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The whole thing made me very thirsty
By STEPHANIE LAW
Staff Writer Kennebec Journal & Morning Sentinel Monday, August 06, 2007

Third in a series of columns about one woman's journey through the often-scary world of breast cancer diagnosis and treatment.

I had a routine mammogram a few weeks ago that revealed a suspicious group of calcification cells that sometimes signal a problem. The next step was a stereotactic biopsy, which uses a special computer to guide a needle to the suspicious cells, and the doctor takes a sample.

A laboratory analysis revealed some cancerous cells and I was scheduled for a lumpectomy, where a surgeon takes out a section of tissue to see how widespread the cells were.

My instructions before the lumpectomy were to not eat or drink anything after midnight. I didn't, but I did push the envelope a bit — I had a pulled pork sandwich on a whole wheat bun at 11:45 p.m., and washed it down with a Diet Coke.

I was at the hospital early the next day, had a wire inserted in my breast so the surgeon could find the bad cells (similar in discomfort to the stereotactic biopsy, but I was sitting in a chair, so it really was much better).

Writing these columns is going to be therapeutic for me and a learning experience for you. So, I'll share all the gory details.

The wire insertion is done in conjunction with another mammogram to pinpoint the trouble spot for the surgeon. A a shot of Novacaine is next and then the squishing machine.

The technician left to develop the X-rays. A doctor came in, and, following the path indicated by those X-rays, inserted a wire about 4 inches long. Another few pictures, another wait. Then the bad news. I had moved (probably by breathing — oops) so they had to start over.

Out comes the wire, another series of X-rays, more waiting, wire insertion No. 2, another few pictures, more waiting. It took about 90 minutes (good thing I was sitting down.)

Finally, the doctor hit the mark and I was nearly ready for surgery. No high-tech protection for that piece of wire that was sticking out of me about an inch. Instead, a paper cup was taped to my skin to cover the wire.

The nurse anesthetist said he was going to give me something to "make my eyeballs stupid." (I never did find out what he meant by that) and the next thing I remember was a couple of people yelling at me to wake up.

I got the feeling they'd been yelling for quite a while. I finally opened my eyes, mainly because they were giving me a headache. Besides, I was very, very thirsty.

The surgery went well, but my left lung had fluid in it and no one could figure out what it was. Before I woke up, I'd had a coughing fit and might have inhaled something they'd put on my tongue. I also finally admitted I'd eaten that pulled pork sandwich at 11:45. I could have inhaled some stomach acid from that, they decided.

The fluid was interfering with my breathing. They wouldn't let me go home until I could breathe. Good decision on their part, I'd say. So they found me a bed, and the nurses monitored my water intake and outflow and blood oxygen level until everything was as it should be.

Ironically, the doctors said the two months that I had quit smoking was hurting me more than helping. If I had still been smoking, or had quit years ago, I might not have had the problem, or it would have been a lot less severe. Weird, huh? Quitting smoking can be hazardous to your health — if you have to have general anesthesia, anyway.

Four days later, my surgeon called with the pathology report: "The not-so-good news is that it's a lot more pervasive than we thought it was."

"So," she said, "it looks as if we're talking mastectomy." No talk about radiation or chemotherapy, just jump right in with "lop it off."

I swallowed hard, then said I guess we'd figure it all out when I went to see her for my post-op checkup. Stephanie Law is a copy editor at the newspaper and lives in Sabattus.

NEXT: Deciding the best course of action.

Contact Stephanie Law by e-mailing: doverfox51@midmaine.com

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