that I think the doctors affiliated with Cedars are amazing but you're totally fucked if you actually have to stay here. I seriously have never been surrounded by such stupid people, asked such stupid questions, period, let alone by people who are supposed to be taking care of me. And this is a good hospital. I seriously can't even imagine what it must be like elsewhere. I just know I wish I was at St. John's. Sad since I much prefer a mazuzah on my door to Jesus hanging over my head, but whatever.

But then that afternoon the heavens part and a beam of light walks through my door. Dr. McAndrew. I tell her that my hand has been numb forever and no one cares. She says the only thing she can think of is that she knows I had a blood pressure cuff on my right wrist for 7 hours during surgery (my right upper arm was off limits due to the port and my left arm is off limits forever) but says that there is medication I can take that might help the pain. Dr. Slate comes in a short while later. He doesn't understand why the nurses didn't call him last night and he's pissed. Me too! He wants me to see a neurologist immediately. He and Dr. McAndrew have a neurologist in my room within the hour. All is well with the world. The neurologist does a series of tests on my fingers, hand and arm and asks me numerous questions. He concludes that I probably had a very mild case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome prior to surgery (hence the numbness in my right hand after chemo). It's quite common with the late stages of pregnancy and can be induced by chemo as well. And then the blood pressure cuff squeezing my wrist off and on for 7 hours worsened everything. Great. Just what I need. Carpal Tunnel. What!? The neurologist says it will go away on its own but he orders a splint for me to wear as much as possible, but always when I sleep. Dr. Slate waits in my room until the splint arrives. He also berates the nurses (in his charming way) and instructs them that I am his private patient and they are to call him and only him should I need anything. The splint doesn't completely fix the "pins and needles" in my hand, but it makes it bearable and I nap for the first time in 2 days. Before the night shift starts, I meet my new nurse. "Just in case I need anything, I want to make sure you know," and I can't finish the sentence because she interrupts me to say that she knows she is to call Dr. Slate if I need anything at all. Phew.

After constantly being told that nothing was wrong when something was or maybe because I was mad for 2 days straight and no one understood why, several people from the "Patient Care" center come to ask what they can do to make my stay better. I'm offered the "deluxe" menu (aka hospital food on glass plates) and parking passes. In addition to being "cared for" by idiots, apparently I waited a long time for a bed. Who knew? The Breast Center also sends a gift basket which is so nice. Even the anesthesiologist comes in to see how my hand is. He reminds me that he had few options for the blood pressure cuff.

I have a computer date with Miles before I have dinner. It's the best. He's so happy to see me he's climbing up on the kitchen island trying to get in to the computer. "I love you, mommy," he yells. I die of happiness. We chat about his day and he repeatedly tells me "mommy in hospital." I feel so much better and happier after seeing him. My mom holds Baron in front of the camera and he has this hilarious look that says "what the hell is going on here?" but I tell him I love him and miss him. I hold court for dinner as several good friends bring Boris and I food and visit. I tell Boris that he should sleep at home so he can get some rest and wake up with the boys. Now that I'm able to scratch my own face and lift a cup of water, I don't need him to suffer on a hospital cot. And so my room empties and I go to sleep. For 2 hours. For some fascinating reason, my nurse wakes me up at midnight to look at my incisions. "I didn't want to disturb you while you had company," she says. My company left 2 hours ago. "So you thought it was better to disturb me while I was sleeping?" I ask her. I tell her to please leave me alone unless she needs to do something that is actually necessary and useful. I can't wait to get the hell out of here. I already told Dr. Slate that I was leaving tomorrow and barring any trauma tonight, he agreed. He said that he'd be in to see me around 11:00a.m.

I sleep for 7 much needed hours straight. I wake up to my neighbor hacking up a lung again. I get up and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dr. Phillips' minions walk in the room and I think look shocked to find me up. I lie down so they can inspect me and when they ask how I am doing, I inform them that I'm much better thanks to Dr. McAndrew and Dr. Slate. I tell them how angry I am that I suffered needlessly for 2 days and that contrary to everything they told me, there were things that could be done to relieve my pain. They should have called someone who knew what they were doing, I add. They're mostly mute and then leave.

Boris calls me and we have another computer date with Miles. This time he's far less enchanted with me. I keep telling him how much I miss and love him and after a minute of me, he starts saying "see trucks. See noisy trucks. See diggers!" After a few more minutes he yells "turn mommy off! See noisy trucks." I can't compete with YouTube videos of construction vehicles so I tell him I'll see him soon. "Bye mommy!" he shouts. Boris assures me it's a sign of his comfort with the situation and independence but it still makes me want to cry. Boris brings me breakfast, I give him a father's day gift and promise that we'll have a better celebration next year. And then as promised, a few minutes after 11, Dr. Slate enters the room. "You still want to go home?" he asks. Absolutely! He removes 2 of my 4 drains (painlessly thank goodness) and says I just have to wait for a wheelchair. The nurses must have wanted me out as soon as humanly possible because the wheelchair is outside of my room before Dr. Slate leaves. It was about the only prompt and on-the-ball thing they did my whole stay.

In less than 10 minutes I'll get to see my boys and I cannot wait!