Cute Shoes and Boob Jobs

And I'm off. Finally have the sign off from my Oncologist for a bilateral mastectomy, hopefully to be scheduled in early November. As I've said before, my aunt and uncle are blessedly offering to let me stay with them while I recover.  My uncle's only request is that the surgery not be on Election Day. Got it. Do not mess with the man's ability to vote. 

While I'm scared of the surgery and recovery pain, I am very happy to finally be able to have these petri dishes of cancer removed.  I know that there is a great deal of controversy regarding mastectomy for Stage IV breast cancer folks. At the same time, women are living longer with this disease and there are more and more studies regarding the survival benefits of mastectomy for those with metastatic/Stage IV breast cancer.  Towards the end of this approval process, I had begun to joke that I would find a place for a back alley boob job.  When a friend asked where I would find one, I said, "I don't know. Maybe Mexico."

But the approval is here and ding dong the boobs are gonna be gone.

Thankfully I am doing well.  Even though I'm not on chemo, and only receiving Herceptin to stop the tumors from growing, my tumor markers keep dropping.  My last visit to the Oncologist showed my tumor marker dropping yet again, from 26 to 21.9 (normal range is 0 to 38.6).  My Oncologist tells me that my cancer is stupid and hasn't figured out the meds I'm receiving (every good virus will mutate and learn to fight the meds being given).  In this case, stupid is a good thing.  So because I'm doing well, I can have my boobs removed.

Where do the cute shoes fit in, you ask?  Well, about three weeks ago I decided to wear my cute shoes.  Nothing complicated.  Just an open-backed mule with a two-inch wedge. But here's the deal.  My feet are still a little numb due to neuropathy, and apparently feeling your feet is important when wearing open-backed cute shoes.  Things seemed to be going well the morning of the cute shoes, my descent down my front stairs seamless. But then my foot hit something. Maybe the tread on the stair. Maybe a stone. Who knows. The next moment I was falling forward toward my front walk.  Luckily, I landed in the flowers next to the walk. After laying on the concrete a few minutes to gauge whether my foot or ankle was broken, I finally got up and limped my way to work. That afternoon's doctor visit showed a bad sprain, and I was relegated to several days of Advil, ice bags and propping the foot.  Bummer.

At first I was pissed about the ankle.  I had been slowly regaining my strength and a sprained ankle certainly put a pause into exercising.  What finally comforted me was an ecard from http://www.rottenecards.com/ showing the smiling face of a man and the caption, "Just got a booty call from life. Apparently it still wants to keep fucking me."  I laughed and laughed when I saw that card.  That's exactly what this was. A booty call from life. I could deal with that.  Every time I think about that card, I still laugh. And for some reason, that makes me feel better.

Now I'm off to book my gig as a stripper for a night. Cause as I told my uncle, as long as they're still real, I should put the boobs on stage at least once.  I think of this as the boob swan song. Woohoo.