It's Halloween and I'm not a bit scared.

It was NOT a bad day. Kim picked me up at the crack of 7…I had packed her a cancer-crew bag with snacks, a newspaper and magazines. We snapped a photo of me with my shirt lifted and jumped in her car where she had the seat preheated for me (note to self: butt warmer in the next car). Our first stop was the Breast Imaging Center for a wire localization. This delightful procedure involves numbing (oh yea?) the breast and inserting, make that, FORCING through dense tissue, a needle that will guide a wire into the center of the enemy cells. This is a ultrasound guided procedure and I am watching this horror flick on the monitor. I am the topless star.
The end of the wire is sticking out of my breast when they are done and it is carefully taped in gauze for the trip to the hospital. But first, I wait patiently in a room with a plate of just baked chocolate chip cookies that I cannot touch as I’m being starved for surgery. This is an evil test and it doesn't please me. Several mammograms later to record the wire’s position, I am handed my films and sent on my way. Kim is waiting and smiling (well, she did get coffee) and keeps that smile in place all day.
Cut to the hospital. Discussions of directives, emergency numbers, signing and dating and we are escorted to the outpatient area by a woman in a Mrs. Santa outfit. She dryly tells us, “I’m very confused”…we think she just got more interesting.
Nurse June comes to retrieve me asking for Mrs. Hughes. I inform her that was my mother and if she wants me, she’ll need to use another handle. June wins me over later as she maintains my dignity by holding the back of my gown as I make several trips to the restroom (the IV must be full of beer). Nurse Angie brings me warm blankets and rubs my feet as an apologetic tech struggles to stick the needle in, yeeouch, I’d be a lousy junkie. Kim comes to sit by my side and we flirt mercilessly with the adorable nuclear medicine tech that has come to roll me (there will be no more walking at this point) to my next new experience. Radiation isn’t supposed to be a good thing, right? Wrong. One of the benefits of getting breast cancer today is the Sentinel Node Biopsy. A few shots of radioactive fluid (again, needle in the breast) will find it’s way to the sentinel node. While in surgery, with the help of a tiny Geiger counter, Dr. Lisa will track the fluid. That node and a couple others (not the entire flock) will be singled out removed and tested for those pesky cells that have escaped the breast. The procedure, like the others thus far today, is mildly uncomfortable for a brief time. Doable.
We giggle our way back with Mr. Adorable through the halls to our waiting stall. Dr. Lisa comes in to chat. She is a cool as a cucumber, honest, approachable, positively positive. I trust her completely. Our next visitor is Mary the breast cancer advocate. Again, another woman I am proud to have on my side. She gives, in laywoman’s terms, complete explanations on every question or point I need clarity on and I want to know excruciating details on everything. I have no anxiety or trepidation; this is actually feeling like a good experience.
Being the shameless women we are, we tease, cajole and flirt (again!) with the stunning anesthesiologist. Come on, who doesn’t want to talk about drugs? He promises me a good ride, and no nausea. It just keeps getting better. After a little IV cocktail to relax me prior to the big sleep, I say “see you later” to Kim and head to the waiting hands of my surgeon.
Recovery room. Eyes open, and I am miraculously wide-awake. Dr. Lisa is telling me my nodes look clear (final pathology report will be here next week). I feel like dancing, all is right with the world. I gaze under the blanket at my now throbbing boob—she says to me, “it's still there.”