Being licked by an orchestra - or - NO ONE TOLD ME ABOUT MORPHINE

When the day arrived for the big show, I didn't quite know what to expect, but I was frightened. I was furious with myself for signing off on it, knowing I would potentially never look normal again. I had a few days earlier indulged my curiosity and looked at the post-mastectomy photos on my reconstructive surgeon's website, only to instantly regret it, as it rendered nothing but massacred chests and torsos. I realize those sound like dramatic descriptions, but go do a google image search if you don't believe me. Even the most state of the art reconstruction is really raising the bar on "grotesque."

The morning of the procedure, I received a deluge of kind comments from adoptive and biological family from my corners of the world. I had hoped that I would handle the day with grace, but that was a far cry from my reaction. Frankly, I was just pissed.  I was pissed that I was facing a life-changing surgery, followed by months of reconstruction, and surgeries every 10 years or so FOR LIFE.

The day before, I had read that doctors are now prescribing tamoxifen to prevent breast cancer from starting.  I felt like punching someone.

But in spite of the love and support I was receiving, I found myself surprised by my completely misplaced anger. A close friend of mine called to wish me luck, and I had to consciously stop myself from telling her to SHUT THE FUCK UP. I was terrible, really. It pains me to think about now.

In any case, I think the nurses realized that from the minute they checked me in and got me in a gown, I was a flight risk. I would convince myself I was calm and that I would get through this with composure, but I actively avoided getting on that bed. The morbid comic relief came when both my surgeons were in the room, and literally took pre-op sharpies and drew boobs on top of my existing set, as well as signed my chest for whatever liability reason. I resembled an absurd trophy. The anesthesiologist ran my IV, and before I could figure out whether they were a man or woman, I was out.

Returning to consciousness happened very much in media res as I was being wheeled to my room. I don't remember being aware of my body, but it being very difficult to move from the gurney to the hospital bed, since I couldn't lift myself on my arms. Since I was dead weight, the nurses got me and the 6 or so lines I was hooked up to situated, and made brief introductions to my soulmate for the next few days, the morphine button.

Such a brief but torrid affair we had, oh darling morphine button. We were good to each other, but also combative. 

I have never understood William Burroughs more. 

With every feeble push of that button, I felt like I was being licked by an orchestra. Although it made me violently ill, I went right back for more. I couldn't keep anything down for the first two days, until the doctors pulled me off of the morphine and put me on Norco, which was adequate, but I felt like I settled. Morphine, we'll always have Northwestern.

I overdid it the first day out of surgery, thinking it would get me discharged quicker, but it turns out that attempting to peek at my stitches, and scuttling over to the bathroom unassisted while connected to a giant IV party wasn't something I was ready for. By the end of day two, it was home time -- down two boobs, but up a silo of more Norco, anti-nausea meds, and most glamorous stool softeners you've ever seen.