One Glimpse

A little over two weeks has passed. I sit here imprisoned on my living room couch, right leg propped up on the ottoman finding relief from the sunburn-like pain that screams at every movement, even from flexing my thigh muscle. Moments ago I caved and downed an oxycodone with a zofran chaser. Just a few hour’s relief will hopefully be worth taking these drugs that I resist.

The thing is, my leg wound, the graft donor site, continues to be raw, red, and still has little spots where it bleeds when I cleanse with saline wound wash. I now keep it exposed 24/7 as much as possible which means I wear shorts all day and crank up the heat to 70 to make life just a little more comfortable. Dr. Fairweather told me the leg wound would be far more painful than the mastectomy site. He was right. Somehow I didn’t envision being almost 8 weeks post surgery and dealing with this raw skin. 

Caroline slathers it with Aquaphor after the evening chest dressing change and each morning I gently wash the area with saline solution-soaked gauze and more Aquaphor. On Sunday, the area seemed to me to  show signs of an infection brewing. I uploaded photos to my portal and got in touch with the plastic surgery intern on call. She was very responsive, looked at the photos, consulted with colleagues and reassured me everything looked normal, no concerns. Dr. Argarwal himself called me yesterday morning and reiterated that the photos look good, the wound looks normal for 7-1/2 weeks post surgery. So I trust the professionals and tend the wound, endure the discomfort.

In the evening of February 14th, after my last post, I gather the courage to take a shower and decide it is time to look in the mirror. The process of showering makes me cringe as water cascades over the empty, skin-grafted space and stings my thigh. My chest feels stiff, like a plate of armor has been installed where my breast used to be. I bend my head down and suds up the shampoo in my hair, my eyes closed, avoiding any chance I’ll see it in my peripheral vision. “I will look at it when I get out. Today is the day,” I resolve.

I wrap my hair in a towel and hold a bath towel around my shoulders. I stand in front of the mirror. All the logic swirls in my thoughts, “You have to see it, Donna. This is your reality. You can’t ignore what is, forever.” I resist, then slowly move the towel away. In a momentary glance I see a dark, purplish-red concave rectangle of flesh and I am horrified. I just wail at the sight, “Oh my God! It looks so horrible, Caroline!” She waits for me on the other side of the bathroom door. I cry like a baby, boohooing. I let it all out and realize this is the first time I truly feel the mournful truth of my predicament. I cry as Caroline puts new dressings on my chest and leg. I cry as I pull on my comfy pants and button my flannel shirt. 

In fact, I cry off and on for the rest of the day whenever that image flashes in my mind’s eye. Even now, as I write about this memory, I am in tears again. I’m not sure, but I think I may have had a couple of days in which I have not shed one tear, but only a couple. That horrifying glimpse was 17 days ago. I can’t bring myself to look at it again. Not yet.

Since that glimpse, I have had a follow-up visit with a nurse practitioner in Dr. Argarwal’s office. She exclaimed at how well it is healing. She debried the edges of the surgical wound. We no longer have to apply sheets of treated zero-form gauze on the chest graft, just liberally apply Aquaphor and cover it once a day. 

Caroline continues to amaze me with her ability to see and touch what I cannot bear to even glimpse. She is so gentle, caring, empathetic. Almost every time I recline on the couch and she proceeds to care for and change the dressing, I shed tears. “You’re doing so good, Mom. I know it’s hard. I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” she says.