The Day Freedom Began

Surgery Day — October 8

I woke up on surgery day feeling… normal. Strangely normal.

The house moved through its usual morning rhythm: kids getting ready, breakfast happening around me, the familiar soft chaos of a regular day. Except I was not eating. Or drinking. No sip of water, no coffee, not even a taste of anything. Just a dry mouth, a quiet stomach, and a steady stream of thoughts.

Sitting inside our everyday routine while fasting made the morning feel both ordinary and slightly off axis, like life continued at its normal pace while mine quietly shifted onto a different track.

My husband drove me to the hospital, and from the outside it could have been any other weekday. Same roads, same morning light. The only difference was the quiet thought running in the background: This is the day we cut cancer out of my body.

The Day Before

The day before did not feel calm like this. I had a sudden, urgent need to get all my papers in order. I wanted things organized, shared, accessible, just in case.

I never thought much about medical directives before, and suddenly there I was, rushing to write one. And by the way, this is important for everyone. You think you will not need it, until the moment it becomes the only thing you can think about.

Pre-Op

Reality did not arrive until they wheeled me into the pre procedure area. That is where they prepared me for the sentinel lymph node mapping, a radioactive injection to track where things spread.

I remember the anesthesia entering my veins, hot and sharp, and the last thing I said was that it hurt. Then nothing. A blackout blink. When I opened my eyes again, the doctor and nurse were reassuring me that everything went well.

Into the Operating Room

Next came waiting for the main event. The plan was two incisions. One to remove the tumor. One to remove the lymph node.

Walking into the operating room made everything real again. Bright lights. Stainless steel. So many people moving with practiced purpose. Tubes, monitors, machines, and everyone knowing exactly what to do.

It was intimidating for a moment, until a nurse found my eyes. She did not say much, just offered a soft, steady presence that reassured me with calm certainty that everything would be fine. That is the last thing I remember.

Waking Up

Recovery room. Warm blankets. Soft beeping. That peaceful fog after a deep and strange nap. A little nauseated, but aware enough to know I was okay.

And then hunger. Intense hunger. The first thing I asked for was food, and once I got it, it felt like someone switched the lights back on inside me.

Before anything else, the nurse told me something that instantly lifted me even higher:

They only needed one incision.

The plan had been two. But my surgeon managed to do everything through a single incision. One scar instead of two. One place to heal. A small detail in the grand scheme, perhaps, yet in that moment it felt like a gift. A quiet victory waiting for me before I even fully woke up.

And then it hit me:

In this moment, I am tumor free.

Relief

That thought landed with a quiet heaviness, not painful, but grounding. A weight lifted and a breath returned that I did not realize I had been holding.

Relief came fast and full, and for a moment, I felt unstoppable. Like I could walk out of the hospital and run the world right there in my hospital socks.

Yes, this is only stage one of three. There is more ahead: radiation, medication, follow ups. But that day, my body was rid of the tumor, and nothing mattered more than that.

Post Op Results

The tumor was slightly larger than originally measured, but margins were clean. Pathology aligned exactly with what we already knew. Lymph nodes clear. Nothing spread.

All green lights.

Today

I will never forget that quiet surge of power in recovery. Not loud or dramatic, just a steady flame. A whispered reminder:

You are still here. You are still you. And you are winning this round.

Today, I am healing.Today, I am grateful.Today, I am lighter.

Stage one down. Keep moving forward.

If you are going through something similar, you are not alone. Your fear is real. Your strength is too. One step, one stage, one breath at a time.