Here is Val's story from Canada Well, in spite of all my precautions to have my surgery be a stress-free event, it didn't turn out that way. The surgeon hadn't been very willing to answer my questions and I'd had to persuade him to agree to do a mastectomy whist I was on the table if the biopsy showed cancer. By surgery day, however, I figured I'd got over that and had prepared myself as well as anyone could, I thought. The wire localisation went smoothly, much better that I'd ever thought possible. Both the technician and the doctor were compassionate and efficient, even apologising when the mammogram position I needed to assume was awkward and uncomfortable. I almost enjoyed it. Next, a young friend came to give me therapeutic touch which was very soothing, and, surprisingly, there was hospital support for that - I was given a reclining chair in a partitioned off area. Even the surgeon was empathetic when he came in to the waiting area to talk with me for a few moments prior to surgery. The operating room nurse saw no reason why I shouldn't be able to listen to Belleruth Naperstec's tape on my walkman, and nor did the surgeon, but warned me it was up to the anaesthetist, who'd be in to prepare me in a few moments. The trouble started when this latter guy came in, as promised, to "discuss" anaesthetics. Contrary to what I'd experienced in the past and been told both by the surgeon and the hospital pre-admission nurse, the anaesthetist told me that he couldn't give me anything to avoid nausea (I'm allergic to Gravol, the usual drug.) He said nausea was to be expected after surgery. That was blow #1 and it scared me! When I asked about the walkman, he said he'd never had that request before. I told him that there is new research to show that people who have prepared with this kind of music and then listen to it during surgery, often do better. He said I could maybe listen to it BEFORE the surgery but not during it, then rushed off - the atmosphere around him was electric; I told myself I was imagining things - blow #2! I talked for a few minutes with a little girl who was waiting for tooth surgery before she was called in (we'd met one another before the therapeutic touch); then I plugged in my earphones and promptly dosed off with Belleruth's tape. Next thing I knew, my name was being called and I was being asked if I needed to go to the bathroom one last time, before being ushered into the O.R. As we passed another O.R., someone with a foreign accent whom I assumed to be an anaesthetist saw my walkman and said, "A walkman, what a GREAT idea!" I nodded to him, glad of the validation. "Take off your gown and get onto the table," said the anaesthetist gruffly as I entered and stood alone in the middle of the cold room - there were several people there doing various things, but I felt quite isolated. Well, I don't know about you, but with my history, I don't respond well to being told to take off my gown in a strange room with several people milling about, by a male voice - it was quite different from my other experiences in the O.R. when I felt that people were taking care of me, leading me into what needed to be done. I hesitated for a moment, wondering what he was meaning (I was wearing a hospital gown backwards, and had been given another one to put over the top as a housecoat - did I need to get naked, I wondered?) "Take your gown off and get onto the table," repeated the voice. My breast hurt after the mammogram procedure and it took me a few moments to get the outer gown off, grasp the back of the undergarment and step up onto the table just as he was repeating this "request". A nurse made to take away my earphones and the bag of essentials I was carrying that I had been told I could take in - she wanted to put them into the recovery room. I told her I had been told I could keep them with me, as I'd need them immediately I woke up. She acquiesced. "I'm just going to give you something to relax you," said the anaesthetist, taking my arm and putting it on a board to the side of the table I was lying on. I asked him again if I couldn't please keep my walkman and demonstrated how I could put it under the pillow with my left hand. He responded that he couldn't be responsible for people's machinery. "I wouldn't expect that", I answered. "I'll take full responsibility if anything happens to it. Is there a reason why I can't keep it if I'm prepared to take the chance? I just want it to help me to stay as calm as possible." "You need to be able to respond if we have to tell you anything," he said. "You already didn't hear me when I told you to get on the table; I had to tell you twice." "I was a little slow because I was hurting," I said. "It's very soft music. It doesn't stop me from hearing." "We want you to be safe and do well through the surgery," he countered. I remembered the broken record technique. "I really wanted to have the music," I pleaded. "I really believe it will help me to get through this." "That's it," he said, "I'm sick and tired of people telling me we aren't caring and compassionate….. I'm not doing this. You can ask T?….. ( a foreign name) to do it." A woman's voice told him that T?….. was busy in another O.R. "Well, you'll just have to wait," he said to me, and stalked towards the door. I turned my head towards him on his way out, looking, no doubt, askance. (I was truly incredulous at this outburst). At this point, I forgot my communication techniques, non-violent communication and everything. "I never said YOU were not caring and compassionate, Doctor; I believe you are both caring AND compassionate or you wouldn't be doing this line of work. I gave you an "I" message. I've heard of other people listening to tapes through surgery - I just said that really think it will help me." "I came specially in on my day off to do these surgeries; I didn't want to be here; I came in specially. I could have been having time off, and this is how I'm treated," he said sternly. I collected myself, and said, "I'm SO sorry you've been brought in on your day off; it must be very difficult; I'm SO sorry you didn't want to be here……." Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room being told I'd had a mastectomy and that my kids were waiting for me. I was cold and shuddering and in pain. "Are they really here?" I asked. "I was so afraid they'd had an accident" "Do you have much pain?" someone asked. "Yes," I said. "Well stop that shivering - you're making it worse. You've already had some morphine." That stopped me in my tracks, the word "morphine". Still groggy, I asked again if my kids were really there explaining why I thought they must have had an accident.. "Yes, they're here and lots of other people have been asking about you," threatened the voice. I struggled to open my eyes and closed them again quickly, the lights were blaring! "I need to go to the bathroom," I managed. "Not yet," retorted the voice, "Stop that shaking, it's making the pain worse. Here, if you can open your eyes, I'll get your kids to come and sit with you……" Suddenly my daughter was there kissing me gently on the forehead, and then my son materialised into view carrying the most enormous and the most brilliant pot of purple mums I had ever seen. I took his hand and, through my tears of relief at seeing them, told them both how sorry I was that they had to see me like this ……. They had been waiting for several hours. No-one had gone to them to let them know what was happening; nor did the surgeon come to see me! Apparently I started joking then, telling them all sorts of weird stories and laughing.....was that the anaesthetic, I wondered - I could hear myself saying outrageous things that were really quite funny! I tried to get up to go to the bathroom, and lay down again quickly, the room swimming around me. Next thing I remember, the nurse was telling the kids to go away while she cleaned me up; I told her I needed to pee. She drew the drapes, then vanished for what seemed like a quarter of an hour. I felt fit to burst and remember thinking, "I'm going to have to wet the bed….." Out loud, I said, "Excuse me," over and over again, louder and louder - I could hear people moving about behind the drapes but no-one came. I tried to get up again to no avail. Finally, the nurse returned and helped me to the bathroom - such a relief! She washed the coloured disinfectant from my body, commenting, "Oh those surgeons, they've written all over your back. Why did they put it all over your back." I asked what they'd written and she shook her head. Had I been quicker, I'd have told her to leave it so I could have my supporters look, or see it myself in the mirror - I can't help but be sceptical about what was "written" after my run-ins with the surgeon (over my questions to him - no worse than many Amazons and Swallows would ask, questions that Susan Love would have welcomed!) and the anaesthetist (over drugs for nausea and later the walkman - Susan Love didn't mention music for surgery in her book that I know of! But Belleruth has published studies from her neck of the woods.) All for now - needed to get this off my chest - it's been a nightmare wanting to write this out and being afraid of the emotions that would come out as I did it! Hope you won't mind! Ann's NOTE: AMAZON and SWALLOWS are online discussion groups for those interested in (respectively) alternative or complementary (breast) cancer therapy. Remember we are NOT Doctors and have NO medical training. 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