Good News. Terms and Conditions Apply.
I have officially survived breast surgery. My breast has survived most of it.
And somewhere in the Lehigh Valley, several medical professionals are probably still discussing the woman who wouldn't stop talking.
I consider the entire experience a success.
Mostly.
But before we get to the results, which come with an asterisk large enough to require its own mammogram, I feel compelled to share a few highlights from my adventure in surgical medicine.
Because apparently, even when faced with a potentially life-altering medical procedure, I am constitutionally incapable of behaving myself.
Will the Real Medical Professional Please Stand Up?
My daughter, Breña, was my designated chauffeur, emotional support human, photographer, and emergency contact. She graciously agreed to spend the day at the hospital with me, a considerable sacrifice, considering I was about to become even less filtered than usual.
At one point, a lovely young Black orderly arrived to transport me to surgery. She was wearing scrubs and one of those disposable blue surgical caps.
She handed me an identical cap and instructed me to put it on.
I looked at her. I looked at the cap.
"How will they tell us apart?"
Fortunately, she laughed.
And that pretty much set the tone for the day.
As she wheeled me toward surgery, I mentioned that I thought Breña was in one of the waiting rooms we were passing. The orderly stopped, found her, and brought her out so we could take a picture.
She didn't have to do that. Maybe she does it for everyone. I don't know.
But I appreciated it enormously.
Breña had already made another extraordinary sacrifice on my behalf. She'd disabled the unknown-caller blocker on her phone so she wouldn't miss hospital updates.
Over the course of that afternoon, she received three political campaign calls and multiple campaign texts.
Three.
While her mother was undergoing breast surgery.
For the record, if your campaign strategy involves harassing the emergency contacts of surgical patients, you've successfully identified two voters who would prefer you never contact them again.
One of whom was unconscious at the time.
That's impressive.
Alone With My Thoughts. A Dangerous Place.
There was some kind of delay before surgery, which meant I spent considerably longer than expected in the preoperative waiting area.
I was hungry. I was bored. I had nothing to read.
And I was left alone with my thoughts. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with me understands why this is a terrible idea.
At one point, a nurse had draped the EKG wires across my chest but hadn't attached them yet.
So naturally, I started twirling them. Little circles. Spinning them around my fingers. Creating elaborate cardiovascular ribbon routines.
Every time someone pulled back the curtain to introduce themselves, they found a middle-aged woman entertaining herself with medical equipment.
I'd quickly drop the wires. They'd look mildly alarmed. We'd exchange pleasantries. And the process would repeat.
In my defense, the hospital had provided absolutely no recreational activities.
I also overheard another gentleman being admitted for surgery. Without his hearing aids, the conversation was already entertaining.
The nurse asked about previous surgeries. The gentleman mentioned a knee replacement.
Then the nurse opened his medical records.
"What about the metal shunt in your leg?"
"Oh, yeah."
"And the two hernia surgeries with mesh?"
"Oh, yeah."
Apparently, he'd also forgotten a shoulder procedure, something involving his eye, and several other medical adventures.
Each discovery earned another casual "Oh, yeah."
I don't know what kind of life you have to live for multiple surgeries to become so unremarkable that you forget to mention them, but I sincerely hope that gentleman is doing well.
Before him, another gentleman had been waiting beside me.
One thing you discover about those little preoperative cubicles is that the curtains provide approximately as much privacy as a shower curtain in a public park. You can hear everything. So I couldn't help overhearing his conversation with his surgeon.
He was facing surgery for advanced prostate cancer. The surgeon was explaining the potential consequences, including the possibility that his sexual function would never be the same. He wanted to be sure the man understood, and that his wife did too.
The gentleman assured him that they did. His wife was there, waiting for him.
When the surgeon left, I heard him make this sound.
It wasn't crying. It wasn't quite a sigh, either. It was something heavier. The kind of sound someone makes when there are no words left for what they're feeling.
And I just couldn't sit there and say nothing. So I introduced myself.
I told him I was there for breast surgery and that I'd overheard a little of his conversation. I just wanted him to know he wasn't alone.
I asked about his wife, how long they'd been married, and whether they had children. Nothing profound. No inspirational speeches or promises that everything would be fine.
Just a conversation.
Because sometimes the kindest thing you can do for another person is give their brain somewhere else to go for a few minutes.
I hope it helped him. It certainly helped me.
The World's Worst S&M Photo Shoot
Before surgery, there was the small matter of installing the homing devices in my breast.
Technically, they're called SAVI SCOUT reflectors, and they help the surgeon locate the tissue that needs to be removed.
I prefer homing devices. It makes the whole thing sound considerably more sophisticated. Like my breasts were participating in some sort of covert military operation.
Unfortunately, the installation process was less James Bond and more low-budget adult entertainment.
Picture this.
I'm contorted into some unnatural position, holding my left breast in my hand and pulling it out of the way. One woman is holding up my right breast, another is helping the doctor maneuver a needle into it, and a third is operating the imaging equipment.
There is squeezing. There is repositioning. There is considerably more bleeding than I would have preferred.
And I'm completely awake for this production.
At some point, I look around the room and announce, completely deadpan:
"I just want you guys to know this is the absolute worst S&M photo shoot I have ever been a part of."
They lost it. All of them. Including the male doctor.
Which was lovely, because if several people are going to be manhandling my breasts while stabbing them with medical equipment, the least we can do is have a pleasant atmosphere.
Unfortunately, while the entertainment portion of the procedure was a tremendous success, the actual medical portion was somewhat less cooperative.
They placed the first reflector, but the second area was too difficult to reach.
And that created a problem.
The original plan had been to remove both suspicious areas during surgery. But without a reflector identifying the second location, my surgeon couldn't reliably find it.
So shortly before I was wheeled into the operating room, she came to discuss my options. She could remove the first area, where the earlier biopsy had shown atypical cells. Or she could attempt to remove both.
But finding that second area without precise localization would mean removing a significant amount of additional healthy breast tissue. More tissue loss. More potential deformity. A potentially substantial change to the appearance of my breast.
And she wanted me to decide.
Right then. Minutes before surgery.
On one hand, I was already there. We knew something concerning had appeared on the mammogram. Why not get everything out and be done with it?
On the other hand, what if that second area was completely harmless? What if I sacrificed a significant portion of my breast for something that never needed to be removed?
And what if I chose to preserve my breast, only to discover later that the second area was something serious?
Was I making a sensible decision about avoiding unnecessary surgery? Or was I letting vanity influence a decision that could affect my health?
That's an awful lot to consider when you're sitting in a hospital gown, hungry, exhausted, and about to be wheeled into an operating room.
Ultimately, we decided to remove the first area and leave the second for further evaluation.
And now, knowing that the tissue they did remove was benign, I can't help wondering about that decision all over again.
What if we'd removed both? Would I have lost more healthy tissue for no reason? Or would we finally have the answers we're still looking for?
I don't know.
And that's the particularly uncomfortable thing about making medical decisions. You have to make them before you know how the story ends.
Modesty Is Apparently Still a Priority
Eventually, it was time for the main event.
I was wheeled into the operating room, where I was reunited with several members of my medical entourage, including Devon, a young medical student I'd met earlier.
"Hey, Devon!"
I'm not sure surgical patients typically greet staff as if they'd just spotted an acquaintance across a crowded bar, but here we were.
They positioned my bed beside the operating table and asked me to scoot over.
First, someone informed me that they needed to untie my gown.
"I didn't tie it."
"Why not?"
"Because I knew you were just going to untie it. Why would I do that?"
Seriously. I had been lying on my back the entire time. The gown opened in the back. What catastrophe were we preventing by securing it?
As I attempted to transfer myself onto the operating table, my gown and little hospital blanket kept getting trapped underneath me.
Devon and a male nurse were helping me maneuver while making a very conscientious effort to preserve my modesty.
Which was genuinely sweet. And completely ridiculous.
"Oh, yes, please do be modest. It's not like I'm going to be spread bare for all of you in the next five minutes, but this is very kind."
They laughed.
I assume someone eventually administered the anesthesia before I had time to offer any additional observations.
The Recovery Room Has Terrible Food
Because of concerns about how my body might respond to anesthesia, the medical team was being particularly careful about how much they administered.
Apparently, they succeeded. Possibly a little too well.
I woke up in the initial recovery area and spotted a male charge nurse sitting at a computer beside me.
"Well, hi! You're new!"
I scared the poor man half to death. Apparently, people don't usually wake up quite that quickly.
He asked how I was feeling and whether he could get me anything.
"I would kill for a taco."
"How about ice chips?"
"Ice chips would be perfection."
A perfectly good Chandler Bing reference, completely wasted on a man too young to appreciate Friends.
He brought me ice chips.
Then I asked whether he had eye drops because my eyes were terribly dry. Off he went again.
After we'd spent some time chatting, I asked how much longer I had to remain in this particular establishment.
He explained that patients had to stay at least 30 minutes before they could move to the next recovery area.
"Well, how much longer do I have?"
"Twenty minutes."
So, in approximately ten minutes, I'd awakened, startled a nurse, attempted to order Mexican food, negotiated for ice chips, obtained eye drops, and established a conversational relationship with my caretaker.
We still had twenty minutes to kill.
When they finally wheeled me toward the next recovery area, I passed rows of patients looking like extras from The Walking Dead.
Apparently, that was what I was supposed to look like. Instead, I'd been running my mouth and requesting refreshments.
Release Me From This Institution
When it was finally time to leave, someone offered me a wheelchair.
Absolutely not. I could walk perfectly well, thank you very much.
Michael and Breña accompanied me to the exit, where Breña offered to retrieve our car from the parking garage while I waited outside.
"What? You want me to stand on the street corner like a hooker and wait for you to pick me up? I'll just walk to the car."
In retrospect, perhaps not my finest postoperative decision.
But I maintain that I was perfectly capable of walking.
My judgment, on the other hand, may have required another twenty minutes of observation.
Fifty Thousand Dollars and a Dead Space
A few days later, I obtained the itemized hospital statement. The total charges for my surgical adventure?
$49,265.16.
Not a typo.
FORTY-NINE THOUSAND DOLLARS. And sixteen cents.
Because apparently the sixteen cents were absolutely essential to keeping the hospital financially solvent.
Now, that's the amount charged before insurance adjustments, not necessarily what anyone will ultimately pay. But the itemization was fascinating.
The operating room alone was billed at $22,496 for 74 minutes. General anesthesia accounted for another $13,341 in time charges. And my first hour in the initial recovery area? $4,602.
For that kind of money, I don't think the taco was an unreasonable request.
Perhaps my favorite discovery, however, came from reading the actual surgical report. Amid all the appropriately technical medical language was this magnificent sentence:
"Dead space was closed using a 3-0 Vicryl suture."
Dead space. That's what it's called when tissue is removed, leaving an empty area that needs to be closed.
Perfectly legitimate terminology.
But I cannot get past the fact that my surgeon apparently performed a small renovation, eliminated the dead space, and stitched up the premises.
For nearly $50,000, I feel like I should at least have received a tiny commemorative plaque.
And because apparently my hospital experience wasn't complete without souvenir photography, I also received an X-ray of the actual tissue removed from my breast.
You know those ridiculous photos amusement parks take when you're screaming your way through a roller coaster, then try to sell you at the exit? Apparently, St. Luke's offers a similar service.
Somewhere between the $22,496 operating room charge and the $4,602 recovery room experience, they managed to photograph the merchandise
The only difference is that the roller coaster lets you keep all your original parts.
The Breast Support Industrial Complex
Recovery introduced several new indignities.
First, the surgical bra.
I'd been asked what band size I wore before surgery. I had absolutely no idea. I'm fifty years old. I haven't shopped for bras based on precise band measurements in years.
I'm not strolling through Victoria's Secret looking for something that promises to lift, separate, and fundamentally change my relationship with gravity. I want something comfortable that keeps everything generally pointed in the appropriate direction.
Unfortunately, my answer resulted in a Velcro surgical contraption that appeared to have been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against breast tissue.
That thing was vicious.
And because I had to wear supportive bras around the clock, my bathroom became a miniature lingerie laundry facility.
Wash the bras. Hang them to dry. Rotate the inventory. Repeat.
I also acquired a mastectomy pillow, which is essentially a protective cushion you wear across your chest.
Very useful. Also ridiculous.
And then there was sleeping.
I'm a side or stomach sleeper. Always have been. Unfortunately, neither position was particularly compatible with my newly renovated bosom.
So I spent my nights flat on my back, surrounded by pillows, wearing an industrial-strength bra, and trying to convince my body that this was a perfectly reasonable way to sleep.
Even hugging was practically a contact sport.
Michael, who normally only stays with me part of the week, stayed extra days to help me recover. Which was wonderful, considering physical affection now required the careful positioning of protective equipment.
Nothing says intimacy quite like having to install a padded safety barrier between yourself and the person you're trying to get close to.
The People Who Carried Me Through
When I first shared my breast saga, I decided to approach it with humor, positivity, and the hope that my experience might bring a little peace to someone facing something frightening.
I wanted people to see that even in difficult times, there's room for laughter, kindness, and a little joy.
What I didn't anticipate was how much that attitude would help me. While trying to keep others from slipping into a dark place, I was keeping myself out of one, too.
And the kindness I received in return was overwhelming.
Somewhere along the way, I also produced an unnecessarily elaborate documentary starring my breasts, Righty and Lefty. Because apparently, when other people face a medical crisis, they journal or meditate. I develop characters and produce educational entertainment.
The response was so enthusiastic that people are now encouraging me to turn their adventures into a children's-style book.
I'm not entirely sure the children's publishing industry is prepared for this particular franchise.
My Bosom Support Crew became an actual thing. More than forty badges were distributed during my first weekend back at the pub.
People came specifically to see me. Others offered encouragement, prayers, and the occasional functioning arm when mine wasn't particularly useful.
My coworkers were extraordinary.
My "baby" sister sent a generous Grubhub gift card that fed Reid and me during those first few days when cooking simply wasn't happening. Possibly the most practical expression of love imaginable.
Breña devoted an entire day to chauffeuring me, keeping me company, taking pictures, and navigating the logistical circus of surgery.
Michael stayed extra days to help me through recovery, including the pillows, bras, and assorted indignities.
And then there was Tom.
Tom is a quiet, unassuming regular at the pub who comes in with his friends a few times a month. We're friendly, but not particularly close.
During my first weekend back, carrying trays was difficult. Plenty of people offered to help, and I'm sure they would have if I'd asked.
But I'm terrible at asking.
Twice, Tom simply followed me and carried the tray back to his table.
He didn't make a production of it. He didn't wait for me to ask. He just noticed. And helped. Of all the wonderful things people did for me, that quiet gesture has stayed with me.
Sometimes kindness isn't grand or dramatic.
Sometimes it just follows you across a crowded pub and carries a tray.
Benign*
And now, the news.
The pathology from my lumpectomy came back benign.
No cancer. No atypical hyperplasia in the removed tissue.
Wonderful news. Truly.
But there's an asterisk. Of course there's an asterisk.
My breast apparently has a subscription service, and the fine print is extensive.
Remember those two concerning areas on my mammograms? The first was biopsied, revealing atypical ductal hyperplasia, an abnormal growth of cells that isn't cancer but can indicate increased breast cancer risk. Surgery was recommended to make sure nothing more serious was hiding nearby.
That area was removed. The pathology was benign.
But the second area?
Still there. Still an unknown.
At my follow-up appointment, we discussed additional imaging, including another diagnostic mammogram and an MRI, with continued monitoring likely to follow.
Hormone replacement therapy is also off the table for me, and I decided against preventive hormone-blocking medication because of the potential side effects.
So yes, I have wonderful news. But hardly a tidy conclusion.
Which brings me to another question.
Was the surgery even necessary?
If the tissue was benign and the second area remains, could we have monitored both from the beginning?
I understand why surgery was recommended. The biopsy showed atypical cells, and removing the tissue helped determine what was actually there. A benign result doesn't automatically mean the decision was wrong.
But I still wonder.
I've been through surgery, anesthesia, recovery, a $49,000 hospital charge, and a deeply unpleasant relationship with Velcro.
And I'm still facing more imaging and uncertainty.
I now know what the surgery found. What I don't know is whether surgery was the only reasonable way to find it.
And I may never know.
The Part I Didn't Expect
Here's something I haven't quite figured out how to explain.
When I learned there was no cancer in the tissue they removed, I felt relieved. Of course I did.
But I also felt guilty.
Which is an absolutely ridiculous response to good medical news, yet apparently my emotional operating system has a few bugs.
I kept thinking about all the women who don't get that news. Women facing chemotherapy, radiation, mastectomies, and battles far more difficult than mine.
Why did I get to be lucky? What makes me different from them?
Nothing.
And then came another kind of guilt.
Had I overreacted? Made a big deal out of nothing?
All those wonderful people checking in, worrying about me, helping me, praying for me. Was all of that necessary?
Of course, the original biopsy was real. The concern was real. The surgery was real. And none of us knew what the pathology would reveal.
But emotions are rarely impressed by logic.
There's something else, too.
I don't entirely trust the good news yet.
Earlier in this process, I thought I'd received reassuring news, only to discover things were more complicated than I'd understood.
So when the pathology results came in, I couldn't quite celebrate. I needed to talk to my surgeon. I needed to understand the asterisk.
And even now, part of me is waiting for the next phone call, the next test, the next unexpected development.
Maybe that's why I'm not feeling the overwhelming joy I think I'm supposed to feel.
I've spent these past weeks working, laughing, talking to people, and putting one foot in front of the other.
I've become rather good at it. Maybe a little too good.
After my follow-up appointment, I came home and slept for an hour and a half. I think I'm simply exhausted.
Not just physically, but emotionally. From the appointments, the uncertainty, and the effort of staying positive while quietly wondering what was going to happen to me.
And now that I have genuinely good news, I don't seem to know what to do with it.
I feel like I should be dancing around the house, singing from the rooftops.
Instead, I wake up and think, Okay. Tomorrow is the next day.
And I keep going.
The Good Stuff
I started this journey hoping I might bring some peace to other people. I hope I did.
Several people have told me my attitude helped them, made them laugh, or gave them a little encouragement during something difficult. That means more than I can adequately explain.
But what I didn't expect was how much kindness would come back to me.
From family and friends to coworkers, medical professionals, and people I barely know, I was reminded again and again that I wasn't doing any of this alone.
And somewhere in all of that, I think I found the peace I was hoping to give away. Not necessarily peace about the medical situation. That part remains unfinished. But peace in knowing how much goodness there is in the people around me.
I still don't know exactly how to feel about the results, whether surgery was necessary, or what the next round of imaging will reveal.
And I'm definitely not sure how a hospital can charge $4,602 for recovery and still refuse to provide a taco.
But I am grateful.
For the good news. For the people. For the laughter.
And for the opportunity to keep going.
Tomorrow is another day.
My breast and I will take it from there.
*Benign, with additional imaging required. Because apparently even my good news needs a disclaimer.
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