Facing Your Fears Will Only Make You Stronger

Friday, September 22nd was the big day. Although the last surgery went as good as it could have (aside from the screwdriver-sized needle to the back), I dreaded this one even more. The fear of being admitted for what the nurse suspected could be anywhere from 4-7 days plagued me. I figured I would probably be in the worst pain I ever encountered if they were to admit me, and, as I mentioned before, I dreaded being bed-bound for such a long period of time. Never once, however, did I question the decision I made or worry myself about the outcome. I knew it was the right decision and I wasn't about to talk myself out of it.

My mom and I made our way to the CBR hospital once again, me with 10,000 thoughts racing through my mind. I asked my mother 100 questions that she gave confident answers to, although she was really just trying to calm me down. I felt like a child again--asking my mother questions like she was an all-knowing being and accepting whatever answers she gave as the only possibilities. This temporarily disguised the fear that haunted me. What will it feel like when I wake up? Is it going to be excruciating pain or bearable pain? What's it like to stay in the hospital overnight?

Soon we arrived at the hospital and executed a similar procedure as last week. This time, however, before I went to the surgery waiting area I had to return to nuclear medicine. Today they would take a set of pictures of the chest and underarm area so that they could find the path of yesterday's radioactive dye injection. I was directed to lay on a stretcher-like bed with my left arm stretched out to the side. The technician moved a large machine over the top of my upper body, which was to snap the pictures. Too bad these pictures don't work like our normal point and shoot cameras. I was told to lay without moving until the picture was finished--which turned out to be about 5 minutes. The problem is that I have a mild case of chlaustrophobia. This large machine was positioned an inch from my face and enclosed from that area down to my stomach area, or thereabouts. And, unfortunately, there wasn't just one picture taken! There was a series of about 4 pictures taken, which meant I had to lay under this machine for about 20 minutes. This is no walk in the park for someone who dislikes closed-in spaces. Again, there was a lot I had to overcome. Challenges is every sense of the word. I convinced myself that this was nothing compared to what I was about to undergo. I convinced myself that I was tougher than I thought and that this was all a figment of my imagination. I decided to embrace this moment and to face my fears. I had nothing to lose. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths ... soon it was all over.

Dr. Isles came prancing in the room with a smile from ear to ear once again to take a look at the resulting pictures. She pointed to the monitor and I saw what appeared to be a white, glowing pea on the screen. This was the sentinal node that they were going after, and it had absorbed the radioactive dye perfectly. Awesome! No more bee stings! Dr. Isles said she would send the pictures up to Dr.Butler who would use them as a sort of map during the surgery. And off I went back to that large familiar room to wait for the OR to call for me ...

The remaining difference between today's procedures and that of last week's was that instead of only waiting half an hour in my johnny shirt and robe for the OR to call me, this time I waited for two and a half hours. The thoughts and questions recapped in my mind as they did on the journey to the hospital--I was sure my mother was getting tired of me by now. But no--she remained completely patient, comforting, and supportive of me ... holding my hand, hugging me, and reassuring me that everything would be fine. I am very thankful to have such a patient and selfless mother.

When they finally called me to the OR it was 4pm. I took a big gulp and, with my mother at my side, I made my way to same waiting area where I first met Craig the anesthesist last week.