Van Halen

He left me.

He came with me.

He got me checked in for surgery at 6 a.m.

He took the kids to school.

He went to open our store.

He said he’d be back after the store was closed at 6pm.

I told him I was scared of possibly needing a mastectomy; he said don’t worry about that. If you need one, we’ll get you some hooker boobs.

Who says that to their wife when she has breast cancer?

I am scared.

Why am I here – alone?

I’d rather be alone than with him – today.

But I am scared.

Scared of the hospital.

Scared of the surgery.

Scared of the unknown.

I want to know that I will be ok.

I don’t want to know that I won’t be ok.

The surgeon plays Van Halen during the surgery.

What does that mean?

When I met my surgeon and my lumpectomy was scheduled, I asked him what music he listened to when he was operating. He was caught off guard. He was a nice but reserved man. I could tell he didn’t open up to others easily or at least not to his patients. When I asked about his music, he looked nervously around the room as his nurse laughed. I looked at him and said “don’t tell me you play head banger music or hard rock when you are doing surgery!” His nurse smiled and told me he listens to Van Halen, I looked at him, laughed and said; “well…you better bring me a shirt before we do this.”

He did. The morning of my surgery, he walked in and threw me a Van Halen shirt.

The day of the surgery was long. There were delays. I wanted to get it over with, but I knew they would get to me as soon as they could. I worried about me and I worried about the patient they were operating on that kept me delayed.

I remember the waiting.

I remember being alone.

I remember feeling like I didn’t matter.

I remember crying because he left me alone. I remember thinking how he could have closed the store for just that one day… for me. I remember knowing that he never would.

I remember being cold.
I remember the pain of the all the things that must be done before the lumpectomy.  I remember the IV insertion, I remember the placement of the locator needle in my breast and I remember the pain of the injection of the dye. No one warned me until I got in there of the searing pain of the procedure. They had to inject dye into me to find the sentinel node. I remember having to lie still as they did this procedure. I remember tears streaming down my face as I fought to hold still. I remember feeling scared and so very alone.

I remember needing to go pee all the time. I always have to go pee when it isn’t convenient to go pee. Lying in the hospital bed, in that gown, with an IV. All I can think about is I have to go pee. I just went. I have to go again. What if I pee when I am having surgery and I embarrass myself? Does that happen?

My surgery was supposed to be at 7:30 a.m. It is 11a.m. I am still alone. They were not expecting the delay so they did not have a place to put me. I am in a makeshift hospital room with a big needle sticking out of my breast. In this gown.

That is where Carol and Michele find me.

I had never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

My two dear friends – Carol the nurse and Michele the yogi.

Carol, the practical one that tells me to chill out, I’ll be fine.

I can see in her eyes that she is scared for me.

Michele is the mothering, crazy-fun one that cries with me.

She is scared for me too.

They are here.

I am not alone.

They make me laugh.

“Why do you have a wire sticking out of your boob?”

“Why do you keep going to pee? You just went.”

They hug me.

I’m not alone now.

They are coming for me.

They are rolling me towards surgery.

The nurse is smiling at me and telling me how lucky I am to have Dr. Frasier for my surgeon, he is the best.

The room is so cold.

Why is it so bright?

I don’t hear Van Halen. I guess he waits until I am out before he turns on the music.

There are so many people in here.

The anesthesiologist is telling me to count backwards from ten.

I wonder if I need to go to the bathroom one more time.

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