"You like snakes?"

     It’s 7:30 p.m. on the day of surgery and I’m feeling good. The nausea from the anesthesiology is behind me. I’m no longer groggy. My urine, blue all day thanks to the dye injected in my lymph nodes, has softened to a lovely green.

     My left breast, the one I’ve been mad at since Spring Break, has altered. The nipple is still there – hence the nipple-sparing technique -- but I can feel the edges of a foreign object underneath. It’s the tissue expander. It feels like a miniature deflated kiddie pool and its placement is high on the chest.

     My breast is about half the size it was. In short, I am a 50-something woman on the right and an 11-year-old on the left. After healing, over time, this will change as Dr. Popowich fills the tissue expander to “the desired size.”  

   The kids and Ron just left after spending the afternoon watching my mouth flap open and me doze. (He took a picture, which I’m not posting.) It’s a bit after 8 p.m. The view from my window is of the west hills. One of the nurses had pointed it out earlier, but I couldn’t appreciate it then. It is a beautiful view.

    I’ll  just pretend I’m in a hotel. 

    Room service brought me a ginger ale and jello.  Lime. I haven’t had green jello since I was a kid. Definitely the best I’ve ever had. I’m hungry. Haven't eaten for over 24 hours. I make sure my breakfast is ordered.

     “Chopped” is on TV. My daughter turned on the set before they left. The remote control is easy. One remote to call the nurse, hit the lights, and control the TV. A dozen buttons or so, that’s all. I’d like one this simple at home.

     I missed the "Chopped" basket ingredients because my mind is elsewhere. 

     Nothing was found in the four lymph nodes taken at the time of surgery, but the official pathology report comes on Thursday. I get to wait.

   A nurse checks my vital signs. I don’t have my contacts in; I can’t read anyone’s nametag.

     “You like snakes?” she asks, pointing to the purple and black stuffed creature in my window.  

   “Well, not really, but my kids got that at the gift sh…”

    “A boa constrictor almost killed my sister,” she says. She motions with her hands how the snake was strangling the life out of her sister, who was a young adult at the time. “I’m from the Philippines,” she adds and her eyes grow wide. “One almost got me too. I was in the rice fields. I was only 11 years old when I saw that boa rear its ugly head.” She holds her hand limp and moves her fingers upwards slowly, mimicking the triangular head.  “It was getting ready to go for me. So I call for my brother. He comes to the rescue and kills it with a machete.”

     “Wow,” I say.

     “Chopped” is still on. One of the chefs has cut her finger. She frantically pulls on layers of plastic gloves.

     The nurse looks at my snake.  “I still hate snakes,” she says with a shudder and walks out the door.

     Tomorrow I go home.

     Thursday I'll get good news.