Two weeks post-op, and let me tell you, this healing process has been anything but straightforward. I thought I’d be on the road to recovery, maybe even skipping through fields of flowers (okay, maybe just walking upright without wincing). But instead, I’ve found myself starring in a personal medical drama featuring a golf ball-sized armpit lump, a rebellious boob, and the tragic demise of my fingernails. Let’s dive in.
The Incredible Hulk Armpit
My medical team got my message and the lovely photo evidence of my armpit transformation and said, “Yep, we need to see you now.” They didn’t even let me enjoy my post-op grace period—they just moved my visit up by ten days. I arrive, my nurse takes one look and declares, “Ah, that’s a seroma!” Oh, great. Sounds fancy. What is it? Basically, fluid pooling under the skin in an open pocket, creating an unwanted squishy mass. Fantastic.
She aspirated the area, pulling out 25ml of fluid. Now, I don’t know what the conversion rate is for “milliliters to relief,” but in my case, it was zero. My armpit still felt like I was smuggling a golf ball, and I continued walking around looking like The Incredible Hulk—if Hulk just put his hands on his hips and sighed a lot. At one point, I caught myself mid-stance and immediately started singing:
🎶 “I put my hand up on your hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip…” 🎶
(Spoiler: no actual dipping happened because I wasn’t trying to make things worse.)
After a few days of massaging and icing with no progress, I waved the white flag and messaged my team again. Their brilliant new plan? “Let’s just wait and see.” Because that always works, right? They called on Friday to check in, and that’s when I hit them with a plot twist:
Not only was my armpit lump still living rent-free, but I had a leaking boob.
Tales of the Leaking Boob
I don’t know what kind of medical mystery novel I’ve fallen into, but “The Case of the Leaking Boob” was NOT on my 2025 bingo card. I mean, come on—what is happening here? Can I not just have a normal healing process?
Suddenly, I went from “chill patient who follows all the rules” to “problem patient who’s falling apart in real-time.” I’m usually the quiet backseat rider in life, just enjoying the view, but now I’m the person constantly pressing the call button. I don’t want to be this person! I do not want all this drama!
But drama loves me, so off I went back to the breast center with my daughter, while my mom and son soaked up the beautiful weather outside. Honestly, after all the attention my chest has been getting, I think my sense of modesty has completely vanished. At this point, I am this close to flashing anyone who asks, “How are you healing?”
Anyway, back in the exam room, my nurse takes another look and—you guessed it—the seroma is back. She pulls out another 20ml of fluid, massaging and squeezing to get more, but there’s still fluid trapped in pockets she can’t reach. So now, I get to experience the joy of an ultrasound aspiration next week. Can’t wait.
And the leaking boob? Naturally, it refused to leak during the exam. Because of course. Gravity and movement seem to be the culprits, so until my next visit, I’ll just be monitoring it with non-stick gauze and trying not to move too much. Sounds fun, right?
Nail Chronicles: Walking Dead Edition
In other thrilling news, my fingernails are officially dead. May they rest in peace.
I trimmed them weeks ago to avoid any traumatic “ripped-off nail” moments, and they have not grown at all since. Zero progress. Nada. Zilch. My once lively nails now have the vibrancy of a zombie extra in The Walking Dead. I have no sensation when I tap them against things, which is both fascinating and deeply unsettling.
Of course, they’re still polished—because even if they’re dead, they can at least look good. So now I’m just waiting for my new nails to grow in and push these undead imposters out. Fingers crossed. (If only I could feel them crossing.)
Two Weeks Post-Op & “Allowed” to Exercise?
Apparently, some people are ready to jog two weeks after surgery. Who are these people? I would like to speak to their superhuman genetics. Because let me tell you, even walking fast is a no for me right now.
Everything still feels heavy—whether it’s from swelling, fluid buildup, or my body just being dramatic. All I know is, if I pick up the pace even slightly, my chest does this bounce that is not comfortable. So jogging? Ha! I’ll just focus on slow, controlled movements and not jostling my still-healing parts.
Grace & Grit
Some days, all of this feels like too much. I like simplicity, and cancer has complicated so much of my life. But I keep reminding myself that I’m still here, still healing, and still pushing forward—one weird, leaky, swollen step at a time.
As one good friend always says, I’m moving forward with Grace & Grit.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with an ice pack and some non-stick gauze.
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