BLOG ENVY REVISITED

Below is something I wrote two years ago. (My writing mojo seems to have taken some kind of summer sabbatical, so I'm dusting off a popular post and revisiting it.) The topic? Blog Envy. 

Prior to May 2012, when this post first ran, I had never even heard of such a thing. Urban Dictionary describes blog envy as "the jealousy you feel when you see another blog getting recognition in the mainstream press" and "the jealousy you feel when you realize your friend's blog is more popular than yours." 

Seriously?

And that's how my morning started off May 11, 2012...

RENN'S TOP 20 BLOGGY IDEAS

(Copyright © 2013 The Big C and Me)  

While I've been busy not blogging, I've been amassing a large number of potential blog posts. Some are half written; others are merely a headline. Some describe experiences I've had yesterday; others occurred long ago. All include insight gleaned from my breast cancer experience. 

This bulging list of ideas overwhelms me...

THE ROAD FROM ANXIETY TO RESILIENCY

© theBigCandMe.blogspot.com

Lately, every click I make leads me to more bad news. Storm clouds seem to be everywhere I turn. I need a buffer between me and life. 

I need to become more resilient. 

By definition, resiliency is being able to withstand or recover quickly from difficult conditions. Um, that would be my life this week. A tale of too much. Allow me to explain...

HOW I HANDLED THE BIG C NEWS, DAY 12

On DAY 12 of the Wego Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge, I'm asked a simple question: "If you could go back in time and talk to yourself on the day of diagnosis, what would you say?" Well, I probably wouldn't stop talking if I had it to do over again. The way it went down, I hardly talked at all that day. Here's why.

I waited about five days between biopsy and phone call. When the phone finally rang at lunchtime on December 8, 2011, I heard Dr. S. (my primary physician) say in a very upbeat voice, "Well, I have your test results!" 

And I thought: Oh good! In the nanosecond between his comment and mine, I really (no, really) thought he was going to give me good news, that the biopsy revealed nothing. I to this day can remember how my body suddenly relaxed.

But then he dropped the C-bomb...

BREAST CANCER SURGERY TIPS

After my double mastectomy in February 2011, I compiled a list of things that helped me prepare both before and after surgery. I hit a nerve — it's my blog post with the greatest number of hits.

Some of these tips apply before your surgery, some during, and some afterwards. With some minor tweaks to update a few items (for example, I combined shopping tips and added a photography section), here are my TIPS ON HOW TO PREPARE FOR BREAST CANCER SURGERY. I hope it helps you or someone you know. Please feel free to share! 

5 THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT BREAST CANCER

Day 2 of the Wego Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge has dawned — and it's Introduction Day! That's when I share my encounter with Breast Cancer and the 5 things I want you to know about it. 

1) My first blog post was about the mammogram that would change everything. Next, I wrote about hearing the words You Have Cancer (that's here), how I broke the news to my husband here, why we chose to keep it a secret here (and the lesson I learned from that here), and how I kept myself from going completely off-the-wall ballistic here and here. 

2) And all that happened before a scalpel ever touched my skin. If you've ever had cancer (or been through it with someone close), you know exactly what I'm talking about. (I can hear your shaking head from here!) If you've recently been diagnosed, the above links will help you. A lot...

FEAR FACTOR, DAY 1

Today is Day 1 of the 2013 Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge (HAWMC). I took part in the challenge last year, too, so this is my second time at bat. The daily writing process last year was challenging and invigorating yet also very fun. My favorite part was bonding with other breast cancer bloggers. And I hope some of them will join me again this year! The HAWMC challenge forced me to write faster, and more frequently, and since I have trouble with both, it pushes me to be a better blogger. So I'm jumping in again and looking forward to where the month will lead! Let's get to it...

MENTAL MALADIES, POST CANCER

In honor of the 2nd Annual World Mental Health Day, I'm joining the blogging party (albeit a bit late) in an effort to shed some light on emotional health following a cancer diagnosis.

I'm not a medical professional, but I'm pretty sure whatever mental maladies you struggled with pre-cancer will be exacerbated post-cancer. Your usual coping tools will no longer work. Fasten seat belts. Gonna be a bumpy ride.

NOT READY, NOT SET, GOTTA GO Pre-cancer, exercise was an effective form of mental and emotional therapy for me; it helped to reduce my overall anxiety (I have always been a worrier). Post-cancer I wanted this to be the same. But after a double mastectomy, reconstruction and subsequent healing complications, movement and lifting restrictions by my doctor meant I couldn't exercise for long stretches of time. As in, months at a time (aside from walking, big whoop there). Suddenly my exercise tool was missing from my toolbox. And as you know, being inactive and burning fewer calories leads to weight gain. (Ten pounds over here.) That means more anxiety, 'cause extra weight is a risk factor not only in getting breast cancer, but in recurrence as well.

What I didn't see coming was the lack of energy brought on by a cancer diagnosis. Dealing with having cancer is obviously very emotionally depleting. Your world is turned completely upside down, you spend more time in doctor's offices than you do with your friends, and you have to practically enroll in medical school to understand what's going on in your body. (My brother calls it getting my WebMD degree.) Tack on surgeries, treatment, Tamoxifen, and the lethargy that comes from being in bed and just laying low (my BC sistahs who had chemo and/or radiation really suffer in this department)... well, you can see how easy it is to gain weight.

Some people find that they lose their appetite during times of extreme duress. Some find their appetite increases. I have experienced both of these. When you're healing, it's vitally important to eat healthy, high-protein foods. So you have to keep eating. For anyone who has ever tried to numb a bad (or good) emotion with food, this is tricky territory. My primary care physician set me straight regarding feeling bad about my extra pounds; he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Now is not the time to be dieting." What I heard? "Go ahead, eat the ice cream."

You might be thinking Hey, I can always burn off a few extra calories in the bedroom. And that might have been true pre-cancer. But lopping off body parts chews you up and spits you out onto a very dark and harrowing road, one that takes a loooooong time to find your way back from. So if you had any Body Image Issues before cancer (and lets face it, who didn't?), you'd better grab your crash helmet, 'cause you live in B.I.I. town now —where life is always under construction.

All this post-cancer anxiety may make you want to self-medicate by adding a little wine to your whine. And who could blame you? But you know pain killers and drinking make a bad marriage. You might also be tempted to keep up the pain pills even though you're not really in that much pain today. (Again, who could blame you?) But please be careful on these slippery slopes. Restrict that bad-girl behavior to a few hours, not a few weeks or months, please.

This leads me to getting a good night's sleep. Remember those innocent moments before you were diagnosed, when you'd be laying in the dark, waiting for sweet slumber to strike? Cancer strips you of that tender time. Cancer steals your sleep and hack-saws your dreams. Nighttime becomes terror time, just like when you were a little kid, except now the scary things are no longer just in your imagination. Knocking yourself out with pharmacology is often the only way to get a good night's sleep post cancer, I am afraid to say. I have had good results with melatonin too. (Always check with your doctor before taking any Rx aids, OTC or otherwise.)

As you can see, a cancer diagnosis has very little positive effect on your mental and emotional health. That's why you need to be prepared.

WHAT NOBODY TELLS YOU
When you're in attack-and-recover mode, all of the above anxieties are going on all at once. And you somehow get through it — with the (hopefully) loving support of family and friends who bring you food and flowers and cards and comfort whenever they call or stop by, which is (again, hopefully) often. Their attention and distraction enable you to temporarily cope emotionally. But what happens if you don't have such a good support system? What happens when you have to struggle through a lot of this s*** alone? And what happens when the people you have come to depend on are no longer dependable because they need to get back to their own lives? What happens then? 

Ah, the frightful secret: On the heels of healing comes disappointment — in ourselves, our bodies, our minds, our friends, our family, our life. Because, let's face it, everyone wants to get back to "normal." They need to get back to normal. And eventually that is what they all do, because they have to. And you? Well, you'll never get back to "normal." You have to find your new normal. And that sucks most of all.

So you gotta figure out which new tools you need in that lovely emotional toolbox of yours.

The first crucial thing I did to counter my mental maladies was to surround myself with other women who were diagnosed with breast cancer at the same time as I was. I joined an online group at BCO and seven of us then started our own closed Facebook group. I call these wonderful women my rubies; I wrote about them here. And I couldn't have made it through all this BC crap without them. They understand everything I am going through. They lift me up in my darkest hour and cheer me on in my happiest moments. We are always there to listen to each other, 24/7. Though we live in different parts of the country, I was fortunate enough to meet two of my rubies this year, and hope to meet the rest of these wonderful women in 2013.

The second crucial thing I did for my emotional health was to start this blog. In the beginning I was writing to no one, for no one. Because no one knew I had started this thing. Very few people who knew me in "real" life knew I was blogging about life post-cancer. I didn't tell them because I needed to feel free to write about whatever was troubling me without worrying that someone might be offended. Of course, that still happened anyway. (One of my closest friends told another close friend, Be careful what you tell her, or she'll blog about you!) Oh well. The point of this blog was never to please anyone other than me. Call it selfish; call it self-preservation. I needed to get my thoughts and fears and experiences out of my head; it was literally the only way I could make sense out of what I was going through. Writing it out somehow brought me great clarity.

What I didn't expect was to find a rich, wonderfully supportive breast cancer blogging community out here in cyber city. Oh my! Besides finding my rubies, this has been my greatest post-cancer joy. While I have yet to meet any of my "bloggy" friends in person, I feel a great kinship to a great many of them. Just take a look under my "Favorites" heading to find some really inspiring ladies, and even a few men. They work through their mental maladies daily. I'm willing to bet they can help you too.

I still haven't told the majority of people in my "real" life about this blog. And of the ones I have told, very few read it. (Guess you have to have gone through cancer in order to truly relate to it.) So while I don't even know who is reading this, I know that you live in 87 countries around the world and counting. And that completely blows my mind.

Blogging has become a positively essential outlet for my emotional health. I'm hoping it helps you in some way, too. Isn't that what community is all about?

SURVIVING AN MRI

Whew! Been a busy June. I've squeezed doctor, hair and nail appointments, cross-country travel (my first flight since my diagnosis and yes I overcame a lotta fear that I might swell up which thankfully I did not and I also did not set off any TSA alarms with these freakishly old tissue expanders I still have, thank you very much), a high school graduation, lots of time with family, and meeting wonderful new (and old) friends — all while providing my mother with a lot more care than she has required as of late. Problems with her upper spine have her in pain and unable to lift anything heavier than a paper plate.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

So this week, I took her for an open MRI (she is terribly claustrophobic.) Afterwards, the technician asked if she had been in a car wreck. WTF? She's never had blunt trauma of any kind; her doctor suspects degenerative disk disease. We find out on Tuesday — that's when my sister and I take my mom (along with a copy of her MRI and radiology report) to see her immensely handsome neurosurgeon, Dr. H. (What a pleasure it is to rest one's eye on a good-looking man while stuck in a medical office. I'm just sayin'.)

I'm also just sayin' that's why I haven't had time for The Blog. Back in April, when I was posting daily as part of the WEGO Health Activist Writer's Challenge, I had ideas aplenty (despite only a smidgeon more time). This month? Lots of thoughts are fighting for space in my cerebral cortex — but nothin' is jellin', Magellen. 

Back to the MRI. Like my mother, I am terribly claustrophobic. But I have tricked myself into thinking I am somewhere else when I have an MRI and am able to breeze through it with less anxiety. You can, too! I'm re-posting some tips I wrote last August on how to make it through an MRI. Maybe it can help you, or someone you know. 

HOW TO SURVIVE AN MRI

You can survive an MRI (or any other uncomfortable procedure) while feeling calm and cool and even collected. I've got it down to a few simple steps:

1) Breath deeply while you're waiting (after changing into that cute little gown) and then waiting some more. Don't let your mind wander into the worry zone.

2) Don't be overly ambitious when you walk into the MRI room. Keep your eyes and mind focused on walking towards the machine. Try not to think of anything else in that moment. Do not look around the room.

3) Lay down as instructed and close your eyes immediately. This is key. Get comfortable. Listen to the tech's instructions, but whatever you do, do not open your eyes. If they will let you, wear a fabric eye mask without metal. Or tie a bandana around you as a blindfold (that way there's less pressure to keep your eyes shut).

4) Think about your favorite place that is relaxing and joyful to you. For me, it's being at the top of a hill I regularly hike to. I imagine how it feels to stand, feet firmly on the ground, arms stretched out to touch the wind. I notice the sun and how warm it feels on my face. With the breeze comes the fragrance of eucalyptus. I listen for the sound of birds and hawks above. BTW, while you are imagining the many details of your favorite place, the MRI will commence. Whatever you do, no matter how many times they ask you to move or they move the machine to reposition you, keep your eyes tightly shut! Focus on your breathing; it should be slow and rhythmic as you relax into whatever pleasant experience your mind is conjuring up for you. (I used this same technique as a pre-surgery meditation here.) 

5) Sing a song in your head. This helps to counteract the banging and clanking of the MRI machine. Imagine being in your favorite place and singing a great song to the wind. Sing it over and over again. Before you know it, the technician will be telling you it's over — the MRI, that is. 

Remember: If you can't see that you are closed in,

you can tell your mind you're anywhere!

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.

HOW TO SURVIVE AN MRI

Before deciding on my mastectomy, I needed an MRI. I'd had a couple of them in the past: one for my left knee, after I abused it running a marathon; and one for my head, following a run-in with a log cabin while mountain biking in British Columbia. But I digress.

The point is, I remember feeling really claustrophic during both prior MRIs. With the teeming anxiety I was already experiencing with my cancer diagnosis, the last thing I needed was to feel trapped like a caged you-name-the-animal in a big 'ole clicking machine. So I tricked myself into thinking I was somewhere else.

You, too, can survive an MRI — or any other uncomfortable procedure (blood draw, chemo, dentist visit, surgery prep, whatever procedure you are afraid of) — while feeling calm and cool and even fairly collected. I've got it down to five simple steps.

1. Breath deeply while you're waiting, after changing into that cute little gown, and then while waiting some more. Don't let your mind wander into the worry zone. All will be OK.
2. Don't be overly ambitious when you walk into the MRI room. Keep your eyes and mind focused on walking towards the machine. Try not to think of anything else in that moment. Do not look around the room. Stay focused on walking towards the machine.
3. Lay down as instructed and close your eyes immediately. This is key. Get comfortable. Listen to the tech's instructions, but whatever you do, don't open your eyes. Wear an eye mask without metal in it (if they'll let you). Or tie a bandana around you as a blindfold (that way there's less pressure to keep your eyes shut).
4. Think about your favorite place that is relaxing and joyful to you. For me, it's being at the top of a hill I regularly hike to. I imagine how it feels to stand, feet firmly planted on the ground, arms stretched out to touch the wind. I notice the sun and how warm it feels dancing across my face. With the cool breeze comes the fragrance of eucalyptus. I listen for the sound of birds and hawks in the wind. What's cool is that while you are imagining the details of your favorite place, the MRI will commence. Whatever you do, no matter how many times they ask you to move or flip over, no matter how many times they reposition the machine, keep your eyes shut! Focus on your breathing; it should be slow and rhythmic as you relax into whatever pleasant experience your mind is conjuring up for you. (I used a similar technique as a pre-surgery meditation here.) 
5. Now sing a song. In your head. This helps counteract the banging and clanking of the MRI machine. Pretend you're in your favorite place and sing to the wind (or the audience, depending). Sing it over and over and over again. With your eyes closed. Before you know it, the tech will be telling you it's over — the MRI, that is. Remember: If you can't see that you are closed in, you can tell your mind you're anywhere.

(Copyright ©2011 TheBigCandMe.blogspot.com)

RETCH & RECOVER

I hear a woman’s voice. She’s calling my name. Everything else is like peach fuzz. I try to bring her into focus but I’m laying on a gurney. In a room much like the pre-operative one, with a nurse’s station directly in front of me. Have I even had surgery yet? I’m confused. Thoughts float around in my head as though lodged in thick, groggy soup. A nurse types something into a computer to the left of my bed. She asks how I’m feeling; she takes my blood pressure. I try to force my eyes open, but a familiar sensation interrupts this task. The nurse quickly grabs a pink kidney-shaped basin. Afterwards, I close my eyes. The room spins. Another tidal wave hits. The pink basin remains at my side.

It seems I’m having trouble coming out of anesthesia. I’m aware — acutely — of how tightly wrapped my chest is. I’m snapped inside an oversized, papery purple gown with white bear paw prints running across it. An ace bandage and a whole lot of gauze compresses my new chest, which is now comprised of two temporary tissue expanders beneath my pectoral muscles (since all my breast tissue on both sides has been removed). Dr. C. has filled each expander with 400ccs of saline. The purpose is two-fold: to hold the space left by my now-departed breasts while I heal completely, and to give me a semblance of a chest, so I am not flat-chested after surgery. Both help with healing — the former with my physical healing; the latter with my emotional. In a few months, after the expanders are filled a bit more with saline, I will have a second surgery to remove them and put in permanent silicone implants. 

But for now, somewhere in the cobweb-like recesses of my brain, I remember to check under my right arm to see if it hurts. (Pain means lymph nodes were removed.) Because I can't reach under there, I focus my thoughts on my armpit. But I feel nothing. Yay! Turns out I’m just numb. Dang. I string enough words together to ask the nurse Is there cancer in my nodes? Her response disappoints. “I don’t know, honey. You have to ask the doctor.”

For the next couple of hours, I slip in and out of sleep between bouts of nausea. I can’t have water yet, so my throat is achingly dry. I start to shiver, and a hose is quickly attached to my pretty purple gown. Warm air swooshes all around me, enveloping me, and for a brief moment, I feel peaceful, even cozy. But it’s a momentary respite; my tummy is unrelenting. I'm given Zofran but it does nothing.

I can feel time passing. I fall into an automatic, Lamaze type of breathing — short, quick, rhythmic breaths in an attempt to tame my pain. In actuality, it just gives me something to focus on besides the nightmare I seem to have woken up in. And that’s OK. I’ll take the distraction.

Speaking of distractions, where is my husband? I look around; he’s not here. He’s never been here. Seems the nurses haven’t brought him in to see me yet. OMG. That means he’s been sitting in the waiting room the entire day with my mother and sister. Waiting. Worrying.

I open my mouth but can manage to eek out only two words: “My husband.” The nurse nearby ignores me. So I repeat myself. Still nothing. Oh. I’m only talking inside my own head! I focus hard on saying the words out loud; this time she hears me, and nods OK.

And like in a dream, when I reopen my eyes, my husband is standing beside me. It’s obvious I’ve been going through a terrible time; I look limp and pale as a noodle. (He later tells me that upon seeing me, he went back out to the waiting room and sent my mom and sister home, rather than have them see me like this. Good call.) 

My husband asks the nurse what meds I’ve been given so far, then suggests Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication that also has an anti-nausea effect. My surgeon, Dr. A., agrees with him, saying, “Good idea. Let’s try it.” Within minutes, the room stops spinning. My husband explains to me why: Nausea begins in the brain, not the stomach — which is why the Ativan works.

My husband the hero pharmacist strikes again.

My surgery has taken 4 ½ hours. I’ve been in the recovery room an additional five. We arrived this morning in the dark; it is now dusk.

(Copyright ©2011 Rennasus)

But what about my nodes? They removed several. All were negative. While we won’t know exactly what we’re dealing with until the pathology report comes back in a few days, both surgeons say there were no surprises. They got clean nodes and clean margins. This is as good as it gets. We are happy, despite all the day's drama.

I finally made it to the other side.

RENN'S TOP 10 MASTECTOMY TIPS

I've compiled some tips and strategies that worked for me as I was preparing for and going through my mastectomy surgery. (OK, there are way more than 10 tips here, but you get the idea!) Maybe this list will help you — or someone you love.

1. CLEAN UP YOUR ACT  A clean house creates a calm and peaceful environment in which to heal. So get cleaning! (It will help take your mind off your upcoming surgery too.) If possible, arrange for someone to handle the cleaning and laundry for the first month after you're home. You won't be able to push or pull or lift anything over 5 pounds post-surgery, so housework is off-limits until your physician clears you for activity. And while you're cleaning house, free up some future brain cells by creating a list of all your logins and passwords for the many banks, credit cards, bill pay and other websites you frequent. Surgery + anesthesia = a recipe for confusion. The last thing you need to worry about is remembering all the important stuff that is currently in your head. Put it down on paper and keep it in a safe place. (Do not store it on a portable device!). I also made notes to myself about how specific bills were paid, just in case I forgot. (And I did!) 
2. RESTOCK THE PANTRY  Load up with high-protein foods and snacks like organic cheese, nonfat Greek yogurt, cottage cheese, tuna fish and peanut butter. Protein promotes proper healing (100 grams a day is optimal) and is vital to your recovery, so don't skimp! Make and freeze meals ahead of time that are simple enough for a child or other family member to prepare. Take a multivitamin. Drink water. (Lots and lots of water.) Place plates, glasses and pantry staples within easy reach on the kitchen counter. Say YES to offers of food from friends or loved ones. Don't be shy about telling people what you prefer to eat (low fat, high protein, no soy, etc.) If you’re lucky enough to have friends and neighbors who want to feed you and your family for an extended period of time, put someone in charge of organizing these meal deliveries (but not you). Mealtrain.com and lotsahelpinghands.com are free and help people organize meals for you and your family.
3. GET STRAIGHT WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY Make sure you line up peeps to care for all the things you normally care for — your kids, pets, parents, plants, partner. If you live alone, ask a friend to stay with you for the first few days. Again, say YES when someone offers to help you — then assign them a task immediately. People always say "call me if you need anything," but as a patient, you will have more on your mind than finding a way for someone to help you. So here's my take on this sticky situation: If you really want to help, give me some options of what you are willing to do right now. Tell me you'll drop off dinner at 6PM on Tuesday. Tell me you'll take my kids to the movies. (And take my husband too!) Offer to clean my kitchen floor. Just don't ask me to call you from my recovery bed to ask for your help. Because I won't. 
4. GEAR UP THE LOO  Install a handheld showerhead in your bath, and place shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap bottles on the shower floor (because you won't be able to reach anything above your head). Keep an inexpensive plastic shower bench there too. Anesthesia is constipating, as are pain meds; take your Colace morning and night; if all else fails, Dulcolax will save your day. Before surgery, wash and color your hair, paint your nails, shave your legs and underarms. Important note: Post-surgery, use an electric (not a straight) razor under your arms. You will be numb — you won't be able to feel it if you nick your skin. And you don't need to risk getting an infection.
5. MAKE YOUR BOUDOIR COMFY Set up a bedside table with room for anything you could possibly need: drinks, eyeglasses, TV remote, meds, snacks, more meds, books, Kindle, notepad, pen, iPad, iPod, iTouch, cell phone, laptop (and chargers too). Some doctors suggest sleeping in a recliner after surgery. (Many people prefer it to sleeping in bed the first week or two.) Only you know yourself and what will make you comfortable; you may even consider renting a hospital bed. You'll find a neck pillow is handy to prop under your arms. A wedge pillow allows you to sleep on a slight incline (keeping your chest slightly elevated helps with lymphatic drainage) and makes it easier to get up and out of bed post-surgery. Find low-cost pillows like these at Bed Bath and Beyond.
6. GET RETAIL THERAPY Purchase PJ's with button-down tops (and pockets if possible), zip-front hoodies (their interior pockets are the ideal size for drains) and slip-on yoga pants. Oh, and a cute, colorful, light-weight robe for quick coverups when visitors come a-callin'. Go through your closet and pull out all the button-down shirts you own. You're going to need them. You won't be able to reach over your head for a few weeks to put on anything tighter than a large T-Shirt. You may need to go shopping for a few items to get you through the post-surgery phase. I went pre-mastectomy shopping at Nordstrom Rack (read about that experience here) but was not prepared for the emotions that went along with that shopping trip! Yowza.
7. SECURE SURGICAL STUFF Post-mastectomy, drains are put in your side(s) to allow your body to release extra fluid. These drains are thick — the size of a straw — and the part that hangs outside the body is more than a foot in length. At the end of each drain is a 4-inch x 2-inch bulb that excess body fluid drips into. If you are having a double mastectomy, that means you could have four of these drains dangling from your torso. You will have to pin them to your undergarments or tuck the bulbs and drains into something to keep them from hanging and being in the way. If you have a zip-front hoodie, check the inside lining — there are usually small pockets already sewn in that are perfect for drains! If it's too hot for a hoodie, consider buying a drain belt. I purchased one called the "Marsupial" at turnerhealth.com. It's a terry cloth belt with big pouches for the drains. There are items called pocket panties at postop-tions.com; and tlcdirect.org has camisoles with interior pockets. Worried about emptying drains yourself? Sometimes it’s not just a matter of squeamishness; it's painful to reach around and push the fluid down the tube. (The liquid must be measured and kept track of so your surgeon knows when to remove them.) Make sure someone shows you how to empty your drains before you are discharged! Get your prescriptions filled ahead of time (with easy-open lids — unless you have small children in the house). New Rx's that you may receive prior to your surgery include antibiotics, pain meds, and prescriptive antibiotic ointment. And while at the drug store, get a couple boxes of 4" x 4" gauze pads, alcohol and paper surgical tape. Be sure to save all your medical receipts for tax purposes. 
8. ORDER BRAS NOW Ask your surgeon what type of garment you will be going home in and/or need to wear once back home. Some docs prefer surgical bras or vests; others are fine with soft camisoles and sports bras; still others may want you in a compression garment. Each surgeon (and surgery) is different, so ask these questions well before your surgery date and make purchases ahead of time so you will have the garments at home, washed and ready to wear when you need them. Oh, and order two of everything: One to wear; one for the wash. My surgeon sent me home in a very plain, utilitarian (read: ugly!) white compression vest, so I bought a "fancier" beige vest online at contourmd.com. It's lacy and cut slightly lower in front so allowed me to wear a larger variety of shirts. As for regular sports bras which close in the front, the following are popular: Hanes Zip Front Sports Bra and Under Armour Endure Zip Front Sports Bra. I have both the Danskin Now High Impact Zip Sport Bra and the Fruit of the Loom Front Close Sport Bra but they no longer seem to be available — which is too bad because both were very inexpensive. You can find a ton of front-closure sports bra options at nextag.
9. TAKE THIS TO THE HOSPITAL Type up a list of all the medications you currently take, print out two copies, keep one with you  and give the other to a friend or family member. You'll be asked the same Rx questions repeatedly during hospital admission, and this will save you from trying to remember everything. Suntan lotion is great for masking the unpleasant odors that will waft from your body as you recover. (And waft they will; you cannot shower for upwards of a week post surgery.) Plus, suntan lotion will make you think you're at the beach. (Well, almost.) Pack an inexpensive eye mask to dim the bright lights of the big city hospital, and disposable ear plugs to help you catch a wink or three. And whenever someone brings you something to drink, ask them to open it (even if you're not ready to enjoy it yet)! Trust me, you won't be able to open it yourself. Nor will you be able to adjust your pillow or skootch yourself up, down or around in your hospital bed. So basically, anytime anyone is visiting you (nurse, friend, husband, whomever), think of things they can help you with. Important note: Consider asking someone to stay with you overnight during your hospital stay (at least the first night). I didn't do this and wish I had. When no nurses can be found and your pillow has slipped under your bum instead of your head (remember, you can't use your arms after a mastectomy), someone being there to help you whenever you need it can make all the difference in the world to your comfort level. If you are worried about feeling nauseous post surgery, talk to your anesthesiologist. (You'll have ample time to do this while they are prepping you.) He/she can take the necessary steps medication wise to help prevent nausea. Be very specific about your sensitivity to any medications (both Rx and OTC) and be firm about your desire to not feel sick! The meds exist to help you. (You don't have to suffer like I did here.) 
10. GO PHYSICAL, THEN MENTAL Reduce anxiety before surgery by taking a walk, a hike, a jog. Hit the gym and work those soon-to-be traumatized pectoral muscles. Do bench presses and lat pull downs. Try to do 100 pushups. You won't be doing any of these things again for a long while (and in the case of working your pecs, your doc may never want you to work them the same way again). Lastly, imagine a place you absolutely love and focus on being there as you are getting prepped in the hospital for your surgery. Incorporate all of your senses: Imagine the fragrance of the flowers or ocean, imagine hearing the birds or rustling of the trees, imagine feeling the wind on your face, imagine the flavor of your favorite food. And then imagine all the very capable doctors and nurses doing their absolute best in the operating room to rid your body of cancer and start you on a perfect path of healing. Before you know it, you'll be imagining a nurse calling your name — and your surgery will magically be over. Once you go home (after 2-3 days generally), remember to rest. You can't lift or reach or push or pull, so read, write, talk or watch TV instead. Take a nap every day. You'll recover quicker if you do.