I’m kind of freaking out about the mastectomy.  Now that we have the surgery scheduled for the end of May, I keep thinking, “what if I’m making the wrong decision?”  The plastic surgeon said this is a journey.  I know that I’m in for more surgeries.  It’s not going to be easy.  But I’m super afraid they’re going to leave me lopsided.  Something will happen with insurance or something will happen to my doctor or we’ll move or healthcare will disappear or won’t cover the follow-up surgeries or the zombie apocalypse will ensue.  It’ll be like when someone goes to get their ears pierced, but chickens out before they get to the second one.  Or that episode of Modern Family where Claire and Haley agree to get matching tattoos, but only Claire follows through (and if that was a spoiler for you, I apologize.  That episode only aired 10 years ago).

        Here’s the thing.  They have to do it one step at a time.  One boob at a time.  This first surgery will remove all of my breast tissue from the left side, since almost half of it is malignant.  They’ll biopsy some lymph nodes.  They’ll send my lesions in for more testing to see what my treatment options will be.  My breast doctor does all of that.  Then enters my plastic surgeon (stage left) (well, actually I’m stage 2, but that sounded like a stage direction, and it’s my left breast, so that sounded apropos).

        He’ll handle the reconstruction.  I’m not sure if my implant will be under or over the muscle yet, but I know I have to go back to the office repeatedly to get more cc’s added to the implant over time.  It’s like pumping up a balloon.  It sounded like I can pump it up until I’m happy with the size…which is really weird because it totally reminds me of “Growing Up Skipper.”  Like they’ll just twist my arm at each office visit until I’m happy with the size. 

        The plastic surgeon is going to remove my nipple and then tattoo a new one on for me.  The tattoo won’t happen until towards the end of the process, but at that time they’ll do the lift on my right side.  Which will probably be a year down the road.  So I’m going to be one high, one low; one nipple, one non’t.  One anklet, one tube sock; one Cheerio, one Churro.  At least for a good while.  

        Then there’s the recovery.  I can’t drive for a month.  I can’t lift anything for a month.  I can’t exercise for a month.  That one scares me.  One of the things that keeps me sane is exercise.  It’s one of my coping mechanisms.  The good thing is that my poor feet will get a bit of a rest (my feet have been on fire since January…the Shaun T Insanity 30 is a WHOLE lot of jumping).  But I’ll probably be walking a whole lot, as I think I’ll be allowed to walk.  I won’t be able to walk my dog, unless someone else is holding the leash.  I don’t know how my dog is going to react to this arrangement.  His bathroom habits are very much like that of a human’s.  As in, you know how it’s hard to use the bathroom when you’re away from home?  Like when you’re staying on vacation, a lot of times it’s hard to use the bathroom comfortably?  It’s not like at home.  My dog is like that.  If I’m the one walking him, his bathroom habits are completely regular.  Comfortable.  Predictable.  But when someone else walks him (especially the kids), it’s like he holds it.  He knows it’s not me holding the leash, so he withholds–he can’t get comfortable.  Thankfully he’s happy with Chris walking him, but Chris works more than full time, so he can only book-end the day–walk him in the morning and at night–and the kiddos are going to have to handle the intermittent walks throughout the day.

        I’ve read that it’s best to have “T-Rex” arms for the first two weeks.  I won’t be able to vacuum (shucks, darn).  I won’t be able to do laundry (this one could be dangerous–it’s a real threat that I may get trapped in my house by built-up dirty laundry).  I told the twins they’re going to have to carry my stuff for me from room to room.  And I’m going to have to do it all again when they do the lift on the right side.  And then again when the implant fails because it’s gotten old (implants have to be replaced–they are not permanent). It just sounds like a whole lot.   

        Part of me just wants to go flat on that side.  But I’m only 44.  If I were 74, that would absolutely be my choice, hands down, no questions asked.  But I’m 44.  I still have time to start a lucrative exotic dancing career.  I don’t want my only option to be the Clermont Lounge in Atlanta.  I figure I’ll try the implant.  If it fails and causes lots of trouble down the line, then I’ll totally go flat on that side and get it all fancy-tattooed.  Like a freak show performer.