Part 2: A tale of virus(es)
If you were asleep and missed Part One, go here.
March 2020
So the biopsy was done and the waiting began. Here is what I looked like after the three, two, one, FIRE episode. A bit of overkill on the bandaging initially. The right is how big the actual hole was.
A trip to Thailand had been taken. Literally, the best idea ever.
I have so. Many. Questions.
Was this boobie bump an actual cancer? Could the specialist be wrong? What was happening inside this boob? Plus the bigger questions, ya know: Why is this happening? Am I going to die? Will I keep my hair?
Cue a visit to the hospital. A very charming consultant tells me that yes, in fact, I do have breast cancer. This is probably the woman who was meant to break the news, she seems more equipped to deal with this conversation. My tumour is responsive to hormones. This is deemed a good thing. It is small. Another positive. They think they can get it all out in one go. They are confident this is the only tumour I have. I am meant to be happy. I manage to cry two tissues worth. They ask me if I would like to be part of a clinical trial. I do not, but I think I should (cause sisterhood, ya know). Then they change their minds. I am grateful. And guilty.
The next visit is back to my gyno (Frauenarzt). She is on holiday and I get her sub. The locum is 85 if he is day, he has a little black book of handwritten phone numbers and liver spots. He doesn’t speak English. (The poor wolf had to translate this conversation!) He does manage to tell me it is “very bad”. Also, that I will “get old now”. On the plus side, he knows everyone in the known world of Munich healthcare and makes a call to get me into a hospital immediately. I conduct a one tissue cry.
The surgery gets booked and meeting with surgeons and anesthesiologist ensue. My surgeon is female. I am pleased by this. Everyone in a 300m radius has seen my boob. Everyone pokes me. This is not a situation that makes me comfortable. I have tissues in my pocket constantly. My boob is drawn on with a marker. This tells me/us/everyone where the cuts will be.
I tell the surgeon that my conditions of surgery are
a. I only ever want one and
b. I want to still wear a bikini.
Friends, hospital is no fun. Period. For anyone. Ever. Add not speaking the language and not being allowed visitors (thanks, Covid, you total bitch) to the normal lack of belly laughs and you have my visit. Plus, they took me off the gucci food menu for some stupid reason that no one could explain to me.
There are ridiculous things that you have to endure before going under the knife:
- Having a piece of wire (think about a coat hanger) shoved into your tumour, with less than adequate drugs. Me :”I can feel that, it hurts”. Nurse: “It won’t later.”
- Standing with a group of 5 other half naked women, behind a room divider, in an alcove of a hospital hallway. All our arms are in the air and we are massaging our boobs. If it wasn’t so tragic, it might have been funny. I noticed that everyone was massaging their right boob and commented. Big mistake. One lady replies, “That’s because they have no hope for my left”. Oops.
- Carrying around all your own surgical notes. This digital world!
I am “only” in for 4 nights. Quite long enough, thanks. The saving graces are Netflix, a comedic duo of anesthesiologists ( “I’m not sure I am meant to be laughing at this point!” ) and my fluffy unicorn slippers that my mum gave me.
Coming up next…what happens after surgery and the continuing saga.
a 3rd culture adult 