I am lying alone on an operating table. Bright lights are shimmering above my head. I cannot speak. I am surrounded by strangers. People who have met me only moments before. And yet, I am held hostage to their intellect, their experience, their wisdom and their compassion. Human beings in scrubs are scurrying about the room. I, on the other hand, have been rendered motionless by an unnamed anesthesiologist. She has inserted a seemingly innocuous narcotic into my veins. No one appears to notice that I am present. All are occupied by their own duties, duties that will allow my scalpel-wielding surgeon to remove my right breast.

Although motionless, my mind remains alert. These are my thoughts as I look around the room.

I question if the performance of their duties has become so mundane, that they are actually functioning without awareness?

I notice a young woman has stepped up to my table. I can feel the warmth of her body on my right leg. She is the surgical tech and will prepare all the instruments so that the others on the team can effortlessly execute their jobs. She brings the stainless-steel Mayo stand closer to my side. She notices that the height is not at the proper level, so she adjusts it to better suit the needs of my surgeon. She is now carefully surveying the instruments on the tray that rests on top. I can see her lips moving, “scalpels, scissors, retractors, forceps, clamps, sutures.” She then repeats, “scalpels, scissors, retractors, forceps, clamps, sutures.” This time she adds “needle holder,” which she then carefully moves next to the sutures. She is confident that she has counted all the instruments and properly calculated their placement on the tray.

She is focused and deeply understands the importance of her job. As I watch this young woman meticulously move about the room, I wonder what brought her here. Was this her lifelong dream? Did she pursue this position for financial reasons? And what happened in her world this morning prior to walking into this room? As a single Mom, did she have to hand her crying young daughter over to her caretaker? Did she have a restless sleep because she was worried about paying her bills? What happened in the life of this young woman who is so carefully overseeing the operating room in which I find myself?

Suddenly, it has become clear to me that I am now high as a kite. I think I am floating over the ocean. The unnamed anesthesiologist who provided me with this euphoria now sits alone behind several instruments. She is there to oversee my vital signs and to monitor the very beating of my heart. This person is the watchdog of the operating room. She quietly sits, waiting, listening for any signs of danger. Should one appear, she will quickly alert the others, “Her pressure is dropping!” The scrubs-wearing human beings in the room will now scramble to follow the established protocols to bring me back to a balanced, steady heartbeat. As I watch her from my supine position, I wonder what brought her to this room. Is she married? Does she have a broken heart? Did she wake up late and miss her morning coffee? And what in her life experience brought her to the decision to be the one who sits quietly in an operating room as the watchdog? Was this her calling?

The energy shifts again, and I notice that someone else has entered the room. She stands tall and with a great sense of presence. She takes her place at the table as the surgeon’s assistant. She will watch every stroke of the scalpel and move in tandem with my surgeon. She will know what is needed before it is spoken. I wonder what in this person’s world brought her to this highly skilled, supportive position. What called her here? And what mundane events occurred this morning prior to her entrance into this room? Did she wake up alone or was her young lover lying next to her? Did she miss her aging Mother’s call from yesterday? I notice that her feet appear to be pegged into the floor. She will be sure and unwavering.

As the surgical team continues to gather and pave the way for the removal of my breast, my panic intensifies. It was just a few short weeks ago that my life was normal. I was healthy and experiencing great joy in my life. Three years earlier, I had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had a successful lumpectomy. Following this event, I had been conscientious about regularly scheduling mammograms. My most recent one showed that all was normal. I had also learned the importance of frequent self-examinations. It was in one of these two weeks later that I noticed a small lump in my right breast. Simply as a precaution, I scheduled another mammogram. This one revealed several lumps. No one seemed particularly concerned; however, I was sent to a breast cancer specialist and surgeon for further review.

I found this doctor delightful as we joyfully sang “I Feel Pretty” while she performed my biopsy. Being a great lover of Broadway tunes, this seemed like a sign to me that all was well. I was 100% certain that this procedure was merely a formality. I gave it no further thought.

Within a few days the results were in, and I was called back to the surgeon’s office. One simple sentence changed everything in my world. “Your breast cancer has returned.” I recall staring at my new doctor in stunned disbelief. I asked her to repeat what she had just said. I was certain I had misunderstood. Surely, she had said, “Your cancer has not returned.” She spoke louder and more purposefully as she repeated the diagnosis, “Your cancer has returned.” This time, I heard every word. Then she said the most dreaded word of all, “mastectomy.” Inside, I gasped for breath. I could see that her lips continued to move; however, I had no idea what she was saying. I was overcome by the fog of disbelief and the agonizing fear of losing my breast.

I would not have made it through that day without the love and support of my family and friends. Now, as I look around this room, I see that the day I had so deeply dreaded and feared is now upon me. The road to acceptance of this eventuality was lonely and long. I did not have a day without sorrow. Nor did a day pass without my looking to the heavens and pleading out loud, “Please, no. Please no.” My appeals fell upon deaf ears.

My surgeon has now stepped into the sterile arena. Following the unexpected results of that day, in our subsequent visits, she had been kind, patient to answer all my questions, drawn diagrams on her whiteboard, and held my hand when I cried. This is all I know of her. I wonder what events occurred in her world this morning prior to our meeting. Did her young boy reach out his arms and call her name as she walked out of their home? Did her husband tell her how much he appreciated her as she quietly left their bedroom? What brought her to this room?

From my drug-induced state, I observe something I had not previously noticed. I am surrounded by women. This would have been unheard of in the past. As a young woman, I fervently looked for female doctors. Living in Manhattan at the time, one would think a plethora of them would be available. But no. I faithfully read Betty Friedan and Germaine Greer. I was an original subscriber to Gloria Steinem’s Ms. Magazine. I marched on Washington numerous times for Women’s Rights. I even burned my bra in Central Park. Still no female doctors. Now, look at me! I am surrounded by a room full of women medical professionals. My heart is full of joy.

As women we are aware of the challenges and the triumphs that our gender presents to each of us. Since the beginning of time on this planet, the female breast has provided the very sustenance of life, without which humankind would not exist. Along with this rather large mission, there also comes great responsibility. It is our duty to provide to those who have been entrusted to our care, the less tangible elements of life, the ones that come from a woman’s heart. Without these profound gifts, human life would not be sustainable. The first time a mother holds her newborn to her breast, a profound and sacred love sweeps over her, a love that she knows in that moment has altered her life eternally. And in return, as she looks into the eyes of her child, she will see nothing but innocent, pure love without fear looking back at her. This look will set a precious child on their journey of life knowing that they are valued and beloved in the eyes of another. As I contemplate these mysteries of life, I am reminded of the young mother who has so carefully accounted for all the instruments we will need today. I know she has experienced these moments with her daughter. Every mother in this room knows and recognizes that this is a look like no other. So today is NOT an ordinary day.

It seems the entire team is now present. Still, I am not ready. Before we begin, I reflect upon the fun things provided by a woman’s breast. They are known to bring great pleasure to us and others as well. I recall as a young girl my mother teaching me that it was a “sin” to let a boy touch me on my private parts. My breast, of course, was one of those forbidden places. This all sounded so dark and sinister to me which, of course, made me want to explore further. However, I was quite young and had no experience in such matters, so it quickly left my brain. Until the cute little boy who lived across the street from us came to visit one afternoon. While we chatted on the couch, I noticed that Gerry was inching his way a little closer to me. Although they certainly were not what one would call “smooth moves,” Gerry’s hand did find its way to my right breast. A new and most peculiar sensation arose, bringing with it a chill up my spin. I think the hairs on my legs stood up. Well, this is new, I thought! I look and clearly Gerry’s hand is in the forbidden zone! I heard my mother’s voice in my ear saying, “NO!” However, my heart and my right breast said, “Oh, wait a minute, maybe this is a good time to re-evaluate things.” There were many more Gerrys to follow; however, that first chill that ran down my spine lingers large in my memory. Perhaps the surgeon’s assistant has had a similar but more recent experience. I know she will understand how much I will miss those pleasures.

I will also miss watching the changes that have occurred over the years. How my breasts have developed from their first budding nodules to those perky sensual ones that stood at attention most hours of the day. Sadly, those times have long ago passed, and the perky ones are now moving ever so slowly, yet steadily, towards my thighs. But out of all these things, I will most deeply miss the feeling of my breasts pressed against those of another.

I am shivering now from the chill in the room and painfully aware that the inevitability of this dreaded moment draws near. My thoughts turn again to my surgeon, and I wonder...

Is she going to play music while I am on the table? We should have coordinated this before today. I wonder if she likes rock ‘n roll? Maybe some Cardi B? Oh, don’t let it be Frank Sinatra. I never really liked him. I like Adele. Maybe we could play, Rolling in the Deep. Oh no, please tell me she is not going to play Puccini? His music is too haunting and tragic, not appropriate for today. And it always makes me cry.

Then it occurs to me that she might just be a talker! God forbid, she cannot be talking about the newest restaurant she found in her neighborhood!

Silence suddenly falls over the room. There is an eerie stillness. My surgeon looks to the unnamed anesthesiologist for assurances that all is well. As the quiet watchdog, she nods in approval. I can delay no longer. I sense a strange and unwelcomed energy slowly moving toward my body. I realize it is the scalpel in the hand of my surgeon. I can feel the intensity of the energy with which she moves towards what she is here to do. I look up and the carefree singer of Broadway show tunes is no longer present. She has been replaced by a steely-eyed, focused and determined surgeon. Although I miss the joyful one, I am assured that this one knows exactly what is needed without hesitation. Everything about her says this is her calling. How did she get that look in her eyes? What events occurred in her life that brought her to devoting her time on this earth to the lightness and the darkness of life? The darkness lies in the words as she relates the news, “You have breast cancer. You will need a mastectomy.” The lightness comes in the very moment her scalpel moves to the breast giving the human being lying on her table another opportunity to stay on this planet and to experience more of the beauties of life. I can feel the energy of her instrument hitting my skin before it actually pierces my breast.

All eyes are now intently focused on me. As I have watched the scrupulous care with which each woman prepared me, prepared this room and each other, I know I am embraced by the wisdom and compassion of all those who currently surround me. In what was once strictly a man’s world, each of these women has traversed a difficult path to the positions they now occupy around this table. I will trust this team fully and the intricate skills of my surgeon. I put my life in their hands.

The first incision will be made under my right arm where I will lose a number of my axillary lymph nodes. These will be taken to pathology for further examination. Next, a rather large elliptical incision will be made over my right breast. Then the lumps previously found, the ones that brought us all to this table, will be removed, also sent to pathology.

Each instrument has been carefully passed to my surgeon. Retractors have been used to hold open the incision so that she may more easily do her work. With her scalpel and scissors, she has dissected my breast tissue and has lifted it off my pectoralis major. All the connective and fatty tissue which made up my breast and which has housed the ducts, lobules and blood vessels has been carefully extracted. It will now be passed from the sure hands of my surgeon to those of her steady and grounded assistant. As she first feels the warmth of my breast in her hands, I wonder if this is just another ordinary experience for her. It feels so remarkable and extraordinary to me. Then I feel her heart skip a beat. I can see by the look in her eyes that my surgeon’s assistant fully understands. What gave her this depth of empathy? Has she been the one lying on this table just like me? Was it her aging mother? I feel our lives are suddenly and acutely connected. Her level of compassion is palpable. And yet, she must continue with her duties, so she passes this discarded part of my body to an unnamed human being in scrubs, one I have never seen prior to this moment.

As I lie on the table now, I search for a purpose for my being in this room. I am hopeful for a moment as I contemplate the possibility of donating this part of my body that no longer serves me but might be useful to someone else. I hear myself asking, “Is there even a small piece of tissue or a tiny blood vessel that might be used to save the life of another?” Sadly, no one answers!

What was once a pleasure center of mine will now be placed into a red plastic container marked on the outside with a crossbow and bold black letters, Biohazard. Hard to imagine that something so precious to me would be deemed medical waste! And where is that great biohazard disposal, the burial ground for all worn, damaged and otherwise useless body parts? I recognize I am better served not knowing the answer to that question.

Tubes and drains are carefully placed where my breast stood only minutes before. My wound will now be sutured, a task begun by my surgeon. She finds the needle holder close by, carefully placed there by the young surgical tech. This task will soon be handed over to her capable and steady assistant to complete. All step away from the table. We are done.

But what brought each of us to this room, without knowing one another, and yet each having a purpose for being here? For me, it was a most unique and out of the ordinary experience. For the others, it was a daily event, one that was simply part of their jobs. Or was I missing that each person present here today felt a deep calling within their souls, one that has motivated them and brought a profound sense of meaning into their lives?

 For those few hours, our lives intersected. This deeply profound synergy created a sacred moment in time, after which each participant returned to their daily lives. I imagine that night when the young surgical tech picks up her daughter from daycare, she will be happily waving a drawing of her mother she had done earlier in the day. And the quiet watchdog who carefully looked over me, simply treats herself to a Grande cup of coffee at her local Starbucks. Perhaps on her way home, the steady surgeon’s assistant makes a call to her aging mother and then quickly returns to the arms of her young lover. And I am certain, the surgeon who once held my hand as I cried, will walk into her son’s room this night and hold him in her arms until he falls asleep.

And the beauty of all this for me is that I too got to walk back into my life. Rather than being surrounded by a room full of strangers, I was now enveloped by caring and devoted friends and family; a world where my every need was met by those around me. Most astounding of all was that my brother and a dear friend voluntarily assigned themselves to the twice daily task of clearing and measuring the drainage from my tubes that now hung from my wound. I was blessed beyond measure.

As I gained strength, I knew I must leave my warm and sheltered cocoon. I longed to return to my home and to re-establish my independence. My first days there were joyful. I enjoyed my freedom. As the days passed, however, I began to feel sadness creeping into my world. Soon my heart became so heavy I felt as though it may burst. I knew I was moving dangerously close to the edge in the world of denial I had created.

I realized my journey to healing was not yet complete. As I lay in my bed, the darkness of the night overwhelmed me. I stood up from my restless sleep. I walked into my bathroom. I turned on all the lights. I removed the required corset that squeezed my body like a sieve. I carefully discarded the remaining bandages from my wound. I stood in silence. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Eyes closed. I told myself, I do not have the courage for this! But I knew deep in my heart that tonight, I must face my fears.

With all lights blazing, I looked up. I looked straight into that mirror. I allowed my eyes to see. I looked down... down to where my once perky breast had stood. My eyes filled with tears. I allowed them all to fall where they may. I raised my arm above my head. I looked! I turned my body to one side. I looked. I ran my fingers along the deep crevices of my scar which now stretched from my breast bone to my right under arm. I looked. I looked and I wept. I gave my Self over to my humanness. I witnessed all that was there to see. I began to acknowledge it with a deep sense of compassion, compassion which until that night, I had not granted my Self. Looking in that mirror, I began to understand that this rather large storm of breast cancer and a mastectomy had not come into my life to disrupt it as I had previously thought. It had come into my life to clear it, and with that clearing it had brought a deeper understanding of the mysteries, the beauties and the sacredness of life itself. I also knew I could now finally, honestly and bravely walk back into my life.

With the passing of time, I have learned to feel the warmth and loving embrace of another with but one breast. How could I have known that it was possible for this one breast to welcome, savor, and delight in the embrace of another, where previously it had taken two. And on those melancholy days when I feel despondency begin to creep back into my world, I have learned to sit quietly in the comfort of my own living room and listen to my favorite aria from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, yes, Puccini... and I cry. Just like I have always done.

That chilly October morning when my life intersected with my scalpel-wielding surgeon and her team of compassionate women, fades not from my memory. Each enriched my life in unique and profound ways. They all are forever a part of me. My heart continues to rejoice knowing that I was blessed to spend those few hours together in a room with strangers. Strangers who came with their broken hearts, their crying children, their aging Mothers, their overdue bills and their young lovers. They all came to be of service to another human being. Perhaps my only gift to them that morning was simply to provide another opportunity for each of them to more fully experience their calling in life. On the grander scale, their gift to me was to save my life. On the simpler, yet more profound level, even in the darkest of circumstances, they provided me with the opportunity to witness once again, the depth, the beauty, the synchronicity, and the grace of human connection. I will be eternally grateful that each of them showed up and did their jobs so that I could continue my journey.