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Party like it's breast cancer

In The Breast I Can Be: Finding Purpose in Breast Cancer

Jo Lee Ferguson

By Jo Lee Ferguson
June 26, 2017 at 12:37 a.m.
Updated June 26, 2017 at 12:48 a.m.


I feel great. I kid you not, and I honestly did not expect that’s how I would feel after having a lumpectomy on Friday.

I think the party that followed must have had something to do with it.

I arrived at the hospital at 7 a.m. and was home around 3 p.m. Friday, sans my dark passenger. I realize that’s all in a day’s work for my surgeon, Dr. Christine Moulds-Merritt, and those who helped her, but I feel like that really belongs in the medical miracle category.

I’m certain that everyone’s experience is different. I assumed I would be in quite a bit of pain after having what felt like a small rock removed from my right breast, and a lymph node removed to determine if my cancer had spread there. (Good news – it hadn’t!) I can only be thankful that I haven’t had any real pain so far.

It kind of makes me feel bad that family and friends hovered over me all weekend catering to my every need – cleaning my house, serving soup, dispensing ice packs and coffee, overseeing children while I napped, providing foot massages. Ok, well, that last one didn’t actually happen, but I suspect only because I didn’t ask.

And, as long as I’m being honest, I don’t feel bad about it at all. We basically had a party all weekend. A breast cancer party, and it was a perfectly lovely way to kiss my tumor good-bye. I can't think of a better way to mark the end of this part of my breast cancer story than laughing with old friends. It took away any worries or discomfort as nothing else could. I’ll forego the guilt for not actually having pain after the surgery.

The worst part of Friday, for me, was the nausea after the surgery, I assume from anesthesia followed by oral pain medication at the hospital. I went home and went to bed, and then I tried to eat something when I woke up. I’m really thankful – insert sarcastic tone of voice here - family and friends were present to watch me throw up and direct me back to bed. 

I apparently stayed there too long, though. Later, when I heard my husband putting the kids to bed, I got up to tell them good night. My oldest son, 8-year-old Elijah, asked me if I was going to get up in the morning. I told him yes, but he wasn’t buying it.

“You should set your alarm,” he said. 

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