"With breasts your size, you won't even notice."

February 5, we got up at the ungodly hour of 5am for my surgery. Will, with the promise of coffee and breakfast sandwiches, got up to go to the hospital with us, since Dave needed to get him to school once I went in for surgery.

The day is a blur, but a few things stand out:

Will, consoling me said "it's ok mom, that's life: you have to experience stuff."

I got an extra slipper sock, and I found it hilarious that I got three.

I was annoyed with the nurse who couldn't get my IV in, as she angrily jabbed me.

Dr. McCahill, who had cheerfully ran through the procedure with me the week prior, commented "with breasts your size, you won't even notice."

I kept warning them I would throw up post-op. They assured me I wouldn't. I did.

I kept telling them I wanted graham crackers when it was ok for me to eat. There were saltines when I woke up. This was fixed immediately.

I was annoyed with the bouncer at last call attitude that comes with out-patient surgery. As soon as I was coherent, there was a decided push to get me out, essentially "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." I was shaky, confused, and according to Dave, an unflattering shade of green.

Settled at home and resting, the front door bell rang no less than three times. Flowers! I ended up receiving three bouquets: one from work, one from the WMAS skaters, and one from my friend Charlotte, whose breast cancer battle had started in August.

I vaguely remember eating, I think it was a series of snacks: dried fruit, string cheese, potato chips, ice water.

The song going through my head that day was Janis Joplin's "Take Another Piece of My Heart."