There's something magical about hearing these reassuring words from a healthcare professional: "Looks great!"

This morning, I met with Dr. Lee, the surgeon who performed my breast reconstruction at the Queensway Carleton Hospital just over a week ago. As we walked to an exam room, she mentioned that she likes to see patients a week after surgery since it's better to know sooner rather than later if anything has gone awry. I was grateful for this.

Given that my breasts had been bandaged since the operation, I didn't know what to expect. When Dr. Lee pulled back the gauze to view my breasts, they looked—from my vantage point—like healthy skin and tissue. A quick examination was all Dr. Lee needed to confirm that things were as they should be. She mentioned that I appear well, noting that people experiencing an infection do not look healthy.

She asked about my remaining drain. I admitted that it was still collecting about 30 mL of fluid per day. Her instructions to homecare had been to remove the drain after it produced less than 30 mL of fluid per day for two consecutive days. Today, however, she said that the drain would just continue producing fluid. It had served its purpose. When she announced, "We're going to take it out," I was thrilled. With a quick snip-snip (to remove the suture holding the tube in place) and a brisk tug, Dr. Lee had relieved me of my drain—another step on the road to normalcy.

This morning, before my appointment, I had exhausted a fair amount of energy simply making muffins with my daughter and getting ready for my trip to the hospital (including washing and blow-drying my hair). For both activities, I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I mentioned to Mel that I was reminded of the Spoon Theory, which Christine Miserando created to explain what it's like to have the chronic illness Lupus. Miserando suggested that the difference between being sick and being healthy is the amount of energy you have to spend on everyday activities. Baking and dressing took all the energy I had. I felt like I had just run to catch a bus.

After my appointment, however, I felt like I had a new spring in my step. I was reminded that how we feel mentally influences how we feel physically. Just a few days ago, for example, I was texting with my niece (the nurse) about my right drain, concerned that the daily fluid amounts were not only staying high but even increasing. "Should I be concerned?" I asked. My niece was reassuring, noting that if the colour of the drainage was still pink, yellow or clear (in other words, not cloudy) and if there were no signs of infection (such as significant pain or redness at the drain site), it should be okay. She asked whether the breast with the drain was the same one that had given me problems the last time. It was. "Yeah so I can understand why that would be stressful," she empathized. "But I don't think we are seeing enough to be worried yet." I sent her a photo of the bulb that captured the fluid from the drain. "Yeah looks perfect," she said. Just a day later, I was texting my niece to say that the volume from my right drain was decreasing, suggesting that things were moving in the right direction. It's so easy to worry and for that worry to be felt in the body.

A humorous story about my recent texts with my niece: as I was getting ready for my appointment with Dr. Lee this morning, I accidentally dialed my niece's number. I quickly hung up, then texted her to make sure that she didn't think it was an emergency. In my haste, I wrote: "Sorry. Didn't mean to butter dial you." It was only later in the morning, after I had returned from my appointment, that I glanced at my phone and saw my typo. "Butter dial? Really?" I wrote to her. My niece replied: "Haha all good." I used the opportunity to provide my niece with an update: Dr. Lee thought everything looked great, she removed the one remaining drain, and she said that she will continue the inflation of the implants starting next week. Dr. Lee noted that we need to continue with the inflation while the chest muscle is still soft. Nevertheless, it sounds like the most painful part is behind me.

I took a walk with my daughter at lunch time, pausing long enough for her to snap a photo of me. It feels good 2b on the road to recovery.