This was my second major surgery in five months. It was planned. We knew it was coming. Even so, I think it will take me a while to fully process what it all means for my body.

BUT…

We’re one big step closer to getting rid of this thing. The first thing I remember is a nurse waking me up in the recovery room, where there were about six beds lined up together. I have no idea what she wanted from me. I was completely confused. I looked around for a clock so I could figure out how long the surgery had taken, but I couldn’t find one. For some reason, it never occurred to me to simply ask. It wasn’t until later that evening that I noticed a clock hanging directly on the wall opposite me.

The next thing I did was look at my abdomen.

I needed to know whether they’d only done the laparoscopy or gone ahead with the full operation.

Bandages.

Everywhere.

The dressing seemed to stretch almost up to my chest.

My first thought was: That’s a massive scar.

The last one only reached my belly button.

This must have been some operation.

After a while, I gathered enough courage to carefully feel around the dressings. Eventually I realized that the main incision was probably the same length as before and the upper part was covered with stitches from the laparoscopy. This time everything was neatly lined up in one row. Last time I had little scars on my side and one hidden inside my belly button. I already knew there was no point asking the staff exactly what had been removed. That information would have to come from the surgeon.

I’d learned that lesson during my first operation.

Back then, I asked.

Some well-meaning soul checked my records during the night and casually informed me that they’d removed everything. I then spent the next twelve hours believing I’d already entered surgical menopause. The following morning, the surgeon explained that wasn’t actually true.

So this time, I kept quiet and waited.

The surgeon would come the next day.

I could survive one more night.

I felt pretty miserable. My stomach wasn’t happy. I hadn’t eaten anything. I wasn’t allowed to drink. Something kept coming back up into my throat, but I didn’t have the strength—or the stomach contents—to actually vomit. They gave me anti-nausea medication through the IV. And painkillers. Lots of appreciation for modern medicine.

Before bedtime, one of the nurses came around and gently washed all of us with warm water. It felt wonderful. I cleaned my face with a damp cloth, rinsed my mouth with mouthwash, and suddenly felt almost human again. The care was incredible. I still wasn’t allowed to drink, but they gave me a tiny foam swab soaked in water that I could suck on. Honestly, I hated it. Far more useful were the little lemon-flavored swabs they gave me for my lips. Those were fantastic. I wasn’t given anything to help me sleep, so I woke up every hour. One woman in the room was even more confused than I was. At one point she tried to get out of bed because she needed her asthma inhaler. Later she became convinced she’d lost her house keys. It was a lively night.

The next morning, after rounds, the rehabilitation nurse arrived. I was actually nervous about that. Last time, I couldn’t stand up properly and ended up fainting. We started gently. Head movements. Arms. Shoulders. Legs. Then, one by one, she got us onto our feet and escorted us back to our rooms.

It wasn’t easy.

It hurt.

A lot.

But it helped that this time I already knew what to expect and how to move. I made it back to my room. They hooked me up to IV nutrition. Since I was now officially mobile, they removed the urinary catheter. Which meant I now had to walk whether I felt like it or not. Unfortunately, once the pain medication started wearing off, things became rather unpleasant.

Actually, let’s call it what it was.

It was hell.

I decided to wait until the next dose of pain medication kicked in before attempting the trip to the bathroom. I genuinely couldn’t imagine getting out of bed without it. By the afternoon, things were already a little better. With the nurse’s help, I even managed to take a shower. The surgeon didn’t arrive until the following morning, so I had another day of waiting ahead of me. When he finally came, the news was surprisingly good.

Once they got inside, everything looked much better than they had expected. There were no significant adhesions. Everything that needed to come out could be removed. Even the last remaining larger metastasis turned out to be sitting on the surface and was relatively easy to access.

In other words, the surgery had gone well.

Very well.

The next step is another four or five rounds of chemotherapy.

And after that?

Maybe…

Just maybe…

I’ll get to call myself healthy.

Of course, because my BRCA1 mutation has been confirmed, I’ll also need maintenance targeted therapy, which is expected to continue for one to two years. But for the first time in a long while, that future doesn’t feel quite so far away.

One surgery down.

One more step forward.

And for now, that’s enough.