As I checked in at my plastic surgeon’s office at 9:15 this morning, the person working at the front desk asked if I knew where the bathroom was as he continued clicking on his keyboard. I chuckled under my breath and without thinking replied, “Yes yes I do. This is my second home.” He laughed. As I shuffled to a chair in the waiting area, hunched over and with a drain dangling from my right pocket, I thought to myself just how many times I’d been to this UCLA suite: countless consults, pre-ops, post-op appointments, the list goes on. Seven days ago I had my 4th surgery in 16 months. As the nurse wheeled me down the chilled hallways and into the operating room, I was struck by the vulnerability and sheer trust we are required to muster as we enter the trauma that is surgery. Laying naked under the bright lights as the anesthetic begins to coarse through the body, control is surrendered and memory temporarily suspended. As I emerged from the anesthesia in the recovery room, I recall full body shakes and having little to no idea where I was. Uncomfortably disoriented. I stayed the night and returned home the following morning, out of it but relieved surgery was officially behind me. “Okay, take a deep breath in” my surgeon said, as she readied to pull the drain from my abdomen. “And breath out.” And just like that, the drain exited. Then she began peeling the foam from my stomach and for a moment, amid the intensity, I flashed to my unmedicated birth with my daughter nearly 9 years ago now. Oh the places our minds can go... Everyone (and most of all me, no doubt) hopes this was my final surgery. But if I’ve learned anything through this wild and wacky process, it’s that breast cancer—and its accompanying procedures—steals a sense of predictability and control. #ihadamiscarriage #miscarriage #breastcancer #breastcancerawareness #chek2 #diepflap