How I'm Spending Groundhog Day

Every 6 months or so I like to go ahead and have another cancer related surgery on a different body part. So far I've done skull, chest (duh), and uterus. This week's lucky winner is my left hand/arm. Perhaps I'll print out a blank person and color in all my various parts that have been sliced and diced. Kind of like when people print out a map of the US and color in all the States they've been to. Ok, not quite as fun as that, but I do like pretty color visuals. 

"What is this surgery for?" you ask. 

Lymphedema. 

"Ah. And what exactly is lymphedema?" you ask. 

Dang, ya'll are nosy. 

Basically, it's swelling from a damaged lymph system. Mine was damaged on the left side during my double mastectomy because in order to remove all the lymph nodes they needed to for testing, they had to dissect through multiple layers on that side to get to mine. Which made those lymph nodes pretty angry. So they decided to go on strike. If they had little picket signs they'd read, "We're a pain, we won't drain" or something along those lines. So my surgeon is just going to replace those naughty little nellies with working lymph nodes willing to do the job. And no, I'm not trying to make this political in any way with regards to workers going on strike, etc. But since pretty much every.single.thing is made political these days, go ahead and come at me. But on my right side, so I have a chance. 

I had a bout with lymphedema in the Spring of 2020. Yes, other health things actually occurred that year other than covid for some of us. It cleared up, only to rear its ugly head again in October of that year. I wore my compression sleeve nonstop, had multiple appointments with my lymphedema nurses, weeks of therapy and a lovely compression pump contraption, and lymphatic massage. All to no avail. My arm/hand remain swollen, stiff, and sore at times. David refers to it as my "Popeye" arm. And if tattoos weren't banned on a limb affected with lymphedema, you better bet your bottom dollar I'd get a little anchor on my forearm in a heartbeat. 

So last April, after all my lymphedema management options had been exhausted...my plastic surgeon declared me a perfect candidate for two procedures he happens to specialize in. A lymph node transfer and lymphovenous bypass. I, of course, was ready to get on his schedule that following week. However, when I didn't hear back from his office for a few weeks I reached out and said, "Sorry to be a pain...just checking to see if I have a surgery date yet so we can plan our Summer around it." 

His nurse replied back that unfortunately, due to covid, and OR's not being back up to full capacity, the soonest they could get me on their books was Feb 2, 2022. I remember staring at that date in disbelief. Bursting into tears. Cursing covid...who hasn't? Then bucking up and accepting what was completely out of my control. For those of you who've followed along from the get go of my diagnosis in 2018, I shared that my diagnosis was 3/22. My craniotomy/skull biopsy was 5/22, my double mastectomy was 6/22, and I started Tamoxifen on 1/22 the following year. So I had to laugh when I finally realized the coincidental significance of my 2/02/22 surgery date. One of my lifelong besties, Kelly (and her family) are runners. For their various races, 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons, and whatnot she always finds a Bible verse that corresponds to their bib numbers. I discovered an entire chapter for mine. 2 Samuel 22. David's song of Praise. Praising God for his deliverance. And specifically verse 2: "The Lord is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer." Which He most certainly has been for me throughout these past 4 years. 

David is being his sweet, albeit ornery, self. He scared the dickens out of me yesterday, causing me to jump, scream, and flail my arms. Today he attacked me while I was sitting in bed on my phone, grabbing my knee, one of my most ticklish spots, again causing me to scream and slap his arm. "You can't do that kind of stuff starting tomorrow!" I reminded him. "I know," he replied grabbing my knee once again, "That's why I'm getting it all out of my system now." 

He has been out of town every week (except holiday weeks) in November, December, & January. This is where the sweet part comes in. He made sure to be in town this week and took off all day tomorrow, even though my surgery will literally take all day and I told him to feel free to check emails, get on calls, etc. And he took off the rest of the week as well. Which I suspect has more to do with his upcoming birthday this weekend, but it was still sweet. He is giddy about being home all week so he can cook. He texted his meal plan to the fam on Sunday and said, "This is just going to be the best week ever!" Umm...except for those of us who'll be doped up on oxycodone. 

For the lymphovenous bypass, my surgeon will shoot dye up my arm through the spaces in between my fingers, map the lymphatics, and wherever the blockages are, make a slit in my arm and connect the blocked lymphatic vessels to working veins via itty bitty mini shunts. He's already warned me it takes awhile to notice a difference and it will never look like my right hand/arm. But hey, I'll be happy if I'm just able to fit my wedding ring back on my finger. And so will David. So the old single fellas will stop winking creepily at me. 

I do have a bone to pick with my plastic surgeon tomorrow, however, when I see him. During my reconstruction process he kept asking if I was sure I didn't want to go bigger. I assured him that, no, I've never been well endowed and was certainly not going to take the opportunity to do so at that time. What he didn't warn me about was that I would gain 40 pounds once starting my hormonal therapy (ok, and perhaps, my love of sweets and disdain of the gym) but MOSTLY due to my medication. And implants don't grow! Every other area of my body has spread out far and wide, except them. So now it looks like I never even got reconstruction and chose to stay flat. And I'm sure most people are left questioning my gender, especially when I run errands in sweats. I feel like there should have been a warning label of some sort. "Objects implanted in your chest don't grow proportionately with the rest of your body." 

And, of course, in true Midwest fashion, with my surgery date upon us...we're under a winter storm warning for tomorrow. Thankfully, David has a truck. Which I will most definitely be sending him out in to pick up my surgeon should he be unable to make it to the main KU campus tomorrow. 

Since most people don't know what lymphedema is, I've decided I'm going to have as much fun with recovery as I can. So when people see me all bandaged up and say, "Oh no! What happened?" I'm just going to make up various scenarios as I see fit. I'm thinking of starting off with shark attack, run over by my teen drivers, or Wordle playing paralysis.