Read Online Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy by Geralyn Lucas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Geralyn Lucas
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one last time over the smooth surface and I taste the lipstick in my mouth and it is mingling with the anesthesia cloud that has made me very sleepy and then—I am out.
If I were awake I would see Dr. B slicing away the mound of flesh that was my breast and carefully placing it in the pathology container.
If I were awake I would hear the beeping of my heart and the whirring of the breathing machine, because I am intubated.
If I were awake, I might feel a little pride that I wore such a true red shade that it now seems to perfectly match the blood on the operating room table.
If I were awake I would tell them how proud I am that I decided to cut off my breast, to hopefully save my life.
If I were awake I would tell them that I know I will still be a woman.
For anyone who does not believe this, that is why I am wearing lipstick.
In the sterility of the operating room I am laughing.
In the blood and gauze I am dancing.
Under anesthesia, with a tube forced down my throat, I am hopeful and maybe even a little sexy.
And slightly in control, just knowing that my lipstick might last.
6
Peep Show
All I can see when I try to open my eyes is the white bandage where my right breast used to be. This is the moment I’ve been dreading: I have woken up after my mastectomy surgery and a piece of me is gone. They are screaming at me to breathe as hard as I can in the recovery room at Mount Sinai Hospital. The recovery room is like a low-budget porn movie—lots of moaning, bad lighting, and way too much directing.
“Open your mouth—wider. Wider. Wider!”
They gave me too much anesthesia for my surgery and I feel like I’m slurping up air. I still can’t breathe, even after they have rolled over the respirator and put the mask on. In between all the chaos a sassy nurse comes over to me and screams that I need to breathe—b-r-e-a-t-h-e harder.
“Open your mouth!” Then, just when I think she is about to yell at me again, she starts to smile. It’s the lipstick.
“Girl, what kind of lipstick are you wearing? That shit stayed on for your six-hour surgery!”
Good thing my lipstick is not fading, because I am.
But I can see Tyler hovering above me. He is reading me the affirmations my hypnotherapist suggested: “You are cured. You are so proud of your decision to have the mastectomy. Your body knows exactly how to respond to the surgery.”
Tyler looks as in love as he did on the night he proposed to me in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park. He hid two champagne glasses and a bottle of champagne under his trench coat. After I screamed “Yes!” and we downed the bubbly, he wanted to smash our glasses. As we threw our glasses and the glass shattered, Tyler grabbed me and said, “Geralyn, this moment can never be undone.” I remember those shards of glass shining on the New York City sidewalk under the street light. Now I feel like this surgery has smashed me into tiny pieces that can’t be glued back together. Everything hurts so badly. Tyler looks so scared in his surgical scrubs and so brave for me somehow. It is so strange because I have seen him in scrubs at home many times, but never in the hospital.
I must have blacked out because when I wake up again I know that I am out of the recovery room—I don’t hear the moaning all around me. I am now in the hushed dim of a hospital room instead of the bright stadium lights of the recovery room. I can hear the sadness in the air and it feels so loud that I want to reassure everyone that I will be okay. There is a small crowd. My parents, brothers, in-laws, and friends have been sitting here in the darkness waiting for me to wake up.
Robin starts to cry and my mother-in-law tells her not to cry in front of me and to leave the room. My dad is sitting and thinking hard. He looks like he is about to take a swing on the racquetball court. I strain to lift my head up and they all begin to come into focus and I can see the anticipation in the
If I were awake I would see Dr. B slicing away the mound of flesh that was my breast and carefully placing it in the pathology container.
If I were awake I would hear the beeping of my heart and the whirring of the breathing machine, because I am intubated.
If I were awake, I might feel a little pride that I wore such a true red shade that it now seems to perfectly match the blood on the operating room table.
If I were awake I would tell them how proud I am that I decided to cut off my breast, to hopefully save my life.
If I were awake I would tell them that I know I will still be a woman.
For anyone who does not believe this, that is why I am wearing lipstick.
In the sterility of the operating room I am laughing.
In the blood and gauze I am dancing.
Under anesthesia, with a tube forced down my throat, I am hopeful and maybe even a little sexy.
And slightly in control, just knowing that my lipstick might last.
6
Peep Show
All I can see when I try to open my eyes is the white bandage where my right breast used to be. This is the moment I’ve been dreading: I have woken up after my mastectomy surgery and a piece of me is gone. They are screaming at me to breathe as hard as I can in the recovery room at Mount Sinai Hospital. The recovery room is like a low-budget porn movie—lots of moaning, bad lighting, and way too much directing.
“Open your mouth—wider. Wider. Wider!”
They gave me too much anesthesia for my surgery and I feel like I’m slurping up air. I still can’t breathe, even after they have rolled over the respirator and put the mask on. In between all the chaos a sassy nurse comes over to me and screams that I need to breathe—b-r-e-a-t-h-e harder.
“Open your mouth!” Then, just when I think she is about to yell at me again, she starts to smile. It’s the lipstick.
“Girl, what kind of lipstick are you wearing? That shit stayed on for your six-hour surgery!”
Good thing my lipstick is not fading, because I am.
But I can see Tyler hovering above me. He is reading me the affirmations my hypnotherapist suggested: “You are cured. You are so proud of your decision to have the mastectomy. Your body knows exactly how to respond to the surgery.”
Tyler looks as in love as he did on the night he proposed to me in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park. He hid two champagne glasses and a bottle of champagne under his trench coat. After I screamed “Yes!” and we downed the bubbly, he wanted to smash our glasses. As we threw our glasses and the glass shattered, Tyler grabbed me and said, “Geralyn, this moment can never be undone.” I remember those shards of glass shining on the New York City sidewalk under the street light. Now I feel like this surgery has smashed me into tiny pieces that can’t be glued back together. Everything hurts so badly. Tyler looks so scared in his surgical scrubs and so brave for me somehow. It is so strange because I have seen him in scrubs at home many times, but never in the hospital.
I must have blacked out because when I wake up again I know that I am out of the recovery room—I don’t hear the moaning all around me. I am now in the hushed dim of a hospital room instead of the bright stadium lights of the recovery room. I can hear the sadness in the air and it feels so loud that I want to reassure everyone that I will be okay. There is a small crowd. My parents, brothers, in-laws, and friends have been sitting here in the darkness waiting for me to wake up.
Robin starts to cry and my mother-in-law tells her not to cry in front of me and to leave the room. My dad is sitting and thinking hard. He looks like he is about to take a swing on the racquetball court. I strain to lift my head up and they all begin to come into focus and I can see the anticipation in the
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