Surviving DIEP Flap Surgery

I am one week, three(ish) days post DIEP Flap Surgery. It has taken every minute since surgery to simply get to a place where I can string a few sentences together about the past week. Let’s recap, shall we?

Friday, August 29. My eyes (and anxiety) flew open at 4:00am. According to pre-op instruction, I had to chug 16oz of cranberry juice before 5:00am because it helps get carbs in your stomach. I hate juice - my go to mimosa order is mimosa, hold the OJ. I attempted to pretend I was a KKG in college chugging jungle juice from the fraternity trash can, but alas, I was still a 43-year old woman trying to choke down plain cranberry juice at 4:00am before a major cancer prevention surgery.

I quietly took my juice to the bathroom where I tried not to wake Jordan (and the sleeping stowaway, Marjorie). I entered the shower and let the warm water cascade down my body without hesitation, knowing it would be the last time I could soak without caution for weeks. The smell of the pre-op Hibiclense antibacterial soap wafted through the shower, catapulting me back to 2021. I worked to stay present and remind myself of the facts: painful implants coming out, no foreign objects coming in, risk of infection practically zero.

Alex was up and waiting for me in the kitchen, coffee in hand, ready to rock as Boob Doula. And yes, she had her Boob Doula hat and Evict the Implants shirt on. Life hack: find a friend who brings merch to all occasions, even surgery.

Alex drove to the hospital. We nervously chatted about the phone tree, until we did the only thing we knew to do - blare “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls. Obviously.

The rest is a pre-op blur - urine tests, undressing, IVs, grippy socks, warm blankets, consents, pills, IV medicines, doctors and nurses coming and going. Alex holding my hand. Then it was time.

The tears started. My trauma mind always went to this moment - the gurney to the OR, the sliding of my woozy body from the bed to the steel OR table, the glaring bright lights, relinquishing any semblance control I had, and handing my body over the capable hands of the strangers around me.

“Now we will put this mask on to help you with oxygen.”

I smelled the mask before feeling it. The strong plastic odor nearly choked me. Tears fell one by one out of the corners of my eyes. The nurse spotted them and wiped them away. She held my hand and told me I was going to be okay. That was the last thing I remember. We don’t deserve nurses.

The surgery took over eight hours.

My body violently shook and alarm bells rang through my post-op curtain corner. “It’s over,” I thought. Because this was my eighth surgical rodeo, I knew I did not excel in the post-op category. I was awake, but could not talk. I could see my limbs shaking. I used all of my strength to slightly turn my head to the alert monitor. “Yep, it’s my blood pressure,” I thought to myself.

Then I heard the nurse telling someone, “We have given her ____ to stop the shaking, but can’t get her blood pressure up.”

I still could not talk, but in my head wanted to say, “It’s cool, happens every time. I’ll be okay.” Instead, I remained silent and shaking in the gurney.

I awoke later in my hospital room, both Jordan and Alex by my side. I still could not process what they were saying, but something about ‘yay for nipples.’ I’m sure Jordan made some joke about how we still have to buy nipple dimmers.

Because of the delicate tissue transfer, I had to remain under a tarp like blanket that was pumping hot air to my chest and abdomen. This ensured to keep the tissue alive in the critical time following the surgery. It felt like I was in a scorching tanning bed, minus the cool eye glasses.

The nurse came in every hour to check the tissue. I had cable wires coming out of my boobs - it was like a jump starter kit. Red to red, black to black, wait for the noise - a fetal heart beat - whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Pleased with the noise and doppler reading, she would put be back under my hot box and return in an hour. Alex did the LORD’s work, waking up every hour to place cool washcloths on my head and shoulders.

The following day, I was cleared by the PA to get up and at it. Catheter out and McCall up (up-ish). HOLY SHIT. I have never felt such pain or the frustration of being immobile in my life. Slowly, I made it from the bed to the chair and then cruised a hot ten feet on the walker. To be honest, I just wanted to lay in bed. I was in so much pain.

I kept asking Alex for my phone, but did not have the cognitive ability to read, much less respond. Alex remained chief communications officer, responding to my texts, and screaming from the mountain tops - ‘They kept the nipples!’

I left the hospital Sunday afternoon with four drains (one in each breast, and two in lower abdomen). I also had the bonus accessory of a wound vac. Its job was to collect any excess fluid at the very (very) long stomach incision.

As most know, my home has multiple children, animals, and a husband. It is loud, chaotic, and my children can sniff me out of a snake hole to have me fix their latest problem. Because of this, my parents generously sponsored a beach condo again for my healing. And to no one’s surprise, they were also there ready to nurse me back to health. The first few days were a mix of drugs, naps, matching PJs, drain output, trying to eat, sleep, repeat.

Because my body likes to throw healing curve balls, I developed massive fluid blisters. These formed partly because of the bandages and partly because of the insane amount of fluid they gave me during the long surgery. In addition to fun with blisters, my wound vac fell off mid-week and its bandage blew up like a pool noodle following my shower. It was clear the bandage had to come off ASAP. Thankfully, my sister, a physician, was in town to help.

WARNING: Don’t look if your squeamish, but the bacon strip bandage had us all laughing in disgust.

The ocean waves, cotton candy sunsets, friends, family, and drugs, helped the week whiz by. Yesterday, I returned to my wild home tired, still hurting, but also feeling like I had turned a big corner. I am still unable to stand upright, but little progress is made every day - and for that I am thankful.

This Friday marks two weeks post-op. In the past, my infection reared its head at the 14-day mark. I’m feeling cautiously optimistic and focusing on listening to my body, which for any working mom is SO hard. But as my therapist calls any opportunity like this - a beautiful growth edge.

Recovery has been hard - harder than what I imagined. I knew there would be pain, but the pain has been excruciating. I knew there would be mental anguish, but the sadness and frustration ran deep. AND I am once again left in awe and overwhelming gratitude. Thank you for all of the calls, texts, messages, flowers, dinners, prayers, carpool, and everything in between. And in the words of my dear friend Allison’s sign (that she actually had printed and picked up in public at Staples): Though her boobs be but little, she is fierce. (Ironic note: they are still not that small, but the implants are GONE!)