Happy Flipping Valentines Day
I am watching the Kerrang channel. "Loverboy" (YM@6) is playing. The phone rings. Its my Consultant. What an appropriate time to call! I realise, however, quite early on that this is not a social call. "We have your results. I need to see you. Tomorrow."
I check my diary. It's a good job I pushed my date back with Jeremy Renner to the following week. "Ok." I gulp. "See you tomorrow. At 4.30. It's a date" (You stupid, stupid woman.)
That was yesterday. Today is Valentines Day. I had planned a nice meal for my hubbie. That would have to wait now. I have bought my friend along for moral support. She makes damn fine cake. We enter the Chamber of Secrets. This is where the magic happens. This is where you get the Good News. Or not, in my case.
As per usual, in these circumstances, I am required to de-robe. This is now so common, I am almost doing it as I walk through the door.
First of all we have to deal with the seroma again. This is the third time. Mr _____ gets out the long syringe and the pink spray. Voila, it is done. I am decompressed. Then we move onto the crap.
"It's not good news. We found more DCIS (very early stage Breast Cancer). You will need more surgery." I presume it will be a mastectomy. But no, my Surgeon, who has the power to heal all in his wake, can do a "re-excision". He will go back in and take a pizza slice out. He measures my tummy again and my back. I know this means he is thinking about reconstruction - we are entering the realm of worst-case-scenario mode.
He confirms that the re-excision is Plan A. And the Mastectomy is Plan B. It's a good job we have a plan. Otherwise we would be screwed.
I went home and my hubbie and I drank the wine but did not eat the meal. Happy Bloody Valentines.
