DOUBLE DIPPING

Coming home from a bilateral mastectomy is an event — not of the red-carpet, Oscar-worthy variety, but an event none-the-less. I was happy just to smell fresh air, see the sun, sit in traffic. I was going home.

And that's when the party got into full swing. No guests yet (just our two furry barking machines). And yup, a few pretty floral arrangements. But what I was most stoked about were all the accoutrements on my bedside table (see Step No. 5 for post-surgery boudoir table tips). Snacking in bed? Never do it, but bring it on! Watching TV while the sun is still out and I’m still under the covers? (Yeah, baby!) Pain medication? (Par-tay!) Remote control all to myself? YES! Husband feeding me because I can’t use my arms or bear any weight? (OK, that one didn’t actually happen.) But it was a comical side show just getting me in the bed (forget about getting me out of it to use the bathroom). I’m tired just thinking about it.

Lucky girl that I am, Husband has taken two weeks off from work to take care of me. He’s even placed a bell on the nightstand should I need anything. I rang it once. He didn't hear it. Well. It's. The. Thought. Right?

What I remember most about those first few days home were all the odd sensations. I felt supremely uncomfortable. Frustrated. Sweaty. And smelly. And I can’t take a shower until my drains come out. Have I mentioned my lovely drains? Allow me to paint the picture again ('cause they're just so dang much fun). I’ve got four thick-like-a-straw tubes hanging off me, and they each connect to a bulb into which fluid drains. I preemptively bought a Marsupial pouch belt (see Step No. 7), which was an awesome solution: I tuck two bulbs into one soft terrycloth pocket, two bulbs into the other, and my pain pack in the pouch in the middle. (Bought four pouches but only use three on the belt). Oh what a sight. (See purty picture above.)

Husband has been tasked with emptying said drains and measuring their fluid outtake. Actually, he volunteered. (I think.) He’s normally a little squeamish but is handling the drains with surprising aplomb. I won’t go into further detail because, quite frankly, they are icky and gross and I’d rather not relive it. You can thank me now.

Am I in pain? Yes, but mainly because of the drains. They are poking out of my sides. They hurt more than the mastectomy (my pain pouch is working its magic there). I guess the worst part of it all, so far, is the pressure I feel, which can only be described as this: Imagine having two coconut shells (sans the hairy stuff) wired to your chest wall. Then imagine being engulfed in gauze and zipped into a very [un]sexy compression vest. And then wrapped up some more in a fat ace bandage. It's freakin' weird.

(Copyright ©2011 Rennasus)

Because of (or despite) all this, and because I am a good and compliant patient, I take my meds right on the button. And since I am married to a pharmacist, that means he has the pill deal covered. He delivers my capsules and tablets bedside (though I like to imagine it more as poolside), with a glass of water, exactly at the time I need to take them.

But he neglects to tell me ahead of time that this is The Plan.

Now normally upon awakening, I do what I always do: I take a Synthroid tablet. Which is exactly what I do my first morning home. (Remember, I am unaware of The Plan.) Husband hears me stirring and comes in right away to check how I'm feeling. I don't even see him counting out pills; but he folds a few into my hand and gives me a glass of water. I notice there are some different pills in the pile (pain meds and Colace and such) than I normally take. Unfortunately, I don't notice that there also is a Synthroid tablet. In my post-anesthesia brain fog, one plus one only equals one.

So. Yup. Took a double dose of Synthroid. That is not recommended. By the time I realize I've taken mine and his, it's too late. I do have a bit of an emotional meltdown thinking I've just tried to kill myself, but Husband assures me that I will not die from taking two. (I may feel a little warm and fidgety, however. And he would be correct.)

I spend the remainder of the day in a hot flash haze, wearing washcloths dipped in ice water as scarves. And yes, I felt revved. But I also slept a lot. By evening, my double-dipping had worn off.

I stopped worrying about taking my meds after that. Decided I would leave that up to the professional. I just relaxed and became [a] patient.