…well, every little thing was indeed all right. 

But my oh my – waking up from general anesthesia is tough.

It is this sticky fog you try to break free from, and just when things start drifting into place the quicksand of the drugs pulls you back under again. It feels like that dance is on replay for hours.

It might actually be hours. It might only be minutes. I honestly have no idea. The only time stamp I know for certain is that I went back to the OR at 7:30 a.m. on the nose and arrived through that hallway labyrinth into my room around 5:00 p.m.

Eventually the cobwebs cleared enough for me to recognize my name. The fog of anesthesia was still thick, but awareness slowly started creeping back in.

And the very first thing I did was reach for my chest.

I felt the bandages.

And I sobbed.

The kind of sob that seemed to come from somewhere deep and instinctive.

They are truly gone.

I intellectually knew that was the outcome. I had spent months researching. I signed the paperwork. I know what a mastectomy is.

But understanding something and experiencing it are two very different things.

That moment happened before I even fully registered where I was. Before I noticed the machines. Before I noticed the room. Before I noticed my amazing husband waiting with baited breath to make sure I was ok. That was the moment I knew I had made it to the other side.

Since I had regained some awareness – that was the cue to wheel me out of post-op recovery. I was transported by a lovely medical aide, his name was also Shannon – there was a theme of same names during my stay. Once I arrived upstairs and got settled into my room on the floor, dinner trays started appearing and the reality of the evening ahead began to set in.

Right around then I had a visit from my dear longtime friend. She works at Hopkins and is the one who walked this very same path herself. In fact, her experience is what led me to this surgical team in the first place. She arrived carrying the most beautiful flowers.

And unfortunately she also got to witness firsthand that anesthesia and I do not get along. My stomach decided to make that very clear during her visit. But that is the thing about forever friends. They stick around even when stomachs get turned upside down.

The recovery room was not my finest hour. And honestly, neither were the next twenty-four hours.

It was hard. Emotionally hard. Plus I hurt. And in the quiet moments between the beeps and the nurses and the pain, the reality finally settled in.

When I thought about getting to write this part of my story – there was a moment where I almost skipped this part entirely. Like if I didn’t write it down, maybe it wouldn’t feel quite so real. The recall of this part of my story is almost as hard as living it.

But this moment belongs here. Because this is the part no one really prepares you for. Not the surgery. Not the drains. Not even the hospital night.

The moment your mind finally understands what your body has already lost.

And if I’m going to tell this story honestly, I can’t leave out the parts that hurt the most.

Hospitals are amazing places and exhausting ones at the same time. On one hand, you push a button and a kind soul appears within minutes to help you with anything you need.

On the other hand, they are loud. Beeping machines. Bright fluorescent lights. Nurses checking vitals. Someone wanting more blood. Someone else examining surgical sites.

It is not exactly a place designed for deep rest or healing. But it is a necessary stop on the road.

I had to lay out a few ground rules:

My IV hand was to be avoided at all costs.  I remained one handed throughout my stay. Yes, I am ridiculous – remember I control what I control and there are a few hills I like to die on.

Number two – I get woozy and am prone to passing out.  This made the moment I got up and out of bed traumatic for everyone. I did not pass out – but that’s probably because we were walking at the pace of a snail and was made to hold onto everyone (with one hand – refer back to rule one).  

Number three – I like Jell-O, any flavor, but bring them all.

Memo number four is not actually mine – it’s Glenn’s – do not give the patient, me, the option to refuse services. Because apparently, I will try.

I turned away the blood draw tech. I turned away a nurse with a shot for me – and not the fun kind with a salted rim. And the next morning I turned away again the new blood draw tech.

After I refused the first blood draw, a charge nurse came bursting into my room informing me that it was critical and I was not allowed to refuse.

Well.

So much for keeping my blood to myself.  I reluctantly complied – with plenty of additional scolding from my husband. Lesson learned – but the thought remains, why did they not do that when I was under anesthesia? Oh, the continued mysteries.

Nothing in the hospital is actually optional.

Another fun fact about me – I get extremely nauseous after anesthesia. I shared this with everyone ahead of time and they gave me the good anti-nausea drugs. Unfortunately, those drugs did not work. So, I was sick. And hurting. Not exactly the dream combination.

I also discovered that the hospital does not allow you to order an entire dinner consisting only of dessert. Which is unfortunate, because my ideal meal at that moment was fruit cup, pudding, and Jell-O.

That will definitely be included in my patient feedback – post-surgical patients should be allowed to order whatever they want.

Thankfully the nurses had a secret stash of nursing-home-style comfort foods. Cold applesauce. Jell-O. And the absolute MVP of the evening – a mango squeeze popsicle. That thing was heavenly. Ten out of ten when your throat hurts from the anesthesia tube, your stomach is queasy, and you just had major surgery.

I spent from 5:00 p.m. until 11:00 a.m. the next morning sleeping in one-hour increments.

Though “sleeping” may not be the correct word. It was more like existing in a fuzzy state until the next beep, vital check, or nurse visit.

My chest feels like layers of numbness and pain all at the same time. During one of my fuzzy half-sleeps I described it as the Princess and the Pea. Something is bothering me that I cannot quite fix.

The drain sites are especially uncomfortable. One nurse described them as feeling like a stab wound. Not exactly the comforting analogy I was hoping for. They burn like the dickens and I will be very happy when they are gone.

And if I am being completely honest, there is something else I have not done yet.

I have not looked.

• Not at the drain sites.
• Not at the bandages wrapped across my chest.
• Not in the mirror.

At some point between the hospital gown and the button-up shirts that have now become my entire wardrobe, I realized something. There is nothing left to support. No recovery bra needed.

Just muscle and skin and surgical bandages where something very familiar used to be.

I know what the surgeons did. I agreed to it. I chose it.

But right now I do not need to see it.

Right now I am living in my own version of denial.

Not forever. Just for a little while.

Because understanding that this is only the beginning of recovery has been harder than the physical pain. And for the moment, my heart seems to be healing on a slightly slower timeline than the rest of me.

There was a brief moment where I wondered if I had made the right decision.

But then the 2% kicks in.

And there is no going back now anyway.

Only forward.

So instead of wallowing, I found myself having very detailed conversations with my care team about regional food.  My night nurse – also named Glenn – was from Philly, so we covered cheesesteaks – and when I say detail, I’m talking about which grocery store in Philadelphia to buy the correct seeded rolls, baseball stadiums, and sports loyalty between the Ravens and the Eagles.

Life gets a little strange during overnight hospital hours. Even stranger when that same nurse is helping you to the bathroom. Slightly less strange when you remember that he is, in fact, a nurse.

And through all of it, my husband never left my side.

He was supposed to go home since every Baltimore hotel was sold out. But no. This man of mine also slept in one-hour increments in an uncomfortable hospital chair and held my hand the entire time.

That is love. More on that in a minute.

Being discharged is also a bit strange. I had to pay sixteen dollars to pick up all of my prescriptions before leaving. And there were a lot of them. So many that my bag of pharmacy goodies included Narcan.

Yes – the medication used when someone overdoses.

Trust me – the chances of me needing that are approximately zero percent. I barely like taking Tylenol. Still, it was a slightly alarming addition to the goodie bag.

Before leaving, they gave me one more round of pain medication and helped me into my pink polka-dot pajamas that feel like butter.  I require only the softest of things to touch me at the moment.

My nurse gave me final instructions and asked if I had scissors at home to cut my bandages. Then she casually suggested I raid the supply cabinet for anything extra I might need. Including an extra pair of scissors.

I am fairly certain that is not part of the official hospital discharge protocol.

But earlier she had cleaned one of my drains in a way that took my pain from a seven out of ten to a level that literally took my breath away.

So maybe the scissors and alcohol wipes were her peace offering. Who knows.

Next thing I knew, I was being wheeled out by a very kind hospital volunteer. She tried to make small talk. I simply did not have it in me. She brought me to the car, my husband helped me in, and just like that we were headed home.

Headed home with a bag full of prescriptions, a husband who had not slept, and me in pink polka-dot pajamas and my new mastectomy pillow.

Recovery was officially underway.

Step one – sleep.

Step two – more Jell-O.

Step three – figure out how to exist with drains dangling off my body like strange little accessories.

Somewhere behind us was the operating room. Somewhere ahead of us was healing.

The hospital had done its job. The surgery was behind me. The hardest twenty-four hours were in the rearview mirror.

Now comes the slower part of the journey.

Learning this new version of my body.

Letting myself heal.

And reminding myself why I chose this path in the first place.

Two percent.

Sometimes the most powerful place to begin again is simply the moment you realize you made it through.