10 year limb-salvage surgiversary
Today marks ten years since my first cancer surgery. I was a dangerous combination of terrified and hungry when my surgeon, being something like five hours late to the hospital, strolled in and drew an X with a sharpie on my right leg. I hadn't eaten since the night before, and it was now 5pm. I begged the nurse to give me my sedative early so I could hold back the empty nausea from lack of coffee and food, only made worse by my fear that when he got in to remove my tumor, he wouldn't be able to save my leg. My aunt Jackie walked into pre-op and held me while I cried more tears than I can ever remember crying and finally said out loud, " I'm so scared."
Once my Family made their way back to the waiting room, the sedative started to kick in, and I fell into a daze as I was wheeled into the operating room; I somehow still had enough nervous in me to remind the OR team that I DID NOT want my arms strapped down until I was unconscious. Then, I thought it would be a good idea to see how high I could count before I passed out. I don't think I made it past seven. I had never spent a night in a hospital; little did I know that what should have been no more than a two-night stay would turn into twelve. From the start, my pain level was off the charts. I was in a Dilaudid haze for much of my recovery and was lucky to have my Mom, who (bless her heart) slept in a tiny pull-out bed next to me for ten of those nights. If it weren't for her, no one would have noticed the infection that was preventing my wound from healing and my pain from improving.
I don't remember everything that happened, but I know that my husband brought me pizza in the evenings after work and let my Mom and I ramble on about who our favorite nurses were and if the nasty lady from social work had come by yet. My Dad came into town and drove from my apartment to the hospital everyday. He would stay so long I was practically begging him to leave at night so I could sleep and get a break from talking. Friends sent flowers and stuffed bears; my In-laws drove into town just to spend an hour with me. These are the things I try to remember when I Think of those two weeks. The people who love and went out of their way to show me.
Unfortunately, that wouldn't be my last dance with cancer, and it wouldn't be my last surgery either. But six years later, when it was time to finally say goodbye to my right leg, metal femur, and all, we got all the cancer with it. And I was cool as a cucumber rolling into the OR. When I woke up from the anesthesia, I looked down at the blanketed bump that was less than half of the leg I once had and asked for a sandwich and a sprite. I knew I made the right choice and was thankful for the additional six years that first limb salvage surgery gave me with my right leg. During that time, I hiked and danced on tables. I made the most of that rebuilt leg with hunks of metal replacing bone. I guess you could say I'm still doing the same now. Except I have to plug this leg in at night, and it comes with fun protective accessories like gold armor.
