Weekly Writing Challenge: Fit To Write — I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.

A mere two years after a double mastectomy, I’m facing another medical crisis. I’m not handling it gracefully. Too many crises. Dozens of surgeries. I can’t bore you with details; I have, thankfully, forgotten them.

Fake breasts

I’ve spent more time in the hospital than most interns. I’m a professional patient with the scars to prove it. When I die, they should stuff me. Put me in some kind of museum proving with enough medical attention, even the totally unfit can survive. Each doctor who redesigned some portion of me can tattoo his signature along the appropriate scar, assuming all the doctors are still alive. Probably they aren’t because I started my career on the wrong side of medicine while still a teenager and apparently am not due for retirement anytime soon.

I need a new mitral valve. I used to joke and laugh, saying the only major system in my body that continues to work is my heart. I laughed too soon. Probably jinxed myself.

I go into each surgery with fear and resignation. I know how I’m going to feel when I wake up from the anaesthesia. I will hurt. I will be sick and disoriented. I will realize I must have survived because I’m aware how totally miserable I am. Again.

Last time I woke up and the first thing I did was look down at my chest to see if I had a semblance of breasts. I did. Lumpy, not flat. Though I knew they weren’t original equipment, I was comforted by the familiarity of the landscape. With all the pain, drains and anger at my body for betraying me, it was nice to know I would at least appear — on the surface — female.

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View of Boston and Fenway Park from the Baptist Hospital

That was when I said: “Never again. I’m never going through this again.”

I should just shut up. How stupid am I? I can’t remember how many times I’ve woken from that weird deathlike anaesthesia sleep and have fought my way back up to the light. Each time, just a little weaker, a bit less sure of the future — but alive. Hanging on.

Lobby of the Dana-Farber in Milford

Lobby of the Dana-Farber in Milford

It’s too soon. I’m not ready. Maybe this time the magic won’t work. My first husband died following complications of mitral valve replacement surgery. I watched him die. After the surgical accident that killed his brain, he remained technically alive, but in a vegetative state for 9 long months. I took care of something that looked like him, but whose eyes were empty. When finally he passed completely, I and the rest of his friends gratefully wished him well on a journey he should have taken nearly a year before.

Probably no surprise that this particular surgery holds a special terror for me.

Less than two years since I vowed “Never again,”  again has come. I suppose I’ve already made the choice to let them fix me, or try anyhow (does “or die trying” sound too ghoulish?). The alternative — slowly dying while my heart becomes less and less able to pump blood — doesn’t sound attractive. An attractive option does not seem to be available. But, there’s no advantage in waiting. I won’t get younger or healthier. The older I get, the more dangerous surgery is.

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Glass shaft at the Dana-Farber.

I gave myself a little gift of time. I put off my appointment with the surgeon until the beginning of September. I need to get my head into a better space, to settle down emotionally. A few weeks of denial before I tackle another scary reality.

So for the next three weeks If you ask me, I will tell you. I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.

Too much wit

I outwitted myself. I was trying to tell the world, without being totally depressing, I’ve got some issues with my heart and am not in a good place, physically or emotionally. I’ve had a great deal of surgery, from a double mastectomy less than two years ago, to multiple redesigns of my digestive system, to remodeling of my spine … with varying degrees of success. I’m a mass of scars — literal, not figurative — and now, I seem to need a new mitral valve and who knows what else.

heartAndTest

I don’t feel well and I’m having a hard time being witty, clever, and frankly — right now — writing at all.

So I apologize for trying to set my own issues subtly in a post about A-Rod. No one even noticed what I said I guess. Regardless, I’m having trouble keeping up with this. I’m having trouble breathing. Walking. And given one thing and another, thinking. I’m confused, frightened, and not sure what I am going to do.

For now, I need to drink coffee and see if I can make my brain function. I feel like my head is stuffed with kapok.

Pain isn’t always a warning … sometimes, it’s just pain

It’s remarkable how much pain a non-lethal medical problem — like a bad disc in your back or an intestinal spasm — can cause …. while you can be incubating a heart attack, stroke, or cancer without pain or any other symptoms.

My back is never going to kill me. It’s a disaster and hurts like bloody hell. It makes life difficult, but that’s all it will do. The pain may be worse or better, but that’s it. Misery without end, but not life-threatening. I get esophageal and intestinal spasms that mimic a heart attack so well I’ve been hospitalized because of them until they were diagnosed and are now controlled by, ironically, nitroglycerin tabs. They are considered “medically insignificant,” but the pain they cause is breathtaking to the point where I can’t speak and am almost paralyzed by pain. My husband recognizes the symptoms and can flawlessly find my pills in under a minute, including running down the hallway to the bedroom, coming back, and depositing two of them under my tongue.

Meanwhile, I had cancer in both breasts, but no symptoms.

Go figure.