It’s been almost two weeks since my exchange surgery – the one I enthusiastically bounced into the operating room for.

Imagine Tigger hopping merrily along on his striped tail yelling, “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!”

That was me all through the halls of Hopkins that morning.

I was all smiles from the entrance to the OR. It was, after all, “my new boob day.”

I was even telling the nurses in pre-op that they should rank the procedures of the day to determine who had the coolest surgery. I was certain I would win. Apparently, my competitive spirit extends even into pre-op holding areas.

I was genuinely excited. Partly because these expanders felt so unbelievably archaic that it made me wonder what in the world women endured 54 years ago when my grandmother had her mastectomy. No wonder she went flat. So yes, I was thrilled to be getting them removed.

But more than that, it felt like I was finally nearing the end of this emotionally heavy chapter.

I had mentally labeled this surgery as “the fun one” in the ranking of life-altering medical events. I’d finally get back to normal-ish.

And oddly enough? I wasn’t worried. Not about the IV. Not about the pain. Not even really about anesthesia. Which is shocking considering anesthesia and I are no longer on particularly good terms after my body apparently decided to develop a progressive intolerance to the magical sleeping cocktail. My anesthesiologist promised he’d try something different this time. He even warned me it would burn going into the IV. I didn’t even flinch. Like… who am I? Guess the mastectomy removed my fear of medical procedures right alongside my breast tissue.

My surgeon came into pre-op to draw all over me again. And every time this happens I think: Haven’t we already discussed the plan here? I’m fairly certain there was only one surgery option happening in that OR. But Sharpies remain a very important part of the process. So draw away, sir.

I said “love you” to my husband and off I went.

They played my song…Three Little Birds, while they positioned me on the table. It was go time!

And that anesthesiologist wasn’t kidding – it absolutely burned. But before long I was counting backwards like it was New Year’s Eve and the ball was about to drop. I think I made it to seven.

I woke up sluggish, which was expected. And just like after my first surgery, I instinctively reached for my chest. But this time?

I smiled instead of sobbed.

And immediately knew everything was going to be okay.

Now unfortunately, the miracle anti-nausea potion I had been promised didn’t exactly work. And while I wasn’t in much pain from the actual surgery, the nausea and anesthesia fog hit me hard. This surgery was outpatient, thankfully, because I will always choose recovering at home over a hospital room.

That morning I had confidently calculated I’d be back in my nest of blankets and pillows by 1pm.

It was actually closer to 5pm by the time everything was said and done. At the time, I didn’t think much about why it took so long. That explanation came later.

I may have also been slightly overenthusiastic. Or perhaps just happily living in denial…a place I am very comfortable visiting.

I read my post-op instructions while slowly nibbling my way through an entire box of saltine crackers and sipping ginger ale. For the record, 140 crackers is an aggressive amount of saltines. But when you’re nauseated for four straight days, it seemed reasonable.

This round, the actual procedure wasn’t really the hard part. It was the anesthesia hangover. I could barely stay awake for more than two hours at a time. I felt like a newborn baby – eat. nap. repeat. Thankfully that part eventually passed.

But buried in those post-op instructions was the return of my old nemesis…

Restrictions. Ten-pound lifting limits. Minimal overhead movement. No pushing. No pulling. Definitely no jumping jacks and much to my chagrin, no planting summer annuals.  

Logically? Completely understandable. Emotionally? Absolutely rude.

And restrictions are far harder to follow when you don’t actually feel terrible. When you’re in pain, your body naturally slows you down. But when you feel mostly okay? You start convincing yourself you can absolutely carry all the grocery bags in one trip. Which, for the record, remains my preferred lifestyle. Meanwhile my husband has threatened multiple times to physically tie me to a chair.

Well…Six days post-op…I sprung a leak.

Photos were taken. Dr. Google entered the chat. And eventually, an actual message was sent to my medical team.

At my post-op appointment, my incredible surgeon explained why I was so swollen and bruised and why my collarbone skin felt like it had been stretched halfway over my head. Turns out the surgery had taken three times longer than expected. And much longer than he wanted.

I apparently developed an impressive amount of scar tissue after my first surgery. Now my surgeon did not use this analogy…But in my mind, it sounded like he needed a machete to hack through a jungle of scar tissue vines creating capsular contractions.

And all that extra work caused additional trauma, inflammation, and fluid buildup. Which then needed somewhere to go.

Enter…

The leak.

Now despite the title of this blog, no actual Flex Tape was involved.

He stitched me up instead.

In true to Shannon fashion – I dramatically overreacted to the idea of stitches. I told the team they were probably going to need to lay me down before I ended up passed out on the floor.

But then I remembered…I have no feeling. Like none.

So he chuckled a little, they laid me back and stitched me up and I literally didn’t feel a thing. Not even him touching me. Which somehow remains both fascinating and deeply strange.

The bigger concern now is infection. Because even a tiny opening along an incision line becomes an entry point for bacteria. And in my situation, infection wouldn’t just mean antibiotics. It would mean another surgery. Which absolutely nobody wants.

So yet again, my plans were derailed.

Trip canceled.

Stay close to the surgical team.

Behave myself.

And every single person reminds me of the same thing:

I am still very much in critical post-op recovery.

Two weeks is not “back to normal.”

It’s still very much “sit down and stop trying to reorganize your life.”

That might be the hardest part of this entire process for me.

Not the surgeries.

Not the scars.

Not even the leaking.

The stillness.

I am not blessed with the still gene, or the patience gene. But I do have a solid dose of the stubborn gene.

My instinct is always to push forward – zero or 100.  Fix it. Move. Do. Recover faster.

However, healing apparently doesn’t care about my timeline. Or my personality.

So for now, I’m trying to listen.

To my doctors. To my body. To my husband. To the giant metaphorical “sit down and behave” sign the universe keeps throwing at me.

While I’d really prefer this chapter to hurry up and wrap itself up neatly…I also know rushing healing rarely ends well. So I’ll stay still. Probably begrudgingly. And definitely with snacks.

One more surgery down the road – but I don’t want to think about that one right now.

Right now it’s healing, antibiotics and rest.

And if you see a car blocking my driveway – well just know desperate measures were taken and I was forced to sit still! Shannon 3.0 is still loading – and hopefully ready soon!