Between trying to convince my brood that, yes, they do need to at least finish Junior year, Freshman year, and 8th grade year to be productive members of society, and helping them find the perfect outfits to start in, I forgot to post a post-op update. (Say that 5 times fast!)

And here's hoping this will be my last. post op. update. ever.

Because...my margins were clear! No evidence of malignancy. Music to my ears, my benign tissues, and my new implants. 

Drue was out of town with a friend for my surgery so I reminded Tate the night before that he'd be home alone, lest he channel his inner Macaulay Culkin and think he'd wished us away, "I have my surgery tomorrow and Reese will be at work."

"Oh. Where will Dad be?" he asked. 

"Uhhh...perhaps with his BRIDE of 21 years while she's under anesthesia." We may have a little more work to do preparing him for a future relationship. 

I could tell he had already moved on from the conversation and was planning in his head how to consume the entire contents of the pantry while we were gone. 

The hospital parking lot and lobby were eerily empty at 5:45am.

But I was happy to be first on the schedule. I wasn't as happy to see my brand new year older age emblazoned on my hospital bracelet.

I'm required to take a pregnancy test before surgery and am happy to report there are no little Hollaways on the horizon. Had my test been positive, I most definitely wouldn't have needed anesthesia. I would have passed out all on my own. 

Getting prepped for surgery is such a flurry of activity, questions, pokes, prods, signatures, and the ever popular getting marked up with a sharpie. My plastic surgeon and his assistant marked up my chest. Then my breast surgeon popped in and wrote "yes margins" on my right side. I thought about grabbing the marker when they left and scribbling "Thank you, have a nice day" with a smiley face on my rib cage.

I can't wear contacts during surgery and they always take my glasses off before whisking me away to the OR. This time they started to whisk me to the wrong room and I heard someone stop them before we screeched to a stop and my bed was pulled backward down the hall and pointed in the right direction. This was only mildly unsettling. Everything was blurry and I couldn't see the faces of anyone in the OR. So I just had to trust they got me to the right one. An oxygen mask was held on my face while someone stood over me watching and waiting for me to drift off. So surreal.

David ran into his old high school basketball buddy turned surgeon again in the post op area. Never fails. He wasn't even my surgeon that day. Glad they can have little reunion get togethers on my behalf.

Recovery wasn't bad at all. My only restriction is I can't lift more than 5 lbs for 6 weeks. This is a tad annoying because I feel totally fine so I tend to forget this restriction. But my plastic surgeon scared me into following it so my implants don't bust through my incisions. Everything weighs more than 5 lbs! Laundry basket, laundy detergent, our dutch oven pot David cooks scrumptious meals in but I usually wash.

Speaking of David, he took great care of me as usual. So thankful. My plan before my first surgery last year was to assign the laundry, dishes, and cleaning tasks to the kids. But he took all of it over on his own, including the cooking which he already does anyway. (No, I don't loan him out.) The other day I laid down the law to the kids that going forward they would be put back on the dishes rotation. Groans ensued. "Dad spoiled you guys all last year by doing everything," I continued. "Mom's breast  cancer journey is officially over!" David declared, "Everybody back to work!" More collective groans. So supportive, my crew. 

I did feel a twinge of domestication a few days after my surgery when I was feeling good and getting up and around more. So much so that I decided to bake a cake I'd been craving. Drue discovered it first, "What are you doing?"

"Baking a cake."

Looking puzzled, "For us? Or for work?"

Reese found it next.

"Why are you making a cake??"

"Because I want to."

"Who's it for??"

When I told her it for us, she laughed and yelled up the stairs, "Drue! Mom's actually making a cake!"

And David had to put his two cents in when he smelled it, "What did you make?"

"A cake," I said through gritted teeth.

"Huh. You just thought, 'Hey, I'll make a cake'?"

And this is why I tend to stay out of the kitchen.

The main KU campus welcomed me back with construction in the dreaded parking garage. We're talking traffic lights in the garage, one way lanes, and cones everywhere. I finally made it to the roof level, walked down a creepy stairwell, and completely by accident stumbled into the plastic surgery lobby for my follow up. Oy.

Everything is healing up well. My right side has an air pocket in it from where the extra tissue was removed. So for a few days I sounded like a 12 year old boy making armpit noises whenever I moved my arm. I was just glad it made the same noise at my appointment. I figured it'd be like taking my car to the repair shop.

Radiation did a number on my left side. So I'm not even. My plastic surgeon suggested going back in, doing some fat grafting, tucking, lifting. Um, no. I shower, dry off, and throw on my clothes. I don't pull out a level and prop it on my bosom while looking in the mirror. I'm good. They're good. And my cake was really good.

I think I'll throw my family for a loop again and go bake some brownies. Just because. 

After spending Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve mornings getting radiation, I figured I had to find a really cool way to celebrate my birthday. So I'll be having surgery bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to be clear, I'm not observing any holidays in 2020. Maybe that will unjinx me.

We'll actually be leaving the house dark and early at 0520 hours. David briefly entertained the idea of Ubering me there, until he remembered Top Golf is right across the street from the hospital. If he tries to toss his clubs in the car tomorrow I will call an uber. And remove his name from my emergency contact list.

Never in a bazillion years did I ever dream I'd be getting implants for my birthday. Whose life is this?? Hopefully this will be the end of my reconstruction. Until about a decade from now when I have to swap them out for new ones. My breast surgeon will also be taking out more tissue on one side because my margins weren't completely clear last Summer.

Please be clear. Please be clear. Please be clear. 

I am such a hopeless sap. I've had tissue expanders in since last June after my double mastectomy, which a man had to have invented. So. Uncomfortable. But even though I'm thrilled to bid them farewell tomorrow and commence sleeping on my sides again after over a year of not being able to, I'll kind of miss them. I mean, we've been through a lot together this past year. They did their job and held up well during radiation.

My plastic surgeon will be able to go in my same incision on one side (just making it a little longer) but will have to make a new incision on my radiated side. Makes no difference to me. I already feel like Frankenboobs. What's what more scar?

My super creative sister sent me a tiny little bra made of money for my birthday and wrote in my sweet card to treat myself to a nice new one. Reese peered into the box and said, "What? That's not even going to fit. How small does she think you're going?"

And, no, I won't be taking this opportunity to to go up a letter size or 2. For those of you wondering but were too embarrassed to ask. I used to blush completely discussing these types of things. My, how times have changed.

I got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago that it was time to schedule my annual mammogram. I wanted to send it back and say, "No can do. No mammos left to gram."

I also received a pre-survey questionnaire to fill out prior to coming in tomorrow. The very first question was, "Have any of the following symptoms related to your liver disease gotten worse in the last 6 months?"

Ummm...I think my first question to them in the morning will be, "Exactly what type of surgery are you planning on performing?! And since when do I have liver disease??"