The Surgeon

It has been almost 34 years since the first time I walked into the surgeon's office. I didn't know him. I had chosen his name from a list. I thought I could hide the fear behind a bravado spirit. I was young and in those days, didn't have a clue what to ask and I didn't know enough to be afraid.

Were there such things as chemo in those days? I really don't know. I don't remember ever having that conversation. While my outside was calm, my insides were in a turmoil.

I remember after the surgeon examined me, he took a look at the radiology report that said the lump was a cyst. His comment was, "That is no cyst. That is a lump and if it is cancer, I do a radical."

Radical? I knew a little bit about that. The church pianist at my father's church had undergone a radical. In those days, no one talked about breasts. Breasts were a secret topic. Did society think the disease would go away if no one talked about it? or that women would be less afraid if they knew nothing?

By the time I checked in for surgery, I had already heard the comment from the GP about lumpectomies and had that to chew around a couple of weeks. I didn't ask anything else.

I went into surgery, believing the doctor knew what was best for me. He had a calming voice. He knew the path I was facing. I was at a fork in the road in my life.

The surgery lasted over four hours. The initial lab work identified the lump as malignant. I lost a lot of blood during surgery and the surgeon fought to keep me from going into shock. The result was a radical.

Later when I woke up, I saw the blood dripping into my veins. I saw the IV and felt the heavy bandage on my chest. The drainage tubes were tight under the skin, pulling and hurting. Around me, nurses were talking quietly as they tended my needs. I was aware, but not awake enough to tell them I could understand their conversation.

A friend who worked in the lab at the hospital came in to check on me. I had not been awake enough when the surgeon came in to discuss the surgery. But, from the nurses' conversation, I knew something frightening had happened during surgery. I looked at my friend and said, "When did you know what had happened to me?" Believing I knew, she said she knew as soon as she got to work at 9 that I had lost a lot of blood and they were fighting to save my life.

My friend went to the employee lounge and overheard the GP asking my surgeon if I knew about the mastectomy. That was when my friend learned that the surgeon had not been able to talk to me and I had trapped her into telling me the truth.

After my friend left my room, I dozed off. The next time I awoke, my surgeon was sitting on the side of the bed, patting my face, calling my name. I opened my eyes. I saw the tears slipping down his cheeks as he said, "I am sorry. I am so sorry. I had to take it all." For 34 years, I have not forgotten his tears. He cared. The surgery he performed that day was not done out of some wish to butcher a young woman. He performed the mastectomy to give me the best chance at life possible.

From the list of five surgeons, I am so grateful, God led me to this surgeon. From the jungles of two tours of duty in Vietnam, to the halls of Walter Reed and now to civilian life, the toughness he showed with his decisions were softened by the heart of God.

The following months and years were difficult. Yet, through it all, my surgeon was there to make me mad enough to fight for myself. Fight to want to live. He never let me forget I had value. I was important.

There was a reason God allowed me to face breast cancer and a radical mastectomy 34 years ago. He knew the journey I faced. He placed me on this journey to share with other women and their families.

Today, what is my choice? Today my choice is life. I would rather be flat chested and live than keep the breast, have my immune system destroyed by chemo, burned by radiation and have my life shortened.

I am so grateful. Thank you doc, for healing me.