Friends I

I spent my summer going to brunches, festivals, dinners, pools, and suntanning and by summer—I mean from mid-May to June before something else with my body popped up. I had a great six weeks!

June, July—I was chill. I learned how to slow down. Being on blood thinners and as clumsy as I was, always grabbing and rushing for something instead of gently picking things up like a normal person. I honestly didn’t really have a choice—the slightest cut, even a paper cut, and I’d bleed out like water. There would be a trail of blood following me; it’d be everywhere before I even knew I was cut somewhere.

I was happy. Trent didn’t go away that summer; he still worked every day, going back and forth throughout the week and was gone on the weekends.

After all the googling I did from January onward, I kept asking the same question over and over again about my chest—my wires. I finally repositioned the question and asked Google in a different way.

I had been asking, "Can wires from open-heart surgery rupture implants or poke you internally?" in several different forms. But this time, I changed it up and asked, "Is ‘nerve’ damage a possibility after heart surgery?" Bingo! Intercostal nerve damage is a big thing after open-heart surgery, and it’s permanent for 75% of people who have open-heart surgery.

It’s caused by the threading of the wires and/or the installation of the drains right before closure. It’s just one more thing that can happen from open-heart surgery—for 75% of people post-surgery! That you’re not informed of beforehand. That’s not 5% or 10%—it’s fucking 75%! Holy fuck! Who knew?! Definitely nobody I complained about it to! Why is that??

The sensation in my right side, near my rib cage, had me worried and stressed, making me think of all sorts of possible issues that could be happening inside me.

I sent my family doctor the information, copied and pasted from Google, in a note about intercostal nerve damage. I mean, she’s a GP, not a surgeon or a cardiologist, so I didn’t expect her to have all the answers. But geezus, I went months—a year—questioning it.

My family doctor agreed with me on that. The next time I saw her, she said, “You know what? You’re probably right.” I was good. It was annoying and painful at times, but I wasn’t in imminent danger. My wires weren’t poking into me causing damage.

After figuring out what the poking, zapping sensation was, I could finally put that to rest—after more than a year I had already gotten used to it. It was just one more thing to live with in my new body.

I was enjoying my summer peacefully. I was actually worry-free for almost six weeks until one day, while lying down, I noticed a lump on the upper-inner quadrant of my right breast.

I called my doctor got in same day or next day. A day or so later I had another mammogram and ultrasound. 

The results showed an ‘intracapsular implant rupture,’ meaning the outer shell of the implant broke, allowing the contents to leak into the surrounding tissue.

That set me off! I’d been complaining about the right side straight out the gate, and my guess was, it had just been progressing all this time, forming a lump.

I knew exactly what to do next. I had a lump, I knew I had to see a plastic surgeon, and I already had one in mind.

Ironically enough, I know someone who works in the referral department at UHN. Unfortunately she was on mat leave. I called on her anyway after an urgent care referral was faxed and asked, “How long does an urgent care referral take?” She said, “One to two weeks max.”

It was summer. Right after I got the results back from my family doctor and after her faxing an urgent care referral to the plastic surgeon’s office, she went on a three-week vacation.

I already knew that when it came to test results, referrals, and all that shit, that the person on the receiving end usually needs a fire lit under their ass to get things moving. I wanted the admin’s number to check the status of my referral—had it been received or not? I was on top of my shit!

Three weeks went by after my initial appointment. My family doctor came back from vacation, and then the plastic surgeon went on her vacation for two weeks. Bad timing to have a lump. But before she left, during those two weeks, I called every single day. I followed the very specific voicemail instructions, which said: 'Do not leave multiple messages. Just leave one, and we’ll get back to you.' I interpreted that as one per day.

I called every single day for more than two weeks—every other day, I left a message, and on the rest, I called multiple times—all day long without leaving one. Nobody ever picked up.

I had my phone glued to me from 8 AM to 5 PM every day. It consumed me—it was all I could think about. I was terrified, thinking I had a chemical leaking into my body for over a year, forming a lump the size of a ping-pong ball. It was now visibly obvious that something was wrong.

I needed to see this doctor. No one was booking me an appointment or even confirming they had received my referral. Everyone was on fucking vacation! I couldn’t get any confirmation—fuck, I couldn’t even get a person to answer the phone!

I started spiraling. I needed to calm the fuck down, so I took a Lorazepam. And then another. And another.

Almost three weeks went by without any confirmation that my referral had even been received or an appointment was scheduled. I was pacifying myself with Lorazepam. There was a bottle of wine someone had left in my fridge, so I poured myself a glass. And then another. And another.

I was in a bad way. I’m not sure where Trent was, he had to have been on course because he wasn’t around while this was going on.

I told my friend Jen about the lump after the mammogram. I also told my good friend Clara. The only two friends I had left besides Adrianna. I remember Jen saying, "Nooooo! Can't be—pretty sure you're only allowed one big one!" We both, with fingers crossed chuckled.

I sent Jen and Clara both the same text message one late afternoon. Another day had gone by without any communication from the plastic surgeon's office.

I don’t remember exactly what I said verbatim; the wine and the benzos took over, but I know it went something like this: “I need you! I need you now—I’m not good, I can’t do this anymore, I’m in a bad way, like I’m gonna off myself, bad way—please come!”

By then, I was bawling hysterically—all fucked up, rolling around on my sectional in the yard, on a beautiful sunny day—all fucked up!

Both knew exactly what I was going through, I was literally just speaking with both of them the day before and spoke with Clara that very same day before I got all fucked up.

The old me would never have done that—not at all! I reached out for help! I was scared. I wanted to live, but every damn time I turned around, there was something else wrong with me!

For over a year, I had to fight to get to the bottom of all the shit happening with my body. I was maxed—I didn’t want to fight anymore.

It was a scary text to receive from a friend, no doubt, but I didn’t hide it or stuff it down. I wasn’t that person anymore, even though I had slipped in a big way.

It wasn’t long after that text message—Jen was at my door! I wasn’t expecting Jen. I had spoken to Clara that morning, and we had been trying to get together for the past few days—I 100% expected Clara.

I remember being in my yard, all fucked up, crying, with Jen sitting across from me, just looking at me, listening as I let it all out. I don’t know what was said; I have no clue. What I do know is I desperately needed someone, I needed help, and there was Jen, she came to my rescue!

Me & Jen - San Diego 2022

Jen and I had known each other for several years. We had gotten close over the past two years, but even more so after my surgery. And even though we saw each other often, I felt embarrassed in that moment—her seeing me like that.

We didn’t know each other like that—bare bones. We both had a lot of shit going on mentally, and we comforted each other as much as either of us would allow. But her showing up for me in my time of need like that gave me strength. It was exactly what I needed.

I never did hear back from Clara—until one day, late October or early November. By the time she reached out, so much shit had happened in my life in just three months that it felt like an entire year had passed.

She called me. I saw it was her and wasn’t even sure I was going to pick up, but I did out of pure curiosity. It all sounded pathetic really, and to be honest, it was awkward. I could feel the energy was off—way off. I actually never thought I’d hear from her ever again.

With everything that went on in my life between July and her call, I didn’t realize until we got off the phone that I had already mourned the loss of our friendship. Ten years or more, gone down the drain—it happens.

I honestly thought Clara and I were going to be friends forever, but I knew my surgery was gonna change things between us. Even though she was there in the beginning, supporting me, we had a few dinners together right before and even after my surgery—she was still around.

I know this with friends all too well. It’s fucked up because if I had a ride-or-die in the last 10+ years, it was definitely her! It would’ve been great sharing this blog with her as well as the project I’m working on, because in our crazy-ass wasted late nights, we spoke on it, and now it’s happening.

We shared so much. Out of every single person I’d known since coming back from Vancouver, I shared my true self with her the most. She was a rare soul; she saw me, and I loved her dearly. I suppose the universe had different plans for us.

Sadly, I’ve had friendships much longer than 10 years—more like 30+ years—and they’ve all disintegrated.

Betrayal never gets easier, but letting go of those who’ve hurt you does.