1, 461 days.

It equals four years. More specifically, for me, it equals the time from October 4th, 2017 to October 4th, 2021.

Four years. Four years since I had both of my breasts removed. Four years since my breast cancer diagnosis led to this surgery day.

1, 461 days.

This marker of time feels strange. Revelations and insights? Not exactly. More like, while walking down my apartment complex’s steps on the fourth anniversary, I landed on my ankle wrong, and probably created a mild sprain for myself. I have since been hobbling around, with a swollen and sore left ankle.

Happy anniversary?

Such is life.

While I was doing this hobbling, intermittently placing ice packs on my ankle, moaning on the couch, my mind had flashes over the surgery day here and there.

Things like the waiting involved on that turtle-slow day, the fuzzy face of my surgeon when I came out of surgery, the teddy bear my husband got me, the yellow stain of the disinfecting soap on my bandaged and flat chest, and the feeling of relief.

Yes, I had a feeling of relief. It was over. Now, I know it wasn’t that simple, but the surgery, and the surgery day itself, was over. And that had been built up to such mammoth dread for me. And that’s saying something, because fussiness and Chicken Little-Sky-is-falling stuff is an unfortunate, easy default for me, If I’m not careful.

With my ankle iced, I also thought about some other fun (and macabre) stuff. Why not? It’s October. Halloween is coming!

I thought about what was happening, four years ago, during the hours of my surgery: 11 a.m. to about 3:30 p.m. I thought about…

Gee, four years ago, at this time, say, 11:30, was this the last time I’d still have both of my breasts?

Which breast did they remove first?

How long did that take?

Did they sew me up and attached the hand grenade-looking bulb drain first before moving on? How long did that take?

How long did it take to remove the other breast?

What was the exact time I was now newly breastless?

What wacky things did the surgical team discuss while they were working on me? Did they complain about their jobs or families?

Did they play classical music or was it something cheesy?

Enquiring minds wanna know.

It may sound ridiculous or Obsessive-Compulsive, but this was where my mind went this four-year anniversary. This was how I reflected.

And remember, my ankle situation prevented me from taking some Ralph Waldo Emerson pondering nature walk about “more important matters.”

But that’s perfectly okay. That’s a stronger lesson I’ve been learning within the past 1, 461 days. YOU. GET. THROUGH. IT.

You just do. You, having been through something like cancer, have earned the right to think and feel and question and ponder any which way you want.

I write this little ditty today, day 1, 462. Still hobbling. Still the sore ankle.

But still recognizing I have been through a battle. And I’m still here.

When revelations and insights and measures of all kinds of healing are not easily or readily apparent, there is that.

Still here, sore ankle or no sore ankle.

Copyright © 2021 by Sheryle Cruse