War of the Girls

Bertha and Mabel explore their new world

Well, I wouldn't call them girls at this point, more 1950 B movie space ships splashed down on my chest. The epic battle of the pectoral muscle and the silicone beast/breast. These battles can be hard and nasty, breast tissue gone, skin struggling to re-establish blood supply. Sometimes some of the skin loses that battle, as happened on my right breast. A small swatch of skin has gone necrotic and must be removed.

When will this happen, you ask? Wednesday, November 28 at 1 pm at George Washington University Hospital. The procedure will be outpatient and hopefully my sister Meg, who is here to help, and I will be blithely skipping our way back to my house within a few hours.

One million steps forward removing that nasty, cancerous breast tissue, a tiny step back requiring that Mabel, the right breast, be rid of a pesky bit of dead skin.

But, hey, what's a little dead skin when we were talking about getting rid of 800 to 900 cc's of cancer-creating breast tissue. Goodbye death machine, hello my little plastic friends, Bertha and Mabel.

Today's Fighting Thought

This seemed like the perfect image for anyone fighting for their life. Not today, mother fucker!

Boobs On Order

Boobs in a Box

There was something comforting about the final meeting with the surgeon before my surgery this next Tuesday. At least that's what I discovered. Prior to this final visit with the plastic surgeon, I was waiting. Waiting to learn more about the recovery process for my bilateral mastectomy. Waiting to find out how much I can lift, how long until I can drive, what types of pain medicines I might be taking. It was comforting to learn those details.  And I also finally have something to do. I can finish packing. I can buy a few more supplies. I can ensure my disability and FMLA paperwork are in place (without the doctor, I couldn't even start this process).  Having something to do is helping me to relax, calm my stomach, loosen tightened muscles in my shoulders and legs.  All I can say is, thank God.

My favorite part of the appointment? The pre-surgery breast photo shoot, two to the front, two to the side.  I'm calling them my boob mug shots.  I tried to pose for the shoot, but the surgeon quickly instructed me to drop my arms back to my side.  So much for my modeling career.

Dr. Lenert, measured, assessed, discussed the fact that she may or may not be able to install the implants right away, depending on the thickness of my skin.  If no to immediate implants, she'll place tissue expanders under the pectoral muscle instead.  So I figure that when I wake up, I will find out the results of the 2012 election and whether I have breasts at the same time.  Either way, I'm happy to sleep through the last of this pain in the ass (the election and my mastectomy).

After completing our detailed discussion of skin, drains, and other surgery unpleasantness, the doctor casually remarked, "Well, we'll get those ordered," meaning she will order my new breasts.

I almost laughed out loud. They're ordering my new breasts?  Are they coming via UPS or FedEx? As a friend Lisa remarked, are they eligible for super saver shipping?  I want to know if the package will also contain a ribbon-tied box of bonbons, considering the likely high price of those new breasts.  My breasts are on order.  I'd like a C cup, please.  Oh, okay, I'll take what I can get.  As long as they don't try to kill me like my real ones did. Just mare sure you send them express, and make sure they're here by Tuesday.