From the first moment my wife discovered she
had breast cancer, there was a deafening silence from the men I know. Even ones
whose wives, mothers or girlfriends had breast cancer seemed to have received a
gag order from some Central Cancer Command and did little more than mumble
about the experience. Not one to shut up for any known reason, I started this blog…That
was four years ago – as time passed, people searching for answers stumbled across
my blog and checked out what I had to say. The following entry first appeared in
October of 2013.
“It appears that the next event is breast
reconstruction!”
After the leaky
expander (http://breastcancerreaper.blogspot.com/2013/09/round-two-random-thoughts-on-breast.html),
the doctor decided that she would move up the surgery to replace the expanders
with gel implants.
That will be on
Wednesday, four days hence.
Unlike the first
surgery which was an horrendous, frightening, painful, and nightmarish experience;
this seems much calmer. While still immensely painful for my wife, I feel no
compulsion to gather forces around us in order to marshall support. My daughter
and I will be there that day and will keep the world apprised of events, but it
seems so…anticlimactic. My wife goes in for surgery in the morning, that night
we’ll bring her home…
Calm has settled
over the house after a bit of a tense morning and an afternoon of delay and
waiting. Those are all “normal” things that go with regular surgeries of any
kind whether expected or unexpected.
This one was
expected, in fact, this one was the culmination of a long, dark night of my
soul. Even as I write this, the doctor is on the phone talking with my wife.
Both my wife and daughter have headaches from an afternoon spent in the
hospital, but those are fading as the rest of the day progresses toward sunset…
The surgery itself
was anticlimactic, as I said earlier. The initial incisions done for the double
mastectomy (http://breastcancerreaper.blogspot.com/2011/04/observations-of-breast-cancer-husband.html)
provided the entry into the skin over the chest cavity. The plastic surgeon
placed hollow, plastic expanders underneath and added cartilage to act as
supports for the saline or silicone implants. Over a period of four months,
saline injections stretched the skin and made it grow.
Today the
expanders were removed and the implants settled into their new homes. http://www.fda.gov/ucm/groups/fdagov-public/documents/image/ucm259884.jpg
While we were
waiting, I shared with my daughter my perceptions of this day and the one two
years and seven months ago. On that day, me, my son, daughter and wife were surrounded
by friends and family; all were anxious, all were warm and caring, all were
THERE for us. There was food, laughter, talk, walks, lots of hugs and lots and
lots of phone calls.
There was also a
lot of terror prowling inside of me. There was anger. There was loathing – both
of self and disease. There were hours and hours and hours spent wondering what
was next; what the end result would be; how much pain my wife would suffer over
the coming days, months, and years. There was a specter over that day casting a
shadow long and far ahead. We were going into a place where we knew nothing,
could expect nothing, and could only tread with trembling limbs and faint
hearts. The end of that day, we fell into bed exhausted, forced to leave my
wife to the darkness of night, in the care of strangers, and with only the
faint blip of a heart monitor for a companion.
Today, we were
cavalier in our attendance on the surgery. The shadow was now behind us rather
than before us and as rugged as the trip was, as full of unexpected pits and
falls, as terrifying as it was…this day was nothing like that.
We laughed. Joked.
Chatted with people online and on the phone. Marveled at technology. Chatted
amiably with nurses and doctors alike. Contemplated Diet Cokes and lunches and
supper…and all the things that were normal before cancer.
We have, I think,
reached The New Normal and now we live there.
As we sat down to
lunch while my wife underwent surgery and recovery, my daughter said, “I like
this hospital a whole lot more than the other ones.”
I replied, “And
we’ve seen way more than I ever wanted to see, too, haven’t we?”
We agreed and fell
into a companionable silence, waiting and eating an (unintentional) abundance
of deserts. Once we were done, we headed back to the waiting room. It seemed
like moments and the doctor was out, telling us that my wife was in recovery
and that she’d been able to…well, the intimate details are a bit TOO intimate,
but suffice it to say that the end result was GOOD.
Truth to tell, if
anyone had told me that the whole horror of breast cancer would have reached
this point 32 months after that horrific day of the diagnosis, I would have
been unable to believe it. Knowing full well that not all cancer diagnoses have
this same ending and grieving that not everyone can experience this peace, I am
here, waiting to listen if you need to talk, thankful for everyone who reads
this blog, and willing to continue, because GUY’S GOTTA TALK – ABOUT BREAST
CANCER…(and since then, Alzheimer’s as well.)
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