Yeah, so, I still have one remaining drain from my surgery three weeks ago, and it is making my life miserable.
Basically, a tube is sticking out from under my left armpit, and it’s running into a little plastic bottle. Obviously, this little plastic bottle must remain with me at all times. It’s tied to my waist in a little bag. It’s ugly, gross and embarrassing, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
When I left the hospital, the nurses put the drain in a little white bag with a string that tied around my waist. I was always worried that people would think it was a colostomy bag or a fanny pack, and I couldn’t decide what was worse.
Eventually, I got a fab idea.
I took a tiny little evening bag with a long strap out of my closet.

Ta-dah!
Now, I have hidden my drain in my cute, little bag. So cancer chic, right?
I want this drain out so badly, but the doctor will not remove it until it drains under a certain amount. For days now, it’s been right at the magic number of 30 ml. I keep wondering if I lie to the doc and say it’s at 29, would he remove it?
Now, of course, I don’t want it removed before it’s time. Getting the drain removed early can lead to horrible complications and infections. I’ll pass on that. At the same time, I am constantly uncomfortable, sore and, well, dirty. I can’t shower as long as I have this drain, so it’s sponge baths for me and washing my hair by sticking my head under the tub faucet. It sucks ass.
Also, I can’t drive with this drain. I returned to work on Monday, and I drove Monday and Tuesday with the drain anyway. I thought maybe I could ride in the carpool lane, but the cop told me that my drain doesn’t count as a person. Dang.
So anyway, I didn’t last the full day in the office both days, and I was horribly sore by the time I got home. On Tuesday night, I had a completely positive attitude fail! I was sore, grouchy and frustrated with my body for not cooperating with me by healing faster.
I spoke to my dad that night.
Dad: “I know you are impatient. You come by that rightly. You get that from me, but you are going to get better.”
True. I do get it from him. I have seen doctors order The Man with strict bed rest, and the next day he’s digging a ditch in the backyard for no good reason.
So anyway, it’s almost a blessing that the Bay Bridge has been closed, allowing me to work from home. I am getting a ton of copy editing done, and I’m sitting in a comfortable position that allows me to heal properly.
I am hoping that my couch sitting all day Sunday will do the trick, and maybe — dare to dream — I can finally get this thing removed. I refuse to get my hopes up. Every time I do, I get denied, which leads to me crying in the car: “I [sob] can’t [sob] take [sob] this [sob] drain [sob] anymore …”
I went to two doctor appointments on Friday. In one appointment, the nurse said they wouldn’t be removing the drain. The other appointment, the oncologist told me that I’m low risk for breast cancer reoccurrence. Guess which appointment I’ve been focused on?
I’m such a jackass.