NOTE: If you haven’t read the first two installments of this unexpected series, My first mammogram saved my life and Respect my coping skills and I’ll respect yours, I encourage you to read them. It’s not necessary to read them in order to understand what’s happening, but they will give you more context.

My Needle Localized Lumpectomy was scheduled for this past Friday afternoon. Because I’m just a tad OCD, I had gathered all my necessary hospital supplies the previous afternoon. I had my Health Care Power of Attorney, fully-charged iPod, knit hat, socks, all the info they’d given me about the surgery, and my favorite honey lavender lip balm. My alarm clock was set for 5:30 a.m. because I’d been told I could eat until 6:00 a.m. and I went to bed early (for me). Oh, and my house was perfectly clean, of course.

After my super early morning breakfast and a couple more hours of sleep, I picked up my mom and we headed to Lake Forest Hospital. I was quickly shown to a day surgery room where I was instructed to remove all of my clothes and put on the sexy hospital gown. Thank goodness this one was cotton and not those horrendous paper ones you get at the doctor’s office. My room was lovely with relaxing music and images playing on the television. Out the window I could see a tree on fire in its autumnal red. I listened to a guided meditation on my iPod and focused on gratitude to maintain my zen-like calmness.

A nice nurse came and took my vitals and then gave me an IV to keep my hydrated. When will they figure out how to do this without needles? Luckily, they inserted it into my arm and not in my hand. My vitals were great with my blood pressure nicely normal in the 120/85 range. Yay me!

The absolute best part of the pre-op process was the two Valium I was given. I tried to take just one, but it didn’t do anything, so I happily accepted pill number two. Pill number two was the Magic Happy Pill. Unfortunately, each pill was only served with a paper shot glass of water. I was super thirsty and they only gave me to shots. Ugh.

Shortly after the happy pills kicked in, Dr. Ganshirt arrived to chat about my surgery. We were still on-target for 2:00 p.m. and he expected everything to run smoothly.

One of the most annoying parts of surgery is everyone asking my name, birthdate, doctor’s name, and what part of my body we’re operating on. I must have answered those questions no fewer than 957,658 times. Fortunately, I made life easy for everyone with the sign I made and taped to my right breast. It gave everyone a good laugh, including me.

About 1:15 I was taken for the needle localization prior to surgery. When you have a biopsy, they leave a minuscule clip  at the location of the biopsy for future reference. This clip would tell the surgeon what area to remove. In order to know how to get there, Dr. Miller, the head of radiology, inserted a hollow needle with a wire that essentially served as a roadmap. Although I’d never met Dr. Miller before, the ultrasound technologist, Jackie, and both nurses, Iva and Laura, were both part of my previous testing and remembered me. This made life much easier for me.

When I arrived back in my room, I discovered my dear friends Paula and Kay were chatting with my mom. It was truly touching to me that they cared enough to want to see me off and help me remain calm in the face of surgery. I won’t soon forget this kindness.

A few minutes later I was wheeled down to surgery where I had to personally learn the names and roles of each of the professionals taking part in my operation. Don’t ask me their names because I honestly don’t remember. My biggest concern was that it would only be Dr. Ganshirt actually cutting into me. I was promised about 487,625 times that he was the only one operating on me. Everyone else had very specific jobs. The two most important, aside from my surgeon, were obviously the anesthesiologist, Dr. McCune, and the guy who wrapped me like a mummy in heated blankets.

Allegedly Dr. McCune informed me that he was beginning to give me the meds that would put me under, but I evidently I quickly forgot. The next thing I knew, I was screaming at him that we could not do the surgery because I WAS VERY DIZZY AND THE ROOM WAS SPINNING. He calmly told me this was because of the meds and was normal. I swear it’s a wonder that man woke me up.

The surgery itself took about 45 minutes and they closed me up with Steri-strips covered in gauze and tape and lots of ice.

Once I woke up, I was quickly whisked back to my room where my mom was waiting for me and I was given the choice between saltines and water or graham crackers and water. I’m fairly certain prisoners eat better. I wanted ice cream and the meatloaf I’d planned to have for dinner, but was told that I should stick to clear broth soups and sandwiches.

Barely able to put coherent sentences together, it was time to get dressed and go home. Although I was adamant that I was just fine and dandy where I was and wanted a nap, I was this was in no one’s plan for me. I relented and stumbled into the bathroom to change clothes like a still-drunk person on a Saturday morning getting ready to do a walk of shame. They did send me home with a prescription for Norco (combination of Hydrocodone and Acetaminophen), so yay for that.

In the end, the surgery went well. Nothing out of the ordinary and Dr. Ganshirt did not have to take any lymph nodes, which I understand to be very good news.

Mom and I ended up having dinner at the Full Moon, one of my long-standing favorite restaurants, where I enjoyed a BLT and some chicken rice soup. We were home by 5:30 p.m. and I was in bed by 6:00 p.m. Although I slept in fits and starts, I ultimately got between 10 and 11 hours of sleep that night. And I didn’t even need to take the Norco.

I have to give huge kudos to Northwestern Lake Forest Hospital and everyone associated with it. They worked hard to keep both my mom and me informed on what was happening and what I could expect post-op.

Next up: The recovery

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