Surgery

Five months ago when Robert was leaving Mexico to go to Bakersfield for his back surgery, fellow team-member Phil came over for his last peer-to-peer mentoring session before the trip. Standing in the doorway, getting ready to leave, Phil asked, “So, are you nervous?” Robert had no idea what he was talking about. He certainly wasn’t nervous about the surgery and slept through the last night before surgery like a baby (not true after the surgery, of course, but that was a different story). At the dinner table tonight he asked me, “So would you know what Phil was talking about if he showed up and asked you the same question today?” My answer was, of course, YES! Fortunately this is not a competition to see who can be calmest before surgery. I lost already.

Strangely, it’s not the idea of surgery that bothers me most, or even the thought of joining the clan of one-breasted women, though I don’t look forward to that. Rather, it’s the drudgery of the long term side effects: that tingling in my feet (I was going to ask Dr. Blue and Brown about it in our meeting today, but instead I looked it up. I knew I was already in trouble for missing my Muga Scan last week, even though it was written in BRIGHT PINK on my calendar. It was right around the “Mom, I’m getting married,” time, so maybe I have an excuse, but I didn’t want to bother Dr. B&B any more than I had to. I was hoping the tingling was due to dead cells gumming up the system, an easily reversible effect like dead hair or nail cells (my nails are soft, white things)—bits that would grow back quickly now chemo’s done, but unfortunately it’s not. It’s due to damaged myelin sheaths around the peripheral nerves in my feet. The sheaths act like electrical insulators, preventing short circuits, so when they are damaged, the nerves send out false signals.) So, as I was saying, I dread the drudgery of side effects like the tingling, or the loss of sensation wherever the knife cuts, or the swelling where the missing lymph nodes can no longer process fluid adequately. I just want to get back to normal life. Anyone can put up with a short term renunciation—it’s when the loss turns into forever that you think twice. After today, some things just won’t be going back to normal.

If I were as rational as Robert, I probably wouldn’t think about the surgery at all unless you asked. I try to keep my mind occupied with other things, and for the most part, I succeed. But perhaps I should just admit the sense of loss and mourn it. We’re not just rational. There are other bits buried deep in there somewhere.

I’m glad God isn’t just rational. He mourns the losses. Even when mine is small next to the great losses of the world, making mine look utterly insignificant, he knows. He hears. I remember when my kids were little and they suffered some loss—a broken toy or a getting left behind—I would think, “But this is nothing to cry over. It’s such a small thing.” But I realized even then  their grief was real no matter how small the cause. I don’t feel much fear now, just some nervousness about waking up to pain. And then there is a sense of loss. It’s a small loss, really, but nonetheless, it’s probably best to own up to it. Women in my life who have been through this have assured me in these days that it’s doable, and I admire their courage. I know God will help me get through this, too. I know Robert is far more relaxed about this kind of thing, and that’s fine: God made both of us and handed out rationality and feelings by some logic of his own, and he’s ok with both of us.

I’m glad Robert will be there when I wake up. Then we’ll see how rational everyone is.