Surgery Day

May 29: Surgery Day

The big day had finally arrived.

The night before surgery, I got a call from my oncologist with the results of my genetic testing. I don’t have the BRCA gene, which was a huge relief. But I do have the BRIP1 gene mutation – something I hadn’t been expecting. While it didn’t change my plans for breast surgery, it did mean that I’d eventually need to have my ovaries removed. One more thing to process, but for now, I tucked that away. Today was about the lumpectomy.

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Preparing for Surgery

Before bed, I showered and scrubbed with the special pre-op soap. I woke up early the next morning and repeated the routine, making sure to wash my hair extra well since I wouldn’t be able to shower for a few days. Then I pulled on the softest, comfiest clothes I could find, and just after dawn, we drove to the surgery center for my 7:00 AM check-in.

Surprisingly, I felt calm. I was ready. I wanted this chapter to begin, so it could eventually end.

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At the Hospital

The hospital gave me a private room - with its own bathroom. That little luxury made all the difference. My husband had a quiet space to wait, and I had some privacy to breathe.

My surgeon came by briefly to say hello. We talked about the BRIP1 findings, and she reassured me that everything was on track. The anesthesiologist checked in next – kind, confident, and full of calming energy. He told me my surgeon’s work was “like silk.” That stuck with me. I held onto those words.

My friend, my nurse navigator, was there to see me off. She brought a cute card. It was so sweet that she came and it meant so much to me.

The nurses started my IV in my left arm, but it hurt terribly. Later, when I woke up, it had been moved to my right arm – apparently something wasn’t right with the first one. I was grateful they caught it and fixed it while I was asleep.

They started pushing meds through my IV as they wheeled me into the operating room. I tried to say hello to everyone being introduced, but before I knew it, I was out.

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Waking Up

I woke up in the recovery room, groggy but peaceful. Soon after, they rolled me back to my private room, and I was so happy to see my husband’s face again. The nurses were gentle and reassuring, telling me I could stay as long as I needed. I dozed off and on for about an hour, slowly regaining my senses.

Eventually, I felt good enough to get dressed. The nurses went over my discharge instructions, though I was still too loopy to absorb much. Thankfully, my husband listened closely and took it all in.

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Back Home

We got home, and I was incredibly thankful it was just the two of us. I settled into the recliner and rested for most of the day. By the evening, I started to perk up and feel surprisingly okay. Tired, but okay.

I had a large bandage over the incision site and a surgical drain coming from the area near my ribcage. That drain – honestly – was the worst part of all of this. Uncomfortable, awkward, and a constant reminder of what I’d just gone through. But even with the drain, I felt like I was on the other side of the scariest mountain.

Surgery was behind me. Healing had begun.

Pre-Surgery Procedures

May 28: The Toughest Day Yet

Pre-surgery procedures started in the morning. I woke up early, showered, dressed, blended a protein smoothie, and - for the first time in weeks - took a Xanax. I needed the edge taken off for what was coming.

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SCOUT placement

First stop was radiology for SCOUT placement - a tiny tracking device that guides the surgeon to the exact spot of concern. Because I had no visible tumor, accuracy was everything.

• I sat in a chair with my breast compressed in a mammogram machine.

• Two nurses and a doctor studied the images, debating the perfect locations.

• They decided I needed two SCOUTs.

• A long, thick needle went in, the machine clamped down again, another image, adjust a millimeter, image, adjust - until both devices were finally in place.

Looking sideways and seeing two huge needles sticking out of my breast was surreal and horrifying. They finished with yet another mammogram to confirm placement. I felt exhausted and it was still first thing in the morning.

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Lymph-node mapping with radioactive dye

No breather. We headed straight to nuclear medicine.

• I lay on a wide table while the tech chatted calmly, trying to distract me.

• The doctor injected radioactive dye right at the edge of my areola. It burned so intensely that I sucked in my breath. He muttered, “If I had told you how bad it hurts, you wouldn’t have let me do it.” He was probably right.

• A scanner hovered over me, taking images to pinpoint which lymph nodes were closest to the cancer site.

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A small sweet victory

When it was finally over, my husband drove me straight to get a strawberry milkshake - a tiny reward for surviving the morning. We went home, and I spent the rest of the day resting, knowing that tomorrow is the big day.

Surgery is less than twenty-four hours away. I am scared, exhausted, and strangely relieved all at once. One more sleep, and then the real healing can begin.

Prepping for Surgery

Two Weeks to Prep: Organizing My Way to Calm

With surgery set for May 29, I suddenly had a clear two-week window to get my life in order. A mountain of hospital paperwork needed finishing, Amazon carts overflowed with “surgery must-haves,” and every checklist felt like a lifeline. Staying this organized is definitely a coping mechanism for me, but it works. The more I prepared, the calmer I felt.

I stocked up on protein smoothie ingredients, polished my vitamin routine, and decided to quit alcohol completely so my body would be in its best possible shape. For the first time since diagnosis, I caught myself actually caring for my body instead of feeling like it had betrayed me.

Most days were filled with reassuring texts and calls - “Yes, the date is set, yes, I’m feeling good about it” - and, honestly, I really was. My normal, cheerful self started peeking through again.

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May 15: A Quiet Celebration

May 15 marked our 26th wedding anniversary. We went out for dinner, our daughter joined us, and for a couple of precious hours life felt wonderfully normal. Laughter, stories, good food - exactly what my heart needed.

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May 16: Bone Density Scan

The next morning I had a bone density scan. Quick, easy, and - for once - no surge of panic. I felt strong enough to handle it, reassured by the solid path I’d chosen. Every small medical step started to feel like progress instead of punishment.

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Finding a New Rhythm

Little by little, the days began to feel ordinary again. Protein shakes, paperwork, and perfectly labeled binder tabs were my rhythm, and that rhythm brought peace. For the first time since this whirlwind began, I felt like I was truly living life again - not just surviving it

A Path Forward

May 13: A Decision and a Path Forward

It was May 13th. Just nineteen days since I first saw the word cancer in my patient portal, and I was heading into yet another major appointment - this time with the oncologist.

The moment I stepped into the building, I felt dizzy. It was the same place as the radiation oncology office, and I couldn’t shake the thought: I’m not supposed to know what the inside of this building looks like. I felt like an imposter in a world I never meant to enter.

This time, my husband came with me. In the small exam room, it was the four of us - the oncologist, my nurse navigator, my husband, and me. The oncologist walked us through everything: prognosis, recurrence rates, long-term outlook. None of it was new information exactly, but hearing it all laid out in clinical terms made my head spin. I kept drifting in and out of the moment, like I was watching someone else’s life play out. This couldn’t really be mine, could it?

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Genetic Testing and an Unexpected Twist

Before the appointment, I had reached out to some family members, trying to piece together a clearer picture of our medical history. I ended up with a long list of relatives who had faced breast cancer - more than I ever realized. Because of that family history, the oncologist recommended genetic testing. If I carried a gene like BRCA, it could impact what kind of surgery I chose.

They drew my blood right there in the office for several tests. Then, since we were already nearby, we stopped by the surgeon’s office to ask about scheduling a follow-up. And in the most unexpected stroke of luck - she was available to talk right then.

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A Plan Takes Shape

We sat down with the surgeon, and I told her: I’ve made my decision. I want to do the lumpectomy.

She was supportive and calm. She suggested we go ahead and schedule the surgery, while giving the genetic results a bit of time to come in. If anything came up in the results, we could still revisit the plan. But otherwise, we were moving forward.

We set the surgery date for May 29.

I walked out of that office feeling a kind of relief I hadn’t felt in weeks. For the first time since this nightmare started, I didn’t feel lost. I didn’t feel paralyzed. I had made a decision. I had a date. I had a plan.

And it felt like the sun finally came out.

For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I needed a Xanax or Ativan just to survive the day. I felt like myself again - not completely, but just enough to remember what calmness and hope feel like.

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Choosing to Move Forward

We went home and talked about how we had two weeks to prepare. I had already decided I would move forward with radiation. I was going to trust my doctors, trust my body, and hope I’d be one of the people who sails through it with minimal side effects. I was no longer stuck in fear. I was standing in choice.

Nineteen days. That’s all it had been since I got the call.

Nineteen days that felt like a lifetime.
Nineteen days of spiraling, crying, researching, doubting, hoping, and trying to breathe.
But now, I had something I hadn’t had before.

A way forward.

And with that, for the first time in a long time, I felt alive.

Meeting the Radiation Oncologist

 

Two Weeks Later: Living in the Fog

Unbelievably, only two weeks had passed since my diagnosis. Just two weeks — and yet I had already seen the surgeon, had a full MRI, emailed and called my nurse navigator what felt like a hundred times, and cried more than I ever thought a human could.

I remember walking through the grocery store one afternoon, barely able to push the cart. Everything around me felt surreal, like I was floating through a fog of horror and heartbreak. How was this happening to me? How was I supposed to make these enormous decisions? I couldn’t think clearly. I felt like I was always on the verge of falling apart.

I wondered if people could tell. Did I look like someone who was silently screaming inside? Could they see it on my face - that I was terrified, and suddenly face to face with my own mortality?

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The Radiation Appointment

Next up was the appointment I dreaded most: meeting the radiation oncologist. Radiation had become the monster in the shadows, the thing I feared more than anything else. I’d convinced myself it would break me.

But then I met the doctor – and she was wonderful. Calm, kind, deeply knowledgeable. She explained everything thoroughly, answered every question, and didn’t make me feel rushed or silly for being scared.

My nurse navigator came with me, thank God. She took notes, sat beside me, and anchored me when I felt like I might float away in panic. Once again, I had told my husband not to worry about coming - and once again, I regretted that choice. It turned out to be another massive, overwhelming appointment packed with information I could barely absorb.

When I got home and tried to explain it all to my husband, I just... collapsed emotionally. I was mentally and emotionally wrecked. Radiation still felt like the scariest thing in the world to me. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted all of this to disappear, like a bad dream I could shake off by morning.

But this isn’t a dream. I can’t fast-forward through it. I have to go through it. And I have to be able to live with the choices I make.

How do you make a decision when it feels like your survival is at stake?

How do you ever know if you're making the right call?

This is my actual life.

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Mother’s Day

That weekend was Mother’s Day. I didn’t feel like celebrating anything. I wanted to crawl into a hole and cry until I disappeared. I was scared. I was lost. I was mentally spiraling. I kept thinking, I don’t want to die – but I don’t want to live like this either.

The panic was constant. I felt like I was coming apart at the seams. I didn’t recognize myself anymore – not in the mirror, not in my thoughts. My mind was a war zone of fear and confusion.

This wasn’t just hard.
It felt unbearable.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, even in that awful weekend, a tiny voice kept whispering: You’re still here. You’re still standing. You’re still fighting.

And for now, that was enough.

Trying to Decide

The Weight of the “What Ifs”

Even with the good MRI news, my mind was still constantly reeling. I couldn’t stop thinking about the decisions ahead of me.

Double mastectomy?
Lumpectomy?
DIEP flap reconstruction?
Implants?
What do I do?

I just wanted to make the right choice – the one that would give me the best long-term outcome and the most peace of mind. I hoped to meet with the plastic surgeons to see if I was a candidate for any of the reconstruction options and to hear what they thought about my specific case.

But I couldn’t get in.

Their office couldn’t schedule me in time, and that delay created a lot of mental anguish. It made me feel stuck – like I was trying to plan a route without a full map. I didn’t want to rush into a major surgery decision without hearing all the options from every perspective. Not having access to that information made everything feel heavier. I wanted to be informed and confident in my path forward, but instead I felt like I was walking blindfolded through a maze of life-changing decisions.

It wasn’t just about the medical facts – it was about feeling ready, and I didn’t.

Panic, Opinions, and the Power of One Voice

At some point during all the research and soul-searching, I made my first real mistake. I reached out to a friend who had gone through breast cancer the year before. I just wanted to know how she made her decision. I wanted to hear about her experience and maybe find a little clarity in her story.

But instead, the conversation spiraled.

She went on a long, emotional rant about how radiation had destroyed her. She told me it ruined her body, that it burned her, that she was left traumatized and broken. She kept repeating how horrible it was, and the longer she talked, the more terrified I became. I was already feeling confused and vulnerable, and her words pushed me into a full-blown panic. I had to get off the phone.

I didn’t need this. I wasn’t in a place where I could filter or process someone else’s trauma. I was still trying to make sense of my own.

After that call, my fear of radiation skyrocketed. I suddenly thought, “I need to do whatever it takes to avoid this.” And that only made things more confusing. I didn’t know if I could handle the recovery from a double mastectomy and reconstruction - the idea of that kind of major surgery felt overwhelming and never-ending.

The strange thing is, I had already spoken to two other friends who went through radiation, and both had said it was totally manageable. “A breeze,” one of them said. But the emotional intensity of that one phone call eclipsed everything else. Her passion, her pain - it shook me, and it stuck.

Finding My Center Again

Feeling totally spun out, I decided to reach out to the doctor who had first sent me for my mammogram - the one who’d given me such wise and grounded advice from the beginning. I sent her a long, rambling text, pouring out my fears and confusion.

Her response stopped me in my tracks.

She gently reminded me that the least amount of surgical intervention is often the best, and that trying to outrun every possible bad outcome is impossible. Every path has risks. Every choice has trade-offs. The real question is this: What can I live with? And importantly, the truth is, every day our bodies are fighting off cancer cells. All of us, all the time. I can't expect to outrun it, I have to face it.

That simple truth helped me breathe again. It helped me start to quiet the noise and come back to what mattered most - not fear, not pressure, but clarity. Slowly, I began leaning toward the lumpectomy. It felt less like giving in, and more like choosing a path I could manage, recover from, and live with.

It wasn’t the easy choice. But it felt like the right one.