I woke up in my hospital room after the surgery. I was at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, Ma. The team consisted of Dr. Dirk Iglehart, my medical oncologist and Dr. Charles Hergreuter, my plastic surgeon. My friend Barbara was there in my room. Deborah had left as I recall, and my mom and my sister-in-law Helen were on their way to my room. Barbara was staying the night with me, because you know those retired nurses, you can’t keep them away.
Barbara told me that Dr. Iglehart had been in to see me, but I was not alert yet. Then Dr. Hergrueter came in. He asked to see if I was alright, and I said to him, “Doc what’s the word for the day”; he smiled and stated “Perky”. Barabara, Doc and I all laughed. I wasn’t ready by any means to even begin to consider what I just had gone through. I knew I was in a johnny, I had two drains filled with blood hanging from under the bandages and support bra that I woke up with. I felt so bad for my mom. She was 82 years young at the time, she lost my father in 2008, and my oldest brother was diagnosed with prostate cancer three months before my diagnosis. My mom couldn’t deal with the possible loss of her oldest and youngest child before herself.
The journey to the bottom of your soul,