Like I mentioned before, my Dr. told me that the pathology would take a bit longer because of the holiday weekend, but he was expecting the report by Wed. or Thurs. He was out of town that week, but told me his nurse would call me as soon as she knew anything. Well, that didn't happen.
I was patient through the entire first week. I carried my phone in my pocket at work, and anytime my phone would vibrate my heart would stop. If the number belonged to the Dr, my heart felt like it was in my throat. And let me tell you, the nurse called almost Every.Damn.Day. Now, to her defense, she was trying to be helpful. She was either calling to check on me or to tell me that she was continuing to call the lab to see if the unofficial results were in yet. While I appreciated that, I really just wanted her to quit calling until she had my results. It felt like a cruel joke everytime she called, only to hear "No, I don't have results. They said a few more days." The lab gave multiple reasons - the size, the time of yr, etc. I didn't care...I was hanging in limbo and wanted to know what the final diagnosis was.
This was probably the hardest time for me in the entire journey so far. With all I have been through, you might doubt that, but it's true. I had my one and only major breakdown/anxiety attack during this time. Over showering....well, more than that, but that was part of the equation.
It really was just a perfect storm of emotions and physical feelings. First, I wasn't sleeping well because I wasn't comfortable and because I am a side/stomach sleeper and that wasn't happening. I'll admit, I'm not the friendliest person when I'm tired. Okay, I'm down right crabby. I was emotionally exhausted from trying to hold myself together and keep a positive attitude while waiting for what seemed like an eternity. And then there were the staples...all 27 of them in a neat little row across an entire half of my breast. I started to call it my "Frankenboob" Looking at it was hard for me. Not for vanity reasons, but because it was scary. I was constantly afraid of pulling a staple or applying to much pressure on them. They hurt and the were mean looking.
It was the first night I was going to shower solo and was now on Drs orders to wash the incision with soap and water. I didn't want to look at it, much less wash it. I just wanted Jay to do it for me. He wanted me to do it. He's good like that - he pushes me to overcome my fears, but he's also rational. He isn't in my body, he doesn't know how much pain I can tolerate, and he didn't want to press to hard and cause me an unnecessary pain. I understand know, at that time, though, I crumbled.
I lost it. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted to know what was wrong with me, if anything. I wanted to not be in pain constantly. I wanted to be independent again. I wanted to just be able to hop in the shower, and shower - without extra help, supervision, or a pep talk to mentally prepare myself. I did the ugly cry. And my loving husband listened to me, as if I was telling him the most interesting and rational story, and held me until I calmed down. Then he looked at me and reminded me of what had become my new mantra " Take it one day/thing at a time". He got me talked down off the ledge and then sat in the bathroom and talked me through the entire incision washing, and got me through it. Had it not been for him, I probably would have been the stinky kid at school. Seriously..
Two weeks had gone by, and still no word. It was maddening. I had an appointment with my dr. to get some of my staples removed. I was hoping to get the results at that appointment. I got a little more than I was bargaining for..
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