Rewards

     There are rewards in letting go.

     I let go of control prior to 7:30 a.m. surgery.

     Mumbled “see you tomorrow” to my family around 8 p.m. that night.

     The nurse unhooked my oxygen tubes a couple hours later.

     A different nurse unplugged my IV early the next morning.

     I said “so long” to the Physical Therapist, the Occupational Therapist, and my discharge nurse mid-day.

     Twenty-four hours after getting home, Ron removed the catheter for the pain pump from my chest.

     At my follow-up, the plastic surgeon peeled off the tape and bandages, except for those covering my major incision line.

     I stopped the oxycodone and supplemental meds, except for antibiotics, a week after surgery.

     This brought an immediate “sayonara” to my far, far-away land dreams and nightmares.

     And a bit of a “vamoose” to my exaggerated gaiety.

     Now, two weeks out, I want to evict the drain from under my arm. It’s irritating and limits my activities. I’m sleeping on my back because sleeping on my side hurts with a tube sewn into my flesh. Each day, I document the volume and color of fluid the drain sucks from my lymph area. The color has lightened; it’s what the nurse calls “straw” and I call “light peach.” The discharge must be no more than 30 ml in a 24-hour period in order for the drain to be removed. Lately, I find myself wishful cheating. The 20 ml I jot down is really a 22. The nine I just scribbled could really be 11, depending on the angle at which I hold the jar. Still my numbers yesterday added up to 54.

     "So is 30 a magic number?” I ask, “because this thing is really annoying. I would like to get it out.”

     The nurse tells me, “you’ve had the drain longer than the average patient but some have it for a very long time.”

     I say “okay” and make a light commentary about how the vagary of that reminds me of their discharge instructions which detail numbness, pain, tingling and various sensations one may experience that “go away in time.” I’ve had all these symptoms and still do.

     She doesn’t laugh. She says, “you’re doing a great job.” The directive from Dr. Garreau is “wait” before they take the drain out. 

     I listen.

     After all, Dr. Garreau’s words dispersed a dark cloud when she called me two days after surgery with the pathology report. “All of the lymph nodes are clear,” she said. “And the cancer is pure secretory.”   

     This is the non-aggressive, highly treatable form that most often turns up in 20-something women. This is the news – the secret-- I’d been hoping for all along. 
     She said the mass was larger than they thought, but they got it all. The chemo wasn’t effective because chemo doesn’t work on secretory cancer.

    But if there were rogue cancer cells present anywhere in my body, I figure they’re likely not there anymore. And my oncologist, Dr. Vuky, agrees.

    As for not really needing the chemo and the unpleasant side effects, I’ve let go of that.

    After all, the reward is in letting go.