This past Friday, hubby went in for surgery on his breast, a light mastectomy were the exact words the anaesthesiologist used, not something a man or woman wants to hear. It was back in August of 2012, that he first noticed the lump, we called, well actually I called the doctor immediately and he saw hubby the next day. An appointment with the specialist was made, thank goodness we/he did not have to wait long for that appointment either. A biopsy was taken with the specialist telling us there was nothing to worry about. Yet, it wasn’t until the next appointment that the doctor explained hubby had what was called a Gynecomastia (for those not familiar with the term, it is enlarged breast tissue). Hubby could leave it, or if it bothered him, he could have it removed. We decided, he would have the lump removed because it hurt when he tried to lay on his right side for any length of time or if someone grabbed his breast (that would be me, in those, you know, weak moments). As it turned out, the gynecomastia became much larger, so to have it removed was the right decision.
On Friday, I dropped him off in front of the hospital for his day surgery. The children (23, 20 & 18 years of age) were not impressed that I had just “kicked him out of the car” (hubby’s words). The twenty-three year old had bused in the night before, while the other two, being away at university could only wait for updates from mom by phone. I reassured them that their father would be fine without me there, and the hospital would call if there was a problem which there wouldn’t be. I also reminded them, that I had been by myself when I had had my back surgery (yes, their father would have been there if he could, but the kids were very young and we didn’t have a babysitter). I was a horrible wife they all decided.
Since I had dropped him off at 8:30 a.m., and the operation wasn’t until 10:30 a.m., I knew it would be hours until I heard anything. About two hours after his operation, I phoned the hospital only to be told that he was still in recovery so they would not be able to give me an update yet. I reassured myself and the children their father, my husband was fine. Another hour went by, the phone rang, hubby was doing very well (huge sigh of relief) and I could pick him up in about forty-five minutes, but to bring a wheelchair. A wheelchair? Apparently the hospital prefers patients be wheeled out, rather than them walking out on their own. Thank goodness the eldest was with me, since I walk with a cane and there was no way I would be able to push hubby in a wheelchair.
When we arrived at the hospital, we found hubby doing amazingly well. The first words from my lips, not hello, but “they gave you morphine, didn’t they?” Hubby smiled, and said “you know with my eye’s closed, there are all these really cool colours”. The eldest laughed, all was fine. She texted her brother and sister, while I got his prescriptions and instructions from the nurse. Hubby sat in the wheelchair and the eldest had a hoot pushing her dad to the van. Now the real fun begins, he is home, off work for two weeks. So which one of us will do the other in first?