Seems like forever/seems like yesterday

It took me a while to decide if I wanted to do another 'last year' post - I recently made the mistake of reading one of those discussion boards again.  Why I do it, I have no idea.  Two popular breast cancer bloggers died this week.  There was also a gal posting about how she has DCIS (like me) and had to have a double mastectomy (like me), but didn't have anyone to take care of her (her husband died and her daughter is estranged.  NOT like me).  She was just having the perfect storm of problems, because her friends were either not willing to help or taking advantage and the therapist she was seeing kept cancelling her appointments.  Wow.  I have to stop reading this stuff -- it makes me seriously depressed.  I'm generally a plucky trouper and have little to no depression, mainly just annoyance when my bra is too tight.  But lately, I've occasionally started crying more; at work, at home, doesn't matter.  Post-traumatic stress?  Who knows?  Do I have ANYTHING to complain about?  No.  I almost feel as if I should shut the f*ck up.  But do I?  No.  Why?  I don't know.  Because I want more people to see the photos of the apartment fire?  Maybe.  To expel it from my brain?  Maybe.  To remind myself there's nothing to feel sorry about?  Maybe maybe.  But you know what?  My stuff is my stuff.  Part of me thinks I should drive up to Maine and help that poor woman, and part of me is incredulous that she had to go to a message board to get the help and support she so desperately needs.  And part of me feels like if someone happens to read this blog, they might not feel so alone.  So...here we go.

Last year, on this day, I started an adventure I'd rather not have started, thank you very much.  Having three 'procedures' over the previous five years didn't really prepare me for having a double mastectomy.  The last time I had a major surgery was 1969.  I can barely remember what happened last week, so clearly I don't remember that surgery.  The other procedures I had only required a light anesthetic, I didn't really need any major pain medication, and I was an outpatient for just a few hours.  This time, it was major anesthesia, with the tube down my throat, and major painkillers (they gave me a morphine drip).  I also had to stay overnight in the hospital.

I really only have blurred, hazy memories of the time in the hospital.  I hated to ask my mom to pay for a private room, since it wasn't covered by my insurance, but I also didn't want to have to share a room.  So my parents cashed in part of their 401(k) to get a room for me while I was in recovery.  I have the best parents in the world.  It wasn't fancy, but at least it was big, Mom could have a place to sleep and I didn't have to share with a potentially unpleasant roommate.  My mom got this picture of the view from the room.  Nice, yes?

I remember not enjoying the food they brought me--my lunch's vegetarian stir-fry was loaded with onions, and my dinner's fish wasn't completely cooked.  To the kitchen's credit, they called me and asked why I didn't eat the fish.  When I told her, she offered to send me something else, which was very nice.  But after raw fish, you kinda lose your appetite for anything.  I do vaguely remember that the breakfast pancakes were tasty.

I remember my pals coming to visit, and being so grateful for them.  I think the morphine made me pretty sick, though, because I had the dry heaves quite a lot that first night and didn't sleep much at all.  So I asked to be taken off morphine and to stay one more night in the hospital, even though the doctors on their morning rounds told me I was ready to go home that first morning post-surgery (I had been told by someone that they can't throw you out if you ask to stay) and they let me.  Thank heavens they did.

I dozed a lot and talked to a lot of doctors who checked on me.  I tried to get my mom to go out and do something, but she wouldn't, god love her.  It's just a bunch of fuzzy images, really, that I remember from being in the hospital.

I remember crying when I got my first look under the bandages, but my mom can't handle it when I cry, so I stopped (maybe that's why I have post-surgical stress now). I was so grateful that my friend with the car came to pick me up and drive me home.  But I can't even describe how exhausted I was by the time we got to Queens and then to my street.  THEN, when we saw the fire trucks, it was so surreal.  I tried to convince myself the fire trucks were at another apartment building.  Thank heavens my gal pal was also in the car with us.  She got out and sussed out what was going on.  I think I remember her saying "I have good news and bad news."  Yes, fire in my building/no fire in my apartment.  Man, what a mess.  They said I could move back in if I absolutely had to, but they didn't recommend it.  I also remember feeling suddenly so unwell and so sorry for myself.  My other pal talked me out of that pretty quickly.  In my fog, I remembered that I always pass a hotel on my way to LaGuardia, so I asked to go there until we could figure out what to do next.  We went to the Marriott Fairfield Inn: no one ever stay there, please.  And please tell all your friends never to stay there.  The picture above will help you remember what it looks like so you'll never go there.  My mom and friends went in to get me a room asap, and they wouldn't let me have a room.  Even though they told her I just had major surgery and my apartment building was on fire, she wouldn't yield.  It was about noon, and she said all the rooms were being cleaned and check-in time was 3pm.  What a maroon.  I can't believe there wasn't one room that was ready for a customer.  I didn't want any special treatment, but a little empathy would've been nice.

Luckily, my darling gal pal had an iPhone, so she did some research on finding another hotel.  We went to a motor inn really nearby, but it didn't look very nice, so we kept going.  God love my friend with the car, driving a panicking me and Mom around Queens looking for a hotel.  Finally, we went to the Marriott Courtyard, almost directly across the highway from LaGuardia.  That hotel manager, Richard, let us right in, thank god.  Everyone should always stay here and recommend that all their friends stay there.  Even though he was really nice, I'm sure Richard was thrilled to see me, zombielike, with drains hanging down from my flannel shirt, shuffling across the lobby to the room, but I had to get to a bed.

All I wanted to do was lie down.  That, I remember.  And I pretty much stayed in the hotel room for the nine days we couldn't get into my apartment.  Visiting Nurse Service had to drive out to the hotel to check me out, which was an adventure.  My mom was a rock star, with all her responsibility of draining and measuring my drains twice a day.  We watched a lot of premium cable (who knew we would catch up on the Vince Vaughan oeuvre), I developed a fondness for Let's Make a Deal, and we ordered in a lot of take-out from the only two restaurants in the immediate area.  It was a nice hotel, but they didn't have a restaurant on site, just a breakfast room and a bar (the bartenders were also very nice and let Mom order bar food before they were officially open), and there was nowhere for Mom to walk, which started to drive her insane after a few days.  Plus, she started to really worry about money.  Thankfully, her sisters sent us a care package of breakfast pastries, and then my office sent me a couple of care packages with some cash to help us out with expenses.  Once I started to get up and walk around, we decided to take the free shuttle over to LaGuardia.  What a goofball thing to do, but at least it was a change of scene for Mom.  You can maybe tell by the above photo of the view from our room that the neighborhood wasn't very atmospheric. 

Richard was very generous and lowered our room rate almost every night we were there.  We had hoped to go back to my apartment after six days, but once we got there, we knew it still wasn't ready to be lived in.  So back we went to the Courtyard, where Richard kindly gave us a different room on the other side of the hotel, for a different view.  Finally, after nearly ten days, we moved back into my apartment.

Here's what we came back to:

What a mess.  It smelled like smoke all over, so we kept a towel stuffed at the top of the door to try to keep the smell out.  It couldn't keep the noise out, though.  That fan they had in the hallway to blow the smoke smell out was SO LOUD.  It was driving both of us crazy.  Mom was also being driven insane because my cable was out--she didn't enjoy watching my DVDs of seasons one and two of Little House on the Prairie quite as much as I did.  :)  

An old friend from college sent me a wonderful care package of CDs and DVDs from my Amazon.com wish list, so it was nice to have some new movies and new music to watch/listen to.  At least once we were back in the apartment, though, Mom could get out and walk around the neighborhood.  She would go, probably once a day, to the local hardware store to get towels, then window blinds, then more air fresheners.  She did my laundry and went through my tons of stuff that needed to be thrown out.  Thank heavens I had taken a month off from work, because not only was there recuperation to be done (and, to tell the truth, the physical recuperation wasn't all that bad--discomfort, difficulty sleeping and exhaustion, yes, but none of the horrible problems of lymphedema or frozen shoulder or new staph infections that I had feared), but also a near-complete inventory of my apartment.  She worked her fingers off, as did all of my friends who came by to help out.  No, not help.  DO.  They did it all, while I laid around and 'supervised.'  I can't imagine how anything would've gotten done if I had been in the sad situation as that message board lady in Maine.  So, reason #2,356,976 that I am so fortunate and so grateful.  Rest assured, though, I'm sure I will complain again, about something.  :)  Oh, and another reason to be grateful:  as of today, I am all paid up.  I finally paid the last installment of the last hospital bill.  At least I think it's the last.  Hopefully, no new paperwork floats my way, and we all have clear sailing from here on in...

p.s.  Two years ago today, I reviewed "Measure for Measure", a production of Theater for a New Audience, featuring Rocco Sisto and Jefferson Mays.  Thumbs UP.  I'm very excited Jefferson Mays is going to be in the upcoming revival of "Gore Vidal's The Best Man."  I also hope to see Rocco Sisto again sometime soon...