I never intended

to have Hawaii be my final blog post. As if the cancer warrior queen gets to glide into the sunset at the bow of her ship with a sword held high in her hand. La-la fairytale land doesn't exist with breast cancer. While my treatment is completed, my cancer hasn't ended. I won't be officially stamped "cured" for another 10 years.

I took time off to live life. Summer was here, and there was much kayaking and hiking in Oregon to do. (And a little full solar eclipse to experience.) But, there's more cancer to share, still. As far as you know, my expanders are still expanding next to my ribcage.

A week after our return from Hawaii, I had my exchange surgery. After three surgeries, this fourth one was a cinch. And this is where I was definitely at the helm of my ship.

While I waited to be wheeled into the OR, my body graffitied yet again by the purple marker, a surgical shower cap on my head, IV taped snugly onto my hand and inflatable leg garments performing their alternating squeezes:

"Would you like Versed?" the anesthesiologist asked.

"Naw."

"You sure?"

"Don't need Versed. Don't want Versed."

"We'll give you Zofran for nausea."

"Nope, don't like Zofran. Gives me headaches. I'll need something else."

"But the alternatives will make you very sleepy when you come out."

"That's fine. No Zofran."

In the OR while the team prepped, I scooted onto the narrow, cold surgical table by myself--no grabbing and hoisting of a limp body addled by Versed. It also bought me time to make extra demands:

"I want a pillow under my knees." I squinted from the lights.

"Like this?" the kind nurse smiled at me and wedged a pillow underneath my calves. The other nurse began to strap my ankles down with the leather restraint.

"Up higher please." I stretched my arms out to their sides. The nurses worked on strapping my wrists down to the arm rests, a crucifixtion in progress.

"Is this too tight?"

"No, that's fine. But I'll need an extra blanket." I looked over at the white board and saw my first initial and last name written in black ink along with my plastic surgeon's name and the time of surgery.

The anesthesiologist suddenly appeared overhead, blocking the view. A gloved hand with a hissing mask hovered above my face.

"Just take a few deeps breaths of this." The mask was placed lightly over my nose and mouth and the hissing became louder. I had the sensation of my head being submerged into a jar.

I turned slightly to the right to see my plastic surgeon take a step closer. But she wasn't looking at me, she was looking through me, her eyes lazer-focused on the procedure. I was whittled down to an exchange surgery: the removal of two gunky expanders replaced by sterile teardrop-shaped, gummy bear silicone implants. Two reconstructed breasts. A work of Michelangelo.

I inhaled once.

But there was something wrong about my surgeon's appearance. Something I had never seen in all of my procedures. The scrubs, surgical cap and face mask were commonplace. However, my surgeon also wore a flimsy plastic shield that wrapped around her entire face from ear to ear, giving her the look of a Transformer toy.

Why? How could she perform surgery? The cheap plastic would no doubt obstruct her view.

I inhaled twice.

I always imagined a razor sharp knife to sink effortlessly into a living body, a robust heart pumping, the surgical sponges hastily dabbing that first cut. But in real life, mishaps do occur. And this was my realization before I went to sleep:

Right. A protective shield. Blood squirts.

One second later I woke up in the recovery room.

My exchange surgery was over.