'Put On Your Warpaint!'
Thank God for Fall out Boy. They have released the most amazing song. Just when I needed it. Go check it out. It's called The Phoenix. The first line of the song is 'Put on your warpaint'. (I know its not personally for me! I am not dumb!) But it feels very personal at the moment, given the shitstorm that is still swirling around my head. So I would like to say thank you to Patrick, Pete, Joe and Andy for this song which is now going to be my motto. I love you guys. Right, enough fangirling, on with the blog!
Thursday 28th March. Results day (again!). I already have a bad feeling about this! We have been here before. Groundhog Day.
My consultant welcomes me with a smile. But I can tell in his eyes, he knows more than he is letting on. We exchange pleasantries and then we get to the nittygritty. He asks me how the boob is. I reply "It is very mangled. And sore. And red. It is not happy." He has to look at it. I do not think this is a wise idea. The boob has morphed into some strange, alien being. I worry that it will permanently damage anyone who looks upon it. Kind of like Medusa, but without the snakes. I can see him reeling back, hands over his face, saying "MY EYES! MY EYES!".
This did not happen, of course. He did not shrivel into dust. He had a good look around. He advised me that I had an infection. (I am going for the lot here, interesting histology, seroma, infection - you name it!) and would need antibiotics. And then he asked me to stand up. And he felt my tummy (where I have a small muffin top). And he felt my back. And I knew then that we were definitely doing Plan B.
Plan B. Did I say that in my head or out loud? I imagined, any second now, that the SWAT helicopter would hover overhead, black, masked combat-uniformed men would come down on wires. They would do a combat-roll across the office and spray teargas in their wake, shouting "Plan B is a go! This is not a drill! Plan B is Go!Go!Go."
And then we sat down and calmly discussed the fact there that there was more DCIS in there. High grade DCIS. And more tumours. Only small ones but "multi-focal" (i.e.in various places /not confined to one area). And that they were Grade 3 Cancer. Son-of-a-bitch! There was only one solution to be had. A mastectomy. I started to cry. I don't know why, I had known in my heart this would be the outcome as soon as I had walked into his office. He gave me a tissue and held my hand while I sobbed. He was embarassed. Then I said, defiantely, "Right. Let's get on with it. Right here, Right now. But I want an immediate reconstruction!"
So we got the pictures out - the 'before' and 'after' pictures. And we discussed my 'options'. I shouted at him "Given a choice, I would choose not to have 'ffing breast cancer and bits of me amputated!" He shouted back at me and it all got a bit shouty - a bit woo, a bit wee. And then we all calmed down. And I apologised for being an awkward cow. And I said sorry that I would have to come back and bother him. And he said that it was o.k. to come back and bother him, because I bring cake. And I said, as I sweeped out of his office, "Cake. I'll give you cake. Next time I see you, I will fling it at you!"
Poor man, he does not know what he is messing with!
And now I wait. For a referral to a plastic surgeon who will build me a new boob. It will be bionic. Magnificent. I feel like Arnie in The Terminator "I'LL BE BACK".
But when I got home I cried. And that's why I need Fall Out Boy. So thanks to them for keeping me going.
Guys, we are a go!