How to Survive a Menty B breaks down medical trauma and illness-induced PTSD with me, a therapist with both PTSD and a Ph.D.
This is my survival guide, my survival story, and my survivor legacy.
How to Survive a Menty B is a library for people navigating the upheaval of medical trauma and PTSD. With each post, I explore a new topic and dissect the role of medical trauma in daily life and relationships.
If you need my other services, please visit my website www.drkrisyelrod.com
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The Aftermath
Medical Trauma Journal
Welcome back to How to Survive a Menty B!
I know it's been a while since my last post, and I must apologize for the radio silence. Life has been a whirlwind of change and growth. I've been embracing the joy of family, feeling the bittersweet moments of saying goodbye to my beloved 101-year-old grandmother and welcoming the exhilaration of new beginnings as a full-time lecturer at the University of Scranton.
The classroom has become a space of connection and learning, not just for my students but for myself as well. Together with my graduate assistant, we've dived into the topic of medical trauma, sharing our insights at a state conference to an encouragingly warm reception.
But I haven't forgotten our journey together through this blog!
Thank you for your patience and for sticking with me through every step of this experiment.
Stay tuned for upcoming entries, where I'll share more details of navigating life after my double mastectomy—a continued tale of resilience, recovery, and the indomitable human spirit.
Monday, October 25, 2021
I can't believe my breasts have been gone for days now. I’m only just now starting to process the experience…
I made sure to pee before the nerve blockers, knowing that was one of the last signs of freedom before the surgery process really kicked off. It was a small act of control, a preparation for the surrender that was to come. A last moment to myself.
Once Matt had to leave the hospital room, it was as if I had stepped into another world. Things were starting to happen, and I felt the energy of the team change. It was time for the nerve blocker, which meant the beginning of a daunting but sort of strangely reassuring process. They placed a few of those shots into my spine, the medical team moving with the precision of a choreographed dance. I was grateful I couldn’t watch. Then, I felt almost calm.
I had been through this routine before, prepping for surgery, the familiar checklist of 'no food or water' from midnight, but it was different this time. This time, there was a profound sense of purpose. This surgery was a pivotal moment, a conscious choice to reshape my future.
I walked myself into the operating room, a cold and sterile environment with bright white-washed walls, and handed over my glasses, making the place a blur. As I hopped up onto the operating table, I couldn't help but feel like a character in a sci-fi movie about to embark on a journey into the unknown.
I relaxed into the warm sleeping bag I climbed into, and got hooked up to machines, tubes, and monitors. The medical team, draped in blue scrubs and masks, tried to be friendly. I was asked to take a few deep breaths, the last thing I remember.
I woke up in my recovery room, and surprisingly, I felt okay. The pain, which I had braced myself for, was at a manageable level - a four on the pain scale. It was as if my body had decided to cooperate for once.
Slowly, I started moving around, my body feeling heavy and alien like it didn't quite belong to me. The pain increased gradually, reaching about a 5, but the medical team was prepared. They gave me some Tylenol, and miraculously, things managed to stay stable.
I tried to sleep. My body was exhausted but I was very uncomfortable so it was impossible to find a good position. The pain was moderate but I was struggling.
The night nurse, my guardian angel in scrubs, gave me a little oxycodone overnight to help with sleep. I managed to get a few hours of much-needed rest. It struck me as ironic – the pain from this surgery is manageable with a fraction of the pain medication I needed to get through my chemo treatments. Another reminder that chemo really fucking sucked.
The drains, my new accessories, were the most annoying. They served an important purpose, draining fluid out of my insides, but they were relentless in their discomfort. Just ever-fucking-present. The itchiness, the sensation of foreign tubes, the knowledge that they were collecting fluids. Yuck.
But amidst the discomfort and the pain, I felt something I hadn't expected - happiness. I looked at my newly lifted breasts, strange and ripply as they were, and I liked them. They were a testament to my courage and willingness to step forward in this process. There was a strange sense of curiosity as if I were meeting a new version of myself.
Overall, I felt good. I didn't feel sad or disgusted, as I had feared. There were undoubtedly things to be grossed out about – the drains making weird noises and splatters, the occasional presence of little blood clots. These moments made me dizzy, reminding me I’m still vulnerable.
Tuesday, October 26, 2021
I was working it through. An okay day had unfolded, but then, like a sudden storm, it hit me—a rough spell that swept me into a whirlwind of pain. It was so intense that it made me dizzy; it was the kind of pain that had me questioning every decision I had made.
Damn, drains.
Those four drains tucked inside my body, each connected to a tube with a bulb at the end collecting fluid, are supposed to help me. But if they moved weirdly... oh my goodness, the excruciating pain is unbearable.
I knew this wouldn’t be easy. The decision to do the bilateral mastectomy surgery was a big one, and while I’m still happy with it, days like these make me question myself.
Imagine having an itch deep inside your body, and there was absolutely nothing you could do to scratch it.
And then there is the gross factor. The thought of these tubes and bulbs snaking their way inside me, collecting fluids that needed to be drained, is enough to make anyone's skin crawl. But you have to clean them, and drain them, and track the amount of fluid that comes out, and it’s all very disgusting to see your insides on the outside.
Despite the pain, and the grossness, I hold onto my decision to do the double mastectomy. After careful consideration, weighing the pros and cons, and consulting with experts, it was my decision. There were moments of doubt, indeed, but in the grand scheme of things, they were just that—moments. I know this is what I had to do. So I’m sticking it out.
This has been faced before, somewhere, by someone. Someone must feel better after this, right?
Wednesday October 27, 2021
Today marks a significant milestone – my parent's 41st wedding anniversary. I can't help but feel a little guilty that my mom, who should be celebrating this day with my dad, is instead here, taking care of me. Don't get me wrong; I know she's happy to do it; that's what mothers do, right? They selflessly care for their children, no matter how old they may be. But still, I can't help but think, "Damn."
Through drains, bandages, and pain medication schedules, there's a part of me that wishes my mom could be with my dad instead of tending to my needs. It's a complicated mix of emotions, knowing that I need this care but wishing I didn’t.
And in the middle of all this complicated shit, there is gratitude. I am grateful for having the opportunity to spend time with my parents in a way I rarely do. We live our lives often swept up in the busyness of our routines, rarely taking the time just to be together. And here we are, in this peculiar circumstance, brought together by my illness.
I never see my parents this much, especially not without the other one or my sister around. It's a strange silver lining to this situation. We share meals, watch TV, and exchange stories – simple moments that have become rare treasures. It's a reminder that sometimes, unexpected twists can bring unexpected benefits.
Sunday October 31, 2021
The house felt too damn quiet after mom left. She's like a one-woman army, and things don’t move on time without her. Matt's catching up on sleep, gearing up for a year that sounds too busy. Meanwhile, I'm here trying to piece together the new life—one nap at a time.