I can’t believe it’s been a week since my surgery. It seems like ages since my last post in the late and wee hours of Sunday night and Monday morning when I was growing increasingly anxious as reality was setting in about what I was getting ready to undergo. I simply hadn’t had the time to think about what was getting ready to happen, especially with the, now dubbed, Ha Ha Sisterhood that has been established with my mom, sister, friend, Karen Daniel (who started the Kicking Cancer’s Ass initiative), and WBIR’s Erin Donovan and Robin Wilhoit, who all kept me hysterically distracted and laughing during so many minutes leading up to March 1.
Then came Monday, March 1. I woke up after only a couple hours of sleep contemplating if and, if so, how life was getting ready to change – for both the short and long term. I took my bath, made my bed, spent time with Reilly…every minute felt like I was in slow motion, and I tried desperately not to let my mind go to that dark place everyone facing any type of serious surgery thinks about. ‘I was going to do great and be on the flip side in no time’ was all I tried to tell myself – but the reality is you wonder with every action if it will be your last – the last time you make your bed, feed your dog, turn off a light. However brief, mortality makes its presence known, and unnerving thoughts and fear inevitably creep in. I can’t imagine that’s anything but normal. It’s just a matter of being able to control those thoughts and resolve to think about nothing other than what’s happy and good.
At 7:30 my mom pulled in the driveway, and I loaded every little thing I wanted to go with me and surround myself with – including a basket I’ve used to put the thoughtful gifts of encouragement and cards people had given me the past five weeks. Collectively, it has become a source of strength when I look at it. It reminds me I’m not alone, and that I’m embraced with empowering thoughts and positive energy.
We stopped at Long’s Drugstore at 7:45 where friend and Knox County Clerk, Foster Arnett, was kind enough to meet me with Bill the notary after a panic text Sunday evening. After I took care of business, Long’s owner, Hank Peck and master egg scramblers, Sharon and Ruth, sent me along with their well wishes. My dad in tow, we headed to the hospital.
Arriving early, I checked in and reunited with the Channel 10 members of the Ha Ha Sisterhood who followed me to Nuclear Medicine where I received radioactive dye that would provide the “mapping” for my lymph nodes. Let’s just say, Dr. Bell was correct in warning me there would be a few surprises along the way. This was one of them. I anticipated another “simple” IV for the dye, but, instead, I learned the needle would go into the cancerous breast (insert small scream of fear here). The nurse said it would be painful so my mind pictured a large screwdriver in proportion to an ant. Erin’s hand went numb from me squeezing, camera’s kept rolling and, truth be told – a lot of drama for not that big a deal. This is not my attempt at martyrdom, because it was no picnic and I’ve had way more fun, but I love when you prepare for the worst and it’s just not that bad. There’s also a lot to be said about the calming approach of Dr. Karen Wells which was likely the reason why Robin and Erin also didn’t hit the floor.
After a few snapshots of the dye I headed up to the surgery floor where for an hour and a half I was in a holding room with a flurry of nurses and doctors making sure I was “Janet Testerman, born on 1/18/69, there to see Dr. John Bell and Dr. Matthew Becker respectively.” Friends and family were like a revolving door coming in to take (before) pictures and spend “just a few more minutes.” The Very (terrific and awesome) Rev. John Ross from St. John’s Episcopal and Ann Sprouse, UT Hospital Chaplain and friend, came up to spend some time and say a prayer with my family. I’ve said all along, when something of this magnitude happens, you start to check in with all things important to you. For me those things have been family, friends and faith. And to John Ross, I say “thank you” for being there for me from the beginning, for checking in and for being by my side and that of my family the day of to provide comfort, peace, discuss what’s real and exude a confidence that we all were able and needed to draw on…
…because for me the toughest part of my entire ordeal thus far has been to watch my family endure this with me – to watch them feel helpless within the confines of a disease that makes everyone it impacts, directly or peripherally, feel powerless. Perhaps that’s why I agreed to allow Kicking Cancer’s Ass to be an identity for me. It’s a mantra that has made myself and hundreds others feel empowered and in control. It has made us fightin’ mad and generated a platform for all of us to take charge, create an incentive to make a difference and establish a network of support. We are our own best advocates, but there is power in numbers. All of you have proven that.
At 11:30am it was time. I said my ‘I love you’s,’ and within 30 seconds of my magic potion, it was lights out. After an 8-hour surgery, the doctors were thrilled. There is still a road to hoe, but, one thing is for certain. On this day we made our biggest strides yet in Kicking Cancer’s Ass.
And so begins my journey of recovery and healing – and to date no one has surfaced to threaten me with anything I may have said under the guise of anesthesia.
Tomorrow will be my first post-op visit with both doctors. I will fill you on the past week’s progress and pathology reports. There was more to chronicle the first day than I thought (and a lot I still left out), and since I’m still under the influence of (you name it) meds, that’s my excuse for being so long-winded. But I now have lots of down time and look forward to catching up and checking in.
