Surgery Sucks

$40 baked ziti & "I am sorry, it's cancer"

Two nights before the surgery, I am laying in bed and my sweet husband says, “You know, if this isn’t cancer, all of this will be behind us soon.” I smile and acknowledge the possible truth in his words. I let myself sink into that real possibility. I am reminded of the reasons it wouldn’t be cancer. I am 32, healthy, it doesn’t run in my family.

All of this could be behind us soon.

My husband wraps his arms around me and for a moment, I let the possibility wash over me.

The day before the surgery, we have to travel 2 hours to New York City where I am being treated. We are waiting for a phone call from the hospital to inform us what time I need to arrive. I am a nervous wreck, both at the idea of being put under general anesthesia and knowing that in 24 hours, I will either have cancer or this will be behind us.

As my husband packs the car, my parents call me to confirm they are on their way to take care of our dog while we are gone. The type of surgery I am having is done laparoscopically which means that if all goes well, I should be able to go home the same day. I begin to feel the nerves manifesting in my stomach.

All of this could be behind us soon.

We get in the car and begin our trek to NYC. The ride is mostly silent until around the halfway point when we get the call from the hospital. 4pm surgery. My stomach turns as the logistics of the surgery are finalized. We arrive into NYC and check into our hotel. I watch as those around us, seemingly tourists, are excited to explore the cement city. It’s a few weeks before Thanksgiving and holiday buzz can be felt. For a moment, a pang of jealousy runs through me.

We settle into our room as the sounds of honking and bustling echo below. Hardly having an appetite or desire to sit in a crowded restaurant, we opt to order dinner to the room. I have to stop eating at midnight for the surgery so I suggest Italian food to fill us up. We find a place across the street and begin ordering online. “Sheesh, NYC prices are no joke,” I say to my husband as I look at a $40 baked ziti entrée. “Last meal before the big day, you’re worth it” he says as he winks at me.

I turn on the TV, an attempt to drown out the anxious thoughts running through my head. The Office is playing and it feels like the perfect humorous distraction. As my husband leaves to go pick up our dinner, I look out the window down to the busy street. The vibrancy of NYC is one to be enamored by. To anyone, it could feel overwhelming but each time I am here I feel a sense of peace and captivation.

My husband returns and is laughing to himself. “What is so funny?” I ask puzzled considering the task at hand was a rather boring one. He sets the bag down and pulls out the order of baked ziti. We both begin laughing. “Well, now the $40 makes sense.” I say as I stare at the tin tray of baked ziti, enough to feed 6 people. He ordered a $40 chicken parm, so the two of us are looking at eating for 12. We continue to laugh and I am comforted by the timing of the whimsy. We spend the night eating copious amounts of carbs and eventually drift off to sleep.

Time seemed to drag the following day but 4pm eventually arrived. As soon as we got into the hospital, things began to move quickly. I am asked to dress into a gown, put on surgery socks and a hair net. There is a swarm of people, each of them tasked to ensure I am prepared to go back to the operating room. My legs begin to shake, my body sensing that something is going on. My husband is still with me and grabs my hand in reassurance.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that the answer to all of this is already sealed. The difference in this moment is the knowledge of that answer. If I do have cancer, it’s there, and has been living inside my body. There isn’t any action I can take to change the reality I am about to find out.

Human kindness can be extremely powerful. And sometimes that power isn’t known to the one providing the kindness. To them, it may come without effort or even much thought. But that day, with those doctors and nurses, they held so much power over my experience and feelings.

My legs shaking? Let me bring you a warm blanket.

My anxiety showing? Let me reassure you that you’re in the best hands and everything will be okay.

The concern on my face? I am here to validate that this is scary and we wish you didn’t have to be here.

I hold gratitude to each and every one of those people for their kindness and ability to truly take care of someone in their scariest moments. It’s not a guaranteed experience and one I do not take for granted.

It’s time. Someone is there to roll me back to the operating room. My glasses are taken off so now the hospital becomes a blur of shapes as they wheel me back. My husband walks with us until he is no longer allowed. He pulls me in for a kiss and says, “I’ll see you soon.”

I arrive into the OR and I joke that they all look like blue blobs because I can’t see and the team begins dancing. I laugh. Dancing blue blobs about to operate on me. Dancing blue blobs slowly fading and I am out.

I wake up and it’s dark in the area that I am in. I am also alone. The anesthesia has me feeling very disoriented. I still can’t see and as I begin to shift around in my bed, my husband and our doctor show up. My husband grabs my arm and has a concerning look on his face that I don’t fully process. I can hardly remember why I am even in this hospital room. The doctor looks at me and says,

“Hi Hannah, I am truly so sorry but it was cancer.”

Oh.

“Got it, so worst case scenario.” He continues to talk about the surgery and what happened and each time there is a lull where I am suppose to respond, my brain can only say, “Got it, so worst case scenario.” My husband later tells me I continued to respond that way until our doctor places his hand on mine to provide comfort.

Maybe the reality is that “soon” is relative. Things could be behind us soon, in the lens of my entire life. Of course there are times I play out what life would look like if I had woken up to different news but I try to remind myself there could be a time when this is behind us. Maybe in 6 months, a year, 5 years, I hold onto the hope that there will be an after.