PATH TO THE REPORT

Let's talk food and conversation post-surgery — specifically, food delivery by friends and family while a patient (that would be me) is recovering. 

The people, they come with the meals. As in, they bring over the food, they sit down and they eat it with us. 

Perhaps this is peculiar to my circle of loved ones; my family lives thousands of miles away, and two out of my three siblings (plus my sister-in-law) have traveled to see me post-surgery. My husband has taken off work to take care of me, so I don't really need (or want) anyone staying at my house. Lucky for me, they all stay with my Mom.

But let's get back to mealtime...
Because we don't live near one another, I don't see my whole family very often, so I want to see all of them, all of the time while they are in town. I don't want to miss out on anything (the old me) but you know, I've just had cancer surgery and I'm exhausted so I'll need to set some limits (the new me). My family picks up dinner at various locations along the way to my house and we all sit down and eat together. We laugh and and talk and talk, mostly (thankfully) about noncancer, nonsurgery-related stuff. 

Laughing feels good (great, in fact!), but my physical, emotional and mental fatigue win out every time. I can hang out for two to three hours, tops, but then I have to ask people to leave. I feel bad, but I feel even worse if I don't get my rest. 

Here's how dinner went down the first week I was home from surgery:

Day No. 1 Husband picks up takeout and places it on a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tray. (Dinner in bed. Yay!)

Day No. 2 Mother and sister bring over a fresh salad and homemade dessert crepes. I graduate to the kitchen table. I do feel more "normal" eating at the table versus in the bed, but I'm more tired, too. 

Day No. 3 A wonderful friend drops off food from our favorite Mediterranean restaurant. She wants to bring a few of our other close friends with her so we can all have dinner together, but Husband explains I've only been home two days and it's too soon for a party. (Oh so true.) She abides by our wishes. I put on a lightweight black robe (newly purchased for just such an occasion) and no makeup. We sit at the kitchen table, me hunched over a little in my body's attempt to protect my chest, and we chat for 20 minutes. Then our friend goes home. My husband and I quickly dig in to dinner, just the two of us. It's perfect.

Day No. 4 My brother and his wife fly in from out of state; they arrive with my mother and sister in tow, and a chopped salad and BBQ tri-tip in hand. They set the table and transfer the food into bowls and dishes and pour the water, but the peppering of questions is exhausting: "Where do you keep this? Where can I find that?" If I were able, it would be easier to set everything out myself, but I am prohibited by my doctor from using my T-Rex arms for anything but the basic necessities. We end up out on the porch, and the mood is upbeat and jovial; but we are missing my younger sister, who had to work and could not fly out. After two hours, my face is tired from laughing and smiling; I hit the proverbial wall. Again, I tell everyone it's time to go home. (The more I say it, the easier it gets.)

Day No. 5 Close friends bring over lasagna from a local Italian restaurant; they stay for dinner too. We get fancy and eat in the dining room. My husband pulls out a tablecloth and even sets the table. I don my best robe this time but refrain from putting on anything more than mascara. I do my best not to lift a finger, but it is getting increasingly frustrating to direct people in my own kitchen. I find it hard to allow people to do things for me; it makes me feel vulnerable, weak and needy. (Me no likey feeling like that.)

Day No. 6 My family, still in town, comes for lunch, which they bring with them; we hang out for a couple of hours, then (again) I ask them to leave so I can take my requisite nap. My brother calls later in the day to tell me they're going out for Mexican food, am I up for joining them? I ask Husband if he thinks we should go. He responds that it's completely up to me. Hmmm. It's been six days since my surgery and neither one of us has been out of the house. Husband needs this night even more than I do. And it's the last meal I'll have with my brother before he flies home. We decide to go, despite the fact that all I want to do is S.L.E.E.P.

I throw on a big, busy, button-down blue shirt to conceal my lovely (understatement!) white compression vest. I braid a tiny bit of hair to keep it off my face (something I haven't done since probably high school), pop a Vicodin and gingerly get in the car. We meet up with the fam, dine on tacos, enchiladas and margaritas (don't worry, I refrain), and laugh. A LOT. I actually forget that I am recovering from a bilateral mastectomy. (Really.) I. Actually. Forget. For two splendid entire hours, I am the old "me." The pre-BC me! Happy, fun-loving, carefree. Then comes the crushing blow of reality. I have a sudden power outage and then I remember — Oh, right. I have the "Big C." 

I'm emotionally and physically fried. I'm uncertain when I'll see my brother and sister-in-law again, and I sob in the parking lot saying goodbye to them. My feelings are right on the surface — rough, raw, untethered. I go home, crawl into bed and sleep like a woman six days out from surgery.

Day No. 7 Husband's brother stops by bearing pizza, an antipasto salad and an apple pie (all takeout, natch). The table-hopping continues; this time, we dine outside on the patio table and enjoy a couple of hours of light conversation. Like clockwork, I suddenly lose my energy and excuse myself to take a nap. 

Husband returns to work; a neighbor drops off a pretty lily at my front door; other friends and family members send flowers, a get-well gift basket full of goodies, cards. A great pal I've known since grade school (we go waaaaay back) picks up lunch later that week and brings it to the house; the following week, another close friend comes over and makes me tuna salad. When I tell her about the meals people have been bringing, she is rather surprised that I have been eating dinner and making conversation with everyone who stopped by. She made an interesting point: "When I'm bringing food to someone who is recovering from something, I never go in the house. I ring the bell, hand off the dish and leave! I never expect to visit with the person recovering." 

That got me thinking. Was I weird (or worse, not focused enough on my own recovery) for expending so much energy in conversation post-surgery? How else does someone occupy themselves when they're healing? It's true I pushed myself when all I wanted to do was sleep. I wasn't sure if I had done the right thing, but I knew I had to fill up my 'support' cup (pardon the BC pun) while I could; once everyone flies home, I am on my own. 

But let's backtrack for a moment, shall we? It's Day No. 4. My mother and siblings and I are in the kitchen; we've finished dinner, they've cleared the table and we're about to say goodbye. Then the telephone rings. 

Husband takes the call and steps outside to talk. I think nothing of this; he's likely talking to one of his buddies who tends to call around this time (it is 8:30 PM). 

I finish hugging everyone just as Husband steps back into the kitchen. He looks directly at me and says, "That was Dr. A." Ummm, that would be my surgeon. The one who removed my boobs and my lymph nodes. That much registers in my brain.

Dr. A. just came out of surgery, and my pathology report was waiting for him on his desk. He called my husband immediately. We all fall silent. 

"Your nodes are clear." 

What? 

He repeats the stunning news, choosing different words this time so we all understand: "They didn't find any cancer in your lymph nodes. They took out eight of them. All were negative."

I spontaneously burst out crying, blubbering like a baby. My family starts screaming and cheering. I fall into my husband's embrace, everyone circling around us. It's a joyous, overwhelming, unbelievably poignant moment. If Dr. A. had called just five minutes later, our guests would have been gone. But as fate would have it, my family was right there with me, standing in my kitchen when I got this monumental news. It was, in a word, Priceless. 

My path to the pathology report was definitely worth the wait. The food and conversation post-surgery? I think it's gonna be "drop and go" next time out.