We head down on our weekly trip to my plastic surgeon. I have a couple of questions for Dr. Mosharrafa. Last time he referred to the large accumulation of muscle in my right armpit as "healthy tissue". I've decided this is euphemistic for something - but what? The other les pressing question is to determine his eye color. Somewhere I remember writing about his blue eyes and this time I intend to double check that. It doesn't seem right. "Perhaps they are a light amber color," I mention to a friend. "Why would I think they were blue," I wonder, struggling to picture them. "Reflection from surgical scrubs?" she suggests.
When we arrive I whisper conspiratorily to Veronica, who doubles as the receptionist and the "fill" administrator, "do you have any numbing agent like lidocaine, to soften the pain of the 'stick'?" "No," she smiles sympathetically, "we don't". I describe how the oncology nurses would spray my port to numb the stab of the needle. "I brought my own benzocaine spray," I tell her. She agrees I can try it.
She looks concerned, or at least confused by the bulge under my arm. "Has the expander slipped over here?" she asks, prodding. Obviously, this is not normal. She has the doctor come in to check me. But his story hasn't changed though he elaborates and I learn the meaning of "healthy tissue". It turns out that my muscle is almost double the thickness of normal muscle. "So maybe I come from a line of washer women," I suggest, picturing a great grandmother hunched over a wash board scrubbing madly. "Or rowers," he throws out. I look into his shining eyes, his very dark brown thickly lashed eyes, and see he is unconcerned. My summer affliction will be whittled away with the exchange surgery at the end. It sounds painful. I sigh, resigned. "More drains?" I ask. "Probably," he says. I'm sure glad chemo and radiation was such a breeze for me because nothing about my surgeries has been easy.
Veronica returns and I decide to forgo the benzocaine. She's careful to let the alcohol from the antiseptic dry and this time there is no pain. We agree to a fill on my left side only. It needs to catch up with the flap side. I stand up and look down. It is impossible to imagine anything close to a normal look in my future. And for a brief moment I wonder why on earth I am putting myself through this. One ray of hope I have gleaned from eavesdropping in reconstruction chat rooms is that, in the end, no one has regretted their decision. Hopefully, I tell myself, I will agree.
We head across town to see Dr. Kato. Entering the oncology building I feel a darkness come over me. I once saw this as a place of hope but it feels different on this side of chemo. I would like never to come back here.
I am ushered in to the phlebotomy department and Valerie greets me quietly. Hers is the name on my chart. "No blood draws from Valerie." The last time she drew blood, she left a silver dollar sized bruise. But she is it, there is no one else. "Your going to use your smallest needle, right?" I say. She puts down a half opened needle package and reaches for a smaller model, muttering something about it taking twice as long to draw the blood. But it hurts less, I mutter back.
Dr. Kato pops his head in and instructs Valerie to "room" me when she's finished. She complains that he is grumpy. "Bad day?" I ask. "No, he's grumpy all the time these days. Carla quit," she adds. Carla was his main nurse. "Because he's grumpy?" I ask. She shrugs as we follow her to the examination room. My husband seems grumpy also, but I realize he's been able to hear none of our whispered conversation and I am sympathetic to the deafness that shuts him out.
Dr. Kato enters with a tired smile and attempts to do his exam but my swollen under arm makes it impossible to check my lymph nodes. He seems annoyed and I suddenly see his world, moving from cancer patient to cancer patient hoping not to find any new concerns. He asks how I feel. "Still taking the Arimadex?" Yes, I say. I don't seem to have any side affects like I did with the first drug. He asks if I am taking Calcium and Vitamin D and baby aspirin daily. Yes, yes and yes, I say. He seems surprised my "fills" are not painful. I think I've grown so accustomed to the "too tight bra" feeling since my mastectomy, this doesn't feel much different. My blood work is good and I am told to come back in three months.
The patient ahead of me at the appointment desk is ordering a bone scan. She nervously smiles at me. "He just wants to be sure it's nothing," she tells the scheduler who makes no pretext of concern or interest. I see the woman is attempting to assure herself she is not experiencing a metastasis. How much time, I wonder. You think about those things in a place like this. But today, I feel good. I am not in much pain. My back where the muscle was removed burns and aches when I'm unsupported so I can't stand or walk too long for a while but it hurts less and less each day.
We walk out into the warm sunshine of Spring in Phoenix and I close my eyes and breath in the heady scent of grass and flowers. Nearby a mourning dove coos reminding me of lazy Hawaiian vacation days and I think to myself, it's good to be alive.
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