Surgery proves to be tough match for stress columnist

By Amanda Enayati, Special to CNN

updated 2:56 PM EST, Wed December 14, 2011

STORY HIGHLIGHTS

• Four years ago, author had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor
• Relaxation methods like guided imagery don't work before her surgery
• Author picked doctor who was kind, brilliant, mellow, capable and humble

Editor's note: Last year, CNN Health chronicled the breast cancer journey of our stress columnist, Amanda Enayati, in a series of five essays spanning from diagnosis to recovery. Today, she writes about the uneasy closure afforded by her recent reconstructive surgery, more than four years after diagnosis. The original essays can be found here.

(CNN) -- "I see here you'll be staying overnight," says the woman at the surgery check-in, fixing me with a soothing beam.
Up until now, I've been all smiles, but I turn on her in a heartbeat.
"No," I say with a frown. "Not spending the night. Check in, check out. Same day."
"Oh, well, it might be a mistake. I'll look into it," she offers.
"Feel free to look into it," I say. "But either way I'm leaving today."
I'm sure my husband is making apologetic faces behind my back. I don't care. I've been at this counter before. Last time, it felt like I barely got out with my life. No Hotel California for me this time.
Four years, two months, 26 days since I checked in last.
The mood is understandably lighter this round. Last time, they were removing one heck of a cancerous tumor. This time, they're reconstructing one breast and lifting the other one to match. Why, it's darn near a party.
We move to the next window, where they place white plastic bracelets on both my wrists. And ask some more questions about my date of birth, my address, my insurance. No mention of my co-pay today. The woman who called me last night -- the night before my surgery -- to tell me about a $2,500 co-pay might have warned them to avoid the topic.
Finally, we make it to the waiting room. I try not to stare as I take in the micro-pockets of human drama unfolding all around. I try to organize my thoughts about my next column, which is due in a couple days: proven ways to minimize the stress of surgery and recover faster! No. 1 method: guided imagery, a relaxation method that uses visualization and storytelling techniques aimed at reducing anxiety.
The MD Anderson researcher I interviewed last week had reams of data about the effectiveness of guided imagery. What I forgot to ask was how long before surgery you had to start listening to the recording, which I uploaded on my iPod only yesterday. I listened to the hypnotic voice of the woman with the odd name four times back-to-back last night. Does cramming work for guided imagery?
I will listen to the recording one more time before surgery for good measure. But first, a tweet: "Trying to resist urge to live-tweet surgery." As if.
They come to get me for surgery prep. I ignore the nurse's confused expression and drag my big bag in with me. Maybe I can listen to my guided imagery all through the surgery. How perfect would that be?
I strip down. Put on the wacky gown with the errant strings. Hush the mortified thoughts about the possibility of glimpses of bare behinds and other horrors.
A new nurse enters, followed by the anesthesiologist. And I'll be doggoned if it isn't Dr. Pippi Longstocking.
Any time my husband -- who's three years younger than me -- tells me he felt "old" in a room full of people, I shrug and say, "I didn't." And it's true: I don't usually. But I'm looking at this doctor's face, and surely ... surely ... they're not letting them out of medical school this early.
The nice nurse cleans my chest, takes vitals, asks me over and over again whether I'm sure I'm not diabetic. I'm still sure. The doctor speaks to me reassuringly. She inserts the IV into my hand.
My surgeon comes in, flanked by two more young doctors.
I love this guy. I met with several other surgeons before I picked him in the Who Will Be Your Doctor/Dating Game lightning round. He's kind, brilliant, mellow, capable. And the opposite of arrogant, which was a deal-breaker for me.
He wants to sketch out the procedure. He pulls out his marker. I pull down the top part of my gown in front of him and the other doctors and pretend like that's not the weirdest thing to do on the bloody planet. He draws a line here, a line there.
"The breasts won't match for a few weeks," he says.
"Oh, OK," I say, "I'll be sure to postpone any pole-dancing until after they match."
He chuckles nervously.
Why can't I ever edit the words that appear in my head before they make their way out of my mouth? I'm such a good editor on paper!
They wheel me out and into the operating room.
The operating table is deliciously warm, like a towel on a hot, sandy beach.
Oooh, a beach! Maybe my guided imagery's working!
"Can I listen to my headphones?" I ask.
"No," says the OR nurse. "Why would you want to? You'll be out cold. You won't hear a thing!"
"That you know of," I think.
And then, as if by magic, I hear Sam Cooke crooning: "I was boooorn by the river, in a little tent ... "
"What's that?" I ask.
"Classic soul," says the OR nurse.
"Well, then, at least turn it up."
She goes over and blasts Sam Cooke.
The doctor puts a mask over my face. I feel the fog rising but at the last minute begin to resist the trance. I have so much to do! I didn't even get around to outlining my stress-relieving tips for surgery. The commenters will go ballistic! "Most useless article ever. Thanks a lot, CNN!!!" Bobo514 will declare. "I read through all this drivel and there weren't even any studies cited. You need to go back to journalism school, lady!" Charlie Horse from Sioux City will grouse.
The surgery stress relief tips will have to wait until next time. I am drifting off in an anesthesia-induced haze for the second time in less than five years. A blessed closure of sorts in one of the most harrowing episodes of my life.
It's been a long, long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, promises Sam Cooke.

Source: http://us.cnn.com