Breast Cancer: Diary of a DIEP #4
DAY 2 OF RECOVERY: How it felt to walk for the first time, being showered and LOTS of food...
WARNING: I have included some pictures below which, if you’re squeamish, may not be ideal for you. One of the ‘drain’ collecting fluids from the site of the mastectomy and one of the scarring across my stomach where fat had been removed to put into my newly hollowed out breast. I have included them as I would have found it helpful to have seen pix like this before my reconstructive surgery. None of the information I was given beforehand had pictures of either thing and it was only when googling online that I saw the extent of the scar and what the remade belly button looked like as part of the process. Anyway warning over…let’s go!
SUNDAY 19 NOV: DAY 2 OF RECOVERY
Night two post-surgery was a breeze compared to night one. I had drifted off to sleep whilst watching Strictly Come Dancing, (it can have that effect), and although I’d woken up a few times in the night I was actually getting some decent sleep in between. Things were definitely on an upward trajectory.
When Sunday morning arrived I propped myself up in bed and was looking forward to the arrival of the tea and coffee trolley.
A new nurse came into the room and introduced herself. Her name was Sebastien. Sebastien soon became my hero although I didn’t know quite how heroic she was going to be until the following day. Probably in her late 50s, (apologies Sebastien if I’ve got this wildly wrong), she had a particularly calm aura about her. When she asked if I’d managed to get out of bed I had to break the news that no, although, I’d managed to sit up and shuffle my bum along the mattress yesterday, I had been feeling nauseous, weak and shaky and my feet were still yet to make contact with the ground. ‘Ok’ Sebastien said. ‘No problem’. She then explained that today’s goal was to get me walking for the first time since the surgery on Friday. She also said she was going to give me a shower. ‘Ok’ I replied compliantly. The thought of being slightly cleaner was appealing although the thought of walking to a shower cubicle much less so. I had yet to stand up, letalone leave the confines of my room and bed. Sebastien said she’d be back later.
Having had breakfast, (porridge, yoghurt and toast again), my morning cup of tea, numerous glasses of water and my cocktail of morning medication, I prepared myself for the first manoeuvre out of bed. It was indeed, as I’d expected, quite a challenge.
The area of the mastectomy and reconstruction on my left breast was no problem at all. That was still tucked safely behind my post-surgery M&S bra. The area that was making me less mobile was my stomach where a 16 inch incision had been made from hip to hip to remove the fat that was then transferred to my newly hollowed out breast. Imagine a C-section scar but triple the length.
When Sebastien came to get me ready for the shower it was time to get out of bed and walk for the first time. Unable to use my stomach muscles in order to lift or move my legs I found myself manually clutching my calves to hoik them off the bed like two heavy tree trunks. The drain from my left breast, (a kind of plastic pint glass with a lid attached to a tube coming from my left breast), was still in place. The drain’s job is to minimise swelling caused by fluid collecting in the wound cavity. I only needed one drain but from the information I’d read beforehand some women have two or three depending on the surgery and if they’ve had two breasts operated on. I still had a catheter in at that point.
As I took my first hesitant shuffle towards the door it’s fair to say I felt I had been cut in half and stitched back up very tightly. It wasn't a painful sensation, (and of course I was still dosed up on painkillers), just a very strange, taut and restrictive feeling.
I attempted to stand for the first time with a straightened back and unfurl myself from a hunched over position and felt as though I was going to split and that my stitches would start popping open which of course they weren’t going to.
With Sebastien holding my arm we slowly and tentatively made our way out of the room and down the corridor to the shower cubicle. Once there she helped me get out of my pyjamas and I sat down on a chair, naked apart from my obligatory support stockings still on to reduce the risk of blood clots.
A sitting down shower! Well, this was a new experience. I felt like one of those silver-haired smiley pensioners you see advertising mobility showers in the back of Sunday supplements. Standing, sitting, who cared… it felt good. Sebastien asked if I wanted my hair washed, I said, no it was fine. I was enjoying the hot water running over my back. The closest I’d ever got to this experience of having someone slosh water over me was during a traditional Turkish bath in Istanbul where much to the amusement of my two friends, I was asked to stand facing a wall as a petite woman suddenly and to my complete surprise, threw a bucket of hot water over my head with a bit too much enthusiasm.
I was grateful for the hospital shower and right then couldn’t have cared less about being sat on a plastic chair naked in front of a kind stranger whilst wearing support stockings. Shower complete Sebastien helped towel me dry, I gathered my drain and off we set on the slow shuffle back to my hospital room feeling a little fresher than before.
Following those tentative first steps the rest of the day was spent tucking into my lunch - a traditional Sunday lunch of roast beef with Yorkshire puddings. I know it’s the norm to moan about hospital food but I was honestly quite content with what was being served up at St Thomas’s. There was a good choice of options every day and having not really eaten properly for two days I was making up for lost time. If anything I was probably going a bit overboard guzzling up three course meals with pudding options, but then, to give you some context I’m the sort of person who lacks self control at a ‘buffet’: if it’s on offer, I’ll take it. I’m also a fan of traditional school dinner type-fayre, which is a novelty to me these days - mashed potato, spongy puddings with custard, creamy rice puddings, Bisto-type gravy. Yes please. I’ll have some of that.
Having cancelled my mum and dad and told them NOT to visit the previous day, by Sunday I was much more rested and in a better headspace for visitors. My parents turned up in the afternoon as soon as visiting hours started at 2pm bringing with them a large cup of tea from the Costa downstairs that I’d requested and was looking forward to.
I took off the lid and was met by dark liquid and a floating teabag.
‘Why have you brought me black tea?’
‘You said no milk.’
I said ‘Oat milk’.
Nevermind, the large big box of Ferrero Rocher they presented me with and the lovely card one of my little nieces, Edie, had drawn for me with a cheery rainbow, more than made up for the slightly wrong tea order.
Later on my sister arrived too, armed with Walnut Whips, (a favourite from our childhood), a Victoria sponge and her own handmade card, a collage of people she knows are guaranteed to put a smile on my face - Rob Beckett (who seems to be getting a lot of mentions in these posts), Rob Brydon, Romesh Ranganathan, Chris Packham who I’ve interviewed many times and who I absolutely love, a few MAFS characters. She knows me so well.
It was good to have family visiting. My partner Jonny made his third visit in a row and kept me in the loop with what was going on at home and updated me on the well-wishing messages pinging through on various WhatsApp groups. He told me my lovely friend Clare had brought round a cottage pie and left in on the doorstep, (it was absolutely delicious and so was the lemon drizzle cake she dropped round too a few days later. Thank you Clare ). It’s at this point in writing I’m aware that ‘day two of recovery’ is heavy on the food mentions but I guess that’s apt because it was on day two that my full appetite really kicked in.
As visiting hours drew to a close and I ate yet another meal (above) it was time for Jonny to go. Unlike the previous day when I’d attempted to watch the very annoying and pretty unusable ‘crackly’ TV screen that we’d forked out for, this time, and feeling slightly more mobile, I managed to get my laptop up and running. Left alone in the room, bar the constant stream of staff coming to run checks on me, clear plates away, fill up water jugs, I tuned into Married At First Sight UK. Feel free to judge me on my viewing choices lovely reader, I won’t hold it against you. I had been following the progress of Peggy and Georges, Ella and JJ, Laura and Arthur and their chums following my diagnosis and just like Strictly, there was something increasingly comforting about being in the middle of a long running series (all 36 episodes of it!) which I could continue with in hospital, even if the long running series involved fiery dinner party arguments, goading ‘honesty boxes’ and angry new husbands and wives being disrespected.
So that was the end of Day Two of recovery and I was able to tick a few more things off the list provided by my care team.
RECOVERY TIMETABLE DAY TWO:
*2 HOURLY BREAST MONITORING
*CONTINUE TO EAT AND DRINK AS TOLERATED
*CATHETER REMOVED
*INCREASE MOBILITY
*SHOWER
*CHANGE INTO OWN CLOTHES
There had been more milestones achieved - I had had a much better night’s sleep than night one, I had got out of bed and walked for the first time, I had left the room, I had shuffled around and managed to sit on the chair looking out of the window, I had managed to chat to more than one visitor, I had had my first shower and my catheter had been taken out meaning from now on I would be required to do a bit more shuffling down the corridor to the nearby toilet. Small steps quite literally were being made. As I settled down for night three I was starting to feel a little more like myself. All was calm. All was ok.
NEXT TIME: Day 3 of recovery. Tears and overwhelm, nurse Sebastien becomes my hero and my reaction to being told I could go home. Spoiler: not great!
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Sebastien - what a hero. And MAFS is the highlight of my year too. X