Then I Woke Up

Two nights before my surgery, I lay at the bottom of a shadowy pool. When I looked up, I could see my family room mantle with framed photos and Jack White posters – bending and swaying as the water lapped gently on the surface just above my head.

“Oh man,” I thought with relief. “I’m in surgery. Finally. I’m on the operating table right now and this awful cancer is being cut out.”

I swam toward the water’s surface, toward the darkened family room that has been my bedroom these past months and I broke through into the night air.

Then I woke up.

Nope – not having surgery. Still in my family room, sitting upright on my couch – my cocoon of pillows propping me so that the least amount of pressure possible is on my grossly lopsided head. The zebra cancer remains – embedded in my right salivary gland – still causing me pain, discomfort and worry.

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That day – friends dropped in and out – to wish me well before my big day; to kiss and hug me; to bring me treats to eat prior to having part of my jaw gouged out; to tearfully see me off.

Then I carefully showered – following the hospital’s guidelines and prepared for what I hoped would be my final night sleeping upright on the family room couch. Brennan joined me briefly before retiring upstairs – and then I was alone.

Despite waiting out the next five hours, sleep never came. So I got up, took my second shower, kissed the kids as they lay in their beds dead to the world and headed toward the hospital with Brennan at the wheel.

“Your night okay?” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t really sleep at all. And actually I’m a bit disappointed. I thought for sure Aunt Pat would come see me one of these nights. Just to let me know she’s with me, watching over me.”

Brennan was silent. His Aunt Pat – one of my most favourite people in this world – had taken her leave of us all over four years ago.

Me: “Maybe I’ll see her during my surgery.”
Brennan gasped and replied: “If you see her during the surgery – and she tells you to come into the light. Don’t. Go.”

I glanced over at him – he was half-serious.

Saying goodbye to Brennan in the hospital parking lot was how I needed it to be. We hugged, he told me he loved me, then whispered a joke in my ear which I deliberately did not even crack a smile at – and I walked into the hospital alone.

Eventually, I found myself naked and shivering under a blue gown while lying on a stretcher – my belongings wrapped up tightly in a green hospital bag – to eventually be deposited in whatever room I found myself in after surgery. From there, I was wheeled into a hallway and left outside of my operating room.

As I lay there, heart racing, I wondered if it was possible for me to just get up and walk out of the hospital. Perhaps, if I swallowed really hard, I could flush this tumour right out of my system – no need for surgery. This was an actual, honest-to-goodness thought that crossed my mind as I lie there.

A woman down the hall from me, also lying on a stretcher, also waiting outside her respective operating room, cried quietly while a doctor comforted her.

My doctor materialized by my side – he’s a rockstar in the medical field – I just know it.

“Hey, Tanya. It’s Dr. Alexander. How you feeling?”
Me: “Kinda nervous actually.”
Him: “Don’t be – honestly. I assembled a crack team of surgeons – all here just for you today. We’re gonna get this thing out, okay?”
I nodded.
Him: “Any questions?”
Me: “Yes. Is there any way you could please take a picture of the tumour. After it’s been taken out – like when it’s laying in a dish or whatever?”

I wanted to see this thing – actually I needed to see this thing. This thing that very nearly devastated my family; this thing causing me pain and discomfort for months; this thing the main reason I hadn’t been able to sleep in my own bed; this thing – making my parents worry that I would die.

I wanted to see this tentacled monster in all its gruesome nakedness, forcibly extracted from the recesses of my face – out in the open with no place left to hide, no longer a threat to me or my family.

Him: “Listen, I’ll try. But there’s a 50/50 chance I’ll forget. But – if I remember, I’ll get it for you.”

When the next two surgeons came to introduce themselves to me, we chatted – and then I told them: “I asked Dr. Alexander to take a photo of the tumour for me. He said he would if he remembered – can you please remind him?”

Then a young and pleasant Anne Hathaway lookalike came over to my side. An intern assisting in my surgery – so green and hesitant despite her stellar credentials and achievements – she introduced herself to me as Amy instead of Dr. Buchanan. I pled my case to her for the desperately desired photograph.

It was time. I had to walk into the operating room – which may very well have been the scariest, most daunting experience of my life. Walking  into this cold, metallic room while groups of indistinguishable individuals stood together gabbing – while I plodded over to the operating table on my rapidly depleting steam.

My gown was pulled open in the back (one thing I’ve learned this past week is that in a hospital – there’s no place for shame) and as I lie down with my gown sides hanging to the floor on either side of me, an oxygen mask was gently placed over my nose and mouth.

“Take a few deep breaths, okay?”, someone – a person above me with only eyes visible commanded. So I did.

Then I woke up.

In less than one minute, 14 hours had passed me by. While my parents visited with my cousin to pass the evening; while my husband rapidly refreshed his phone to view my surgical progress; while my family and friends drank wine nervously and called my husband, wondering what was taking so long – I had merely blinked my eyes and then reopened them.

There was a bright light overhead – and someone – my  money’s on Anne Hathaway – called out to me: asking my name, my location, the date. Then this: “Tanya, we just finished your surgery. It was 14 hours long – and it was successful.”

I grunted a muffled response though in my mind I cried tears of joy and chanted “thank you” over and over.

As I was wheeled out of the operating room – toward whatever room would mark the beginning of my recovery, I heard another yell from Anne Hathaway. “Tanya! We got you your photo!”

These past several months have been like a living nightmare – one that entailed sleeping sitting up on the couch – my head carefully anchored between pillows; one involving medications and tests and pain – so much pain; a nightmare of worry, stress and fear – all derived from this tumour as it aggressively spread its tentacles over my family, my children, my friends.

This nightmare has been a long and difficult one.

Then I woke up.

On Monday April 26, 2021, my life changed forever when I heard the words: “You have cancer.” This blog post is the fifth in a series entitled: Cancer Culture and revolves around my personal experience surrounding this devastating diagnosis.

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