Meanwhile, In The Waiting Room

My surgery went by in the blink of an eye.  For me.  One minute, I was listening to my surgeon explain the plan to her team, the next, I was waking up in recovery and hearing the blessed news that my lymph nodes came back clear (90% sure so far of that).

For my family, however, my surgery took over four hours.  My Dad, stepmom, and two oldest sisters, Linda and Glenda, came to support me, and set up camp near the TV in the waiting room.  Fox News was playing.  And they stayed.  If that doesn't speak volumes of my family's love for me, nothing will.

A few hours into my surgery, Linda walked downstairs to get some food (a salad) and was returning when she noticed people leaving the building and overheard someone saying that it was being EVACUATED. 

She continued back to the waiting room .... and ate her salad.  [Of course, she did.]

Was this a drill?  Must be, right?  Regardless, my family's attitude was - "Sure, ya'll go ahead and leave but my (daughter, sister) is IN SURGERY right now so we're staying, thank you." 

They stayed until someone came and got them.  

I have this vision of my family being bodily dragged out, screaming to stay, struggling against security.  I'm positive that's exactly how it happened.  Yep.  Totally.

So, what happens in this situation?  Lights flashing and people told to leave when actual surgeries are taking place?  What mayhem is occurring when surgeons, elbow deep in blood and flesh, start hearing sirens and the call for evacuation? 

Um, nothing.  Apparently, the surgery calmly continues even if everything around it goes a bit nuts.  My family was told not to worry, that my surgery room had a fire wall or some such protection.  And soon they saw our fine Grand Rapids Fire Department arrive.

Adds a bit of excitement to an otherwise boring wait, don't you think?  When they were allowed back inside, all they know of what happened is that it was safe to be inside again ... except for a particular suite.  It's a bit of a mystery still.

But the real question remains.  WHAT effect would sirens and firetrucks, evacuations and flashing lights, have on my breast?! Because, you know, priorities.

I took a shower tonight and came face to breast with my Frankenboob.  Wow. 

The tumor was removed, breast tissue moved about, and things, um, relocated. Trauma with a capital T. 

She's going to be brilliant.  And no, there will not be a picture.