Plastic Surgeon 2

And so the saga continues...

Harry turns 19 today and, as the first week of my second year after diagnosis progresses, I wake up rather late.  Last night I had an allergy attack and took a Phenergan.   It must have knocked me out as I feel like I've been run over by a railway train.

Harry is camping on Moreton Island with Robyn and I have already given him his (very practical) loot - a sports bag, some teeshirts and undies, a voucher to get himself some decent shoes.

It's 10.30 am by the time I drag my sorry butt out of bed, in time to hear Anne at the door.  She is here to drop off the money for a fundraising cruise I'm helping to organise.  I barely think twice as I greet her in the kitchen in my mismatched Elmo pyjamas and one boob untidily outlined under the skimpy garment.  My eyes are red and shadowed underneath as usual.  My hair has tightened into the curls I loathe.

It's only afterwards as I head to the shower that I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.   All in all, I look pretty goddamn awful  and I realise that I should have covered up to greet Anne who was as usual immaculate in her professional attire.  (Later I will call her to apologise for this insult to her eyeballs.)

The fact is that general attractiveness or lack thereof is somewhat top of mind today.

Today I have an appointment with Dr Chin at the Wesley.

Today I hope to be given an alternative to the rather gruesome Lattisimus Dorsi operation previously discussed with Dr Lily.

Here's the story.

Not long after my visit to Dr Lily, my mum saw a story on "A Current Affair" about a new breast reconstruction procedure involving the use of stem cells.  It's only about 18-months old and it's offered by just one practitioner in Australia, Dr Chin who happens to operate in Brisbane.

My mum and both my sisters, Nicky and Fiona, are dead set against the Lattisimum operation, a major procedure that involves rearranging a muscle and could possibly lead to long-term issues with mobility.

Nicky suggests that I should embrace my scars much as anyone does after a bad accident.

Fiona is horrified at the scale of the operation involved.

Mum says that in Japan (where she lived for three years in her youth), all the women are flat-chested and get by in padded bras.  She knows I'm not vain. "I've never given you bad advice," says my Mum, who is never shy of self-congratulation.

But Mum seemed to think Dr Chin's option could be worth considering.

Al just wants me to do what makes me happy and he says we will find the money somehow to cover whatever I need.  (You can see why I love that man!).

I drive to the Wesley, ruefully glancing at my hideous reflection in the mirror.  As is usual after an allergy attack, my nose has taken on Aboriginal proportions.   A pimple is sprouting above my lip.  I am less Miranda Kerr than JOHN Kerr.  :(

At the hospital I grab a coffee as I still feel drugged and sluggish.

Making my way to Dr Chin's medical suite, I sit in a waiting room where I ponder human incompetence.  (One of the receptionists seems quite old and seems quite disorganised.  She even stuffed up my appointment.  I toy with making a complaint but decide she's really quite lovely and besides, she's wearing a nice jacket).

I play a game of Chicktionary on my Iphone.   (I bet you didn't know that "Filbert" is a word - it's the name of a type of nut tree).

Then I follow Dr Chin into his waiting room.  He is a handsome shortish fellow who initially sits ona  stool right next to me to question me.  It's a bit disconcerting.  I notice he has a smooth untarnished face.

Dr Lambley has already sent ahead a referral and Dr Chin first clarifies that I intend to have the other breast removed.

It's true.  I hate being unsymmetrical and that is one decision I've made.  Paris is done for.  I am sick of my prophylactic and especially, the ugly, cumbersome bras that are needed to carry it around.

Dr Chin asks me to go into a changing room where I am to strip down to my bra and knickers.  He tells me that he needs to see if I have enough body fat as FAT is the key to this procedure.

Undressed, I sit quite uncomfortably in a chair staring at a closed door.  I notice a cardboard box in which are contained the models of long bones.  For the man who has everything, I suppose.

When Dr Chin comes back in, he doesn't feel me up like Lily did but just looks at me.  At once he shakes his head.  "Not enough fat!"  he observes.  Then he says:  "Would you be able to put on 10 kilos for me?"

"10 Kilos!" I exclaim (note the subtle use of the exclamation mark).  "I've never been 10 kilos overweight before."

Then he says he will make do with 5 or 6 minimum.  This is what is needed for some smallish mounds.

Once I am dressed again and sitting at his desk, Dr Chin explains that he needs me to have my mastectomy first as he needs two even scars to work with.

He explains what this procedure involves and runs me quickly through a few slides on a power point.  Here's what I discover:

This procedure is called Stem cell-enriched fat therapy which regenerates the required tissue from autologous (Self) 'stem cells'.

This natural augmentation procedure uses fat obtained from another part of the body using liposuction.  Extracted stem cells are used to regenerate the required tissue to reconstruct the breasts (10 grams of stem cells can help manufacture 700 grams of potential fat).

The procedure basically includes an implant around which the fat is placed.

Only one operation is needed and the most uncomfortable part is the liposuction.  (I will need to wear compression bandages for six weeks afterwards).

Instead of manufacturing nipples out of skin flaps, there are now stick on varieties available which can last up to 6 weeks including bathing.

In between, I discover that Dr Chin grew up and was educated in Dublin.  He doesn't have an Irish accent unless he's drunk.  In my view, he could also work on his bedside manner.  He is quite brusque and really, I find he could do with lightening up a little.

As it is, I manage to ask only a few questions, and then he hustles me out to see the nurse who I must say is a lot more informative.

Here are the pros of this procedure compared to the Lattisimus Dorsi operation:

1.  It's less invasive.  No parts of my body will need to be moved, removed or restitched.
2.  It's quicker.  Only one operation is needed.
3.  I'll be fully mobile in a relatively shorter space of time.
4.  I will end up with a flatter stomach and maybe even skinnier thighs!  (Bonus!)
5.  Fat can be 'cultivated' so a thin person can be briefly fat in order to generate the raw material required.
6.  For the first time in my life, I can eat crap with impunity.  (I am already salivating over that McDonalds Hot Choc Sundae: the one I've avoided for 19 years... I used to pig out on them when I was pregnant with Harry).

Here are the cons:

1.  It's much more expensive.  The cost is $10-$12000 compared to $3000 under Dr Lily.
2.  I have to put on 10 Kilos!
3.  I must spend 6 weeks in compression bandages.
4.  I might get used to eating (even more) crap.
5.  Unfortunately, I still won't look like Miranda Kerr.

My dilemma is compounded by the fact that, by November, I should be back to my optimal weight thanks to the hard work I've been doing to satisfy Dr Cam's research.

There's also that huge psychological barrier for me where weight gain is concerned: FAT is considered to be the one, universally acknowledged factor contributing to the risk of cancer recurrence.

It will all come down to how badly I want two lumps to fill out a dress.  Keep in mind that these lumps will be insensate, anyway.

Really, what difference will some smaller lumps on my chest make to the overall quality of my life?  I mean, check out Miranda Kerr (ugly cow):

For that matter, check out Keira Knightly.

Or Cameron Diaz:

Or Sienna Miller:

Or Kate Moss:

Or Milla Jovovich:

Or for that matter Jack Nicholson!

Boobs!  Who really needs them?

This is the 10AA question I need to consider in the coming weeks.

In the meantime, I do hope you'll forgive me if you find me leering at your cleavage.

Just put my lechery down to research.

Oncologist 4

I wake after a particularly bad night's sleep that was exacerbated by a bad head cold. I got maybe two hour's sleep if that. It really was a lousy night. I couldn't breathe at all and there was a moment there when I was wishing someone would give me a lethal injection and put me out of my misery. Then I thought about Marilyn Monroe. Then I imagined her bonking JFK. And then it was morning.

After Al has brought me a cup of tea, I drag myself out of bed. I have no time to dilly dally as I have an appointment with Dr Choo this morning.

Harry drives me in and along the way, I notice the dry skin on my arms. I feel old and leathery. I blow my nose. I sneeze. I blow my nose.

I also know that the radiated area on my chest is now almost black! I look like a bit of me has been borrowed from Kamahl. It's actually quite funny because my name, "Bronwyn" means "White Breast" and I wonder if there'a name that means "Half a Black Breast".

Lately, all I can seem to think of is breasts. That's all I appear to notice. Like yesterday, while I had coffee with Louisa all I could look at was her breasts (big ones) resting on the table as she sipped her coffee. At the tennis club I was looking at photos on the notice board, all I looked at was the tits: Lyndal's push-up bra, Mel's pancakes. All I see are cleavages and bra straps and nipples poking out of tee-shirts. I seem to have discovered an inner 'dirty old man'. I tell you, this has become a DISEASE! In fact, it's so chronic I've decided I'm going to set up my own area of study. I'm going to call it "Titology".

You think I jest but in truth, it's quite annoying to me right now just how much time I'm wasting thinking about boobs. I mean, really, it's not even going to help me win at trivia as I can reliably report questions about mammary glands are few and far between.

And so, with boobs still swirling around in my mind, Harry and I arrive at Greenslopes Hospital. On the way up to Dr Choo's I make a beeline for the pharmacy and buy myself a family-sized box of tissues. I am wary about spreading my germs and use my pinky to press the button on the lifts.

Upstairs in the waiting room, it's not too long before I am in my oncologist's office yet again.

Today we are going to discuss the results of my various scans and blood test. Basically the news is all good. Dr Lambley has already telephoned to inform me that the CT Scan was all clear. Except for a couple of fibroids down in Antarctica, it seems there are no signs of metastasis. I've already announced it on Facebook and people have been congratulating me. It's as exciting as having a baby it seems! Such exceptional news is like a new arrival. God bless my friends!

The blood test, Dr Choo explains, also shows that my oestrogen levels are nice and low meaning I am well in the range of post-menopause. Just so you really appreciate the importance of this... prior to cancer, I was expected to achieve menopause at the age of 55 (based on my mum's experience). I'm 48 years old now which means that a process that would have taken 7 years minimum, has been achieved in 6 months. No wonder I'm fucking cranky!

Also, my Vitamin D levels are excellent so everyone who has been emailing me information about how Vitamin D prevents breast cancer you can take a chill pill - this was never an issue.

Also my white cells are looking good which surprises me. I seem to have spent the last two months feeling crook so I'm thinking those little fuckers really need to stop lazing around. You'd think they'd be doing a better job!

Now I ask Dr Choo if the low oestrogen might mean I still have to take Arimidex for five years (you can't blame me for asking). Alas, the answer is yes.

I tell her I have started taking the tablets and the side effects don't seem too bad, just the bad moods and I suppose, the joint pain. I wonder if they will get any worse as my treatment continues.

She says that probably the joint and muscle aches will worsen. What to say but shit, fuck and bugger. I'll just have to deal with the fact that I feel like I'm a hundred years old these days.

With my scans clear, I ask Dr Choo what the chances are that the cancer will recur. She has to think a bit then says: "Mmm, about 10%." Look, anyone worth their statistics will know that that's not super-great. 1 in 10? Put it like this, I have the same chance as getting the flu! (And less chance than getting hemorrhoids (25:1), being audited by the ATO (175:1) or fatally slipping in the bath or shower (2232:1).

It's obvious I have a cold and Dr Choo laughs when she says I was fine through chemotherapy and now seem to constantly be sick. She tells me I am depleted after my radiation and I need to rest.

I admit to my insomnia, how the bad nights outnumber the good.

When I explain I have just completed a long involvement with a political campaign, she raises her eyebrows. "That probably hasn't helped," she says, and smiles.

Dr Choo recommends I take a sleeping pill for 4-5 nights so I get back into a natural rhythm of sleep.

Then we discuss my radiation burn. I have some broken skin there now and I'm worried about infection but she says, I should just keep rubbing in the sorbolene cream I've been given. Eventually, apparently, the skin will return to normal.

Unfortunately, this area won't be completely healed for at least another two weeks. I ask her if I can do any exercise with my arms.

"Yes, but take it easy. Don't over do it." So no tug-o-war for me.

As I leave Dr Choo's office, I think what a bore this business of beating cancer has become. The five weeks of radiation are now seven weeks and I'm looking at least another two weeks of recuperation.

I'm to see Dr Choo every three months from now on and, according to Dr Lambley, I won't need any more scans unless there are concerns.

So, after paying my 90 bucks for the consultation, I meet Harry in the foyer where he has procured a coffee for me. I drop him off at the man pad and then head off back home.

I stop off at Target to buy some moisturiser - and while I'm there I also shout myself a new pair of shorts and a shirt.

Afterwards, I go to meet a lady I met on Facebook called Kim. Kim's son, Carl, passed away after an accident while walking home one dark night on Anzac Day, three years ago. We got to talking after meeting on a political blog, she ranting, me raving. I took a shine to her.

Kim's story is one of the deepest loss, the loss of a child. Carl went to Ormiston College where my boys go. He was 21 I think when he died.

I meet Kim in a coffee shop in Cleveland. She's gracious, warm and outgoing.

I am surprised at how easily we fall into conversation. She's a good listener and to me, she seems to have found that place of appropriate grieving. I can't explain it: that place where you can talk easily about what you have been through without being, I don't know, sorry for yourself? Self pitying?

It's inevitable of course that, when she speaks about her child, at some stage she will cry and I'm prepared for that. But she recovers and soon I find that an hour has passed quickly as we talk about Carl, about politics, about grief, loss, the afterlife.

On my way home, I think about the courage it takes for Kim to get on with her life after the loss of her beloved boy. I cannot even imagine the depth of her aching. What could be harder than dealing with that?

It makes dealing with cancer seem like a breeze. At least I can hope that I will come out of it, that I'll be among the nine. I won't be the one who has to go through this shit again.

For my money, Kim is much, much braver than I am and I salute her, this woman dealing with her loss, carrying on.

When I get home I am in two minds about exercising as there's a conference of dark grey clouds looming in the sky. But stuff it - I have the all clear. As if it's going to rain on me!

So I change into my walking gear and leash up Spunky. I tell Ben to cook dinner and leave out the recipe and ingredients.

I walk 6.3 km at a brisk pace because the light is fading quickly. Along the way, I can feel my prophylactic chafing my skin. I don't care. I can't breathe very well. I don't care.

I'm boob free - as free as the wind blows, as free as the grass grows... you know the song.

It's dark by the time I get home.

And I must say, Ben's fish soup is delicious.

Speaking to Women

It's International Women's Day today and this afternoon, I've been invited to address a group of 70 women at a corporate function for Accenture. (It used to be Arthur Andersen's back in the day).

I wake with trepidation - it's going to be an interesting day for one reason or another.

You see, Al's dad George is critically ill in hospital. In fact, he's on life support and today he has to be taken off the machine. It will be touch and go as to how things might pan out.

After doing some work, Al leaves for the hospital. (I feel so sorry for him!).

I love George dearly and it's been an emotional time for the family: the idea that this might be it for Alan's wonderful dad. George has been going in and out of consciousness and this is week three since he was admitted to the Wesley Hospital.

I feel a little lost. I read some of the book I need to have finished for my book club tomorrow. Janet rings.

Afterwards, I force myself to go the gym. Even though exercising is the last thing I feel like doing, I know it will help to balance the way I'm feeling which is, if the truth be told, a little down.

While I am there I text Al to see how George is faring. They have successfully taken him off the machine and Al says he seems to be breathing on his own. Perhaps there is the teensiest tiny bit of hope?

I want to visit George. I haven't had a chance yet and I don't know if it will be the last time I see him alive. So when I get home, I ask Harry if he wants to come with me to the Hospital and the boy is keen. I figure I can fit in a quick visit and then head off to the Marriott where I'l be speaking.

After I shower, I admit to a bit of a dilemma as to whether to wear the wig, a scarf or go the bald. In the end, I choose a scarf (best not to scare the women off entirely!).

On the way, in the car, Harry asks me why I'm making my presentation today. I reply: "What else would I be doing? Sitting on my bum. Besides, it'll be a good experience."

We arrive at the hospital in good time, thanks to the T2 lane on the freeway: 2 passengers so let us through! Yee ha!

I park on Chaseley Street and nearly have a heart attack trying to climb up the hill to the entrance.

As it turns out, Harry and I bump into Ethel and Al in the foyer. It seems visiting hours are over. (They are very strict in the Intensive Care Unit).

We go upstairs to the ICU in the hope that we might cajole the nurse into allowing a very short visit but it fails to transpire. George is still unconscious so what to do?

I head off early to my talk which is at the Marriott Hotel in the City.

They have arranged valet parking for me which makes it all really easy.

When I get upstairs, I am met by Alison, the organiser and taken into a room full of women of all ages it seems.

There are four speakers today: me, a tall and very beautiful girl, Melinda (who is also a friend of Nim's I know), a lady call Sue who is an Exedcutive Manager at Brisbane City Council, and Catherine who is a senior executive at Accenture.

We are rigged up with some of those groovy microphones - the kind they attach to TV Personalities - and sit in a row on an open stage, like objects on display. I feel a bit conspicuous: me in my scarf. Does it scream 'cancer victim'?

As the line-up is pretty casual, we are asked "who would like to go first" and Melinda, bless her, gets up as she's closest to the lectern.

Melinda has prepared some material on her iPad which she refers to. I find her a warm, funny and engaging speaker who speaks candidly about the difficulty of juggling work and family. She's obviously a hard worker and very successful.

When Melinda concludes to good applause, I am asked if I would like to go next but I say, "No! I'll go last as I'm a bit depressing." Laughter.

So Sue goes next. She's working off dot points on a scrap of paper. Yes, that kind of speaker. Confident, fluid. She's obviously a high achiever and quite interesting if you are interested in career management and upward mobility.

Then there's Catherine who seems to think she's "bland", but I like her conversational style. She doesn't even move to the lectern. She seems down to earth and talks about 'work life balance'.

It's at this point that I admit I feel a little out of place. Career betterment? Work life balance? Juggling home and work? These are alien concepts to me these days. I'm just a humble freelance writer, often unemployed and/or working for no financial return.

But I'm here and now it's my turn, me with my speech written out in full. As I ad lib in my opening remark: "Well, I am a speechwriter so I've written my speech."

And because some of you have shown an interest in hearing what I have to say, here is my speech for your enjoyment. Just imagine my slightly shrill Sri Lankan accent (please, not New Delhi but Colombo) and keep in mind, the theme of the day was "The Path Forward":

Good afternoon ladies.

Once upon a time, I thought of myself as somewhat unique. Being of mixed Sri Lankan, Belgian and Scottish heritage, who could blame me?

I thought I was unique, that is until September last year when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

This put me among 1.5 million women worldwide who will receive a diagnosis of breast cancer each and every year. 1.5 million. That's about three times the population of the Gold Coast.

But how I am unique or at least vaguely different is in how I chose to move forward on the new path I found myself on.

Today I want to share with you the biggest lesson I've learned as a result.

Firstly, let me thank Accenture for the opportunity to speak with you today... it's not often I get to take Fake Nicky out to an event of this stature.

You see, like many women, my breasts used to have a personality of their own and, given their showy and somewhat unruly nature, I had nicknamed them Nicky and Paris.

Nicky, my left breast was removed in November last year, and was recently replaced by Fake Nicky.

Here is what she looks like. (BRONWYN PRODUCES CHRIS'S PROSTHESIS AND MAKES CERTAIN UNSAVOURY MOVEMENTS WITH THE DEVICE).

Now it's not often one gets to peddle the word 'breasts' - or tits or boobs for that matter - in a public forum such as this one.

And that's a shame, ladies, because as I've recently discovered, breasts can play a much greater role than you imagined in your life, your career path, your future...

Too many women take their breasts for granted.

I was one of them.

Look, I don't' wish to boast, but as you can see, I was not short changed where boobs are concerned - MORE UNSAVOURY GESTURES - and in fact, I have to admit I've been quite shy of them.

Most of the time I've ignored them as being, well, a bit of a nuisance - hard to tame, always poking out at the wrong time, Paul Keating might have called them "recalcitrant" - especially when jogging.

So you'll understand why it took me 44 years before I even bothered with a mammogram ... I had one yes... but it was inconvenient, it hurt like hell, it found nothing, and so I just thought "what a waste of time".

And then the week I turned 48, everything changed when I discovered I had breast cancer.

Two lumpectomies, one mastectomy and six chemotherapy sessions later, the thing I wanted to share with you today is one lesson I've learned early in the piece.

Women should check their breasts regularly. Religiously in fact, and I don't care if that means putting on a nun's habit while you do it. Check your breasts the same time after every period. And if you have daughters, tell them, love your breasts. Don't be afraid of shouting "TITS!!!" in a public place if you must. Check your breasts.

But that's not the biggest lesson...

Now the thing with a diagnosis of cancer, or any illness, or any slap that the universe might deliver is that there's really only one way you can go... and that's forward.

And I guess this is why the whole process of dealing with breast cancer is so often described as a "journey" it's become a kind of cliche.

But, unlike any other journey you might plan, say a trip to Disneyland, or if that's out of your league maybe Bribie Island, you really can't rely on a meticulously planned itinerary.

Because getting a cancer diagnosis is like going to bed in Brisbane and waking up in Kathmandu.

The only thing that you know about this country you've landed in is that there are some mountains here, and some people who climb them, well, it's a bummer, but they die.

And from this position of being in a strange place you've never been to before and generally clueless, you step out and somehow find yourself cast upon a journey.

One lesson you learn along the way is you shouldn't be afraid... Most people hear the C-word and go immediately to the D-word.

But here in Kathmandu, not everyone climbs Mount Everest, so don't turn a AA Cup into a DDD cup needlessly.

The survival rate from breast cancer is close to 87%... Don't be afraid!

But that's not the biggest lesson...

The biggest lesson is this.

When any of us is faced with a challenge, the best path forward is to turn a negative into a positive by using it to try and help others.

In my case, it has simply been the creation of a blog, started as I lay unhappy and languishing in bed afar my second lumpectomy.

News had travelled about my breast cancer diagnosis and, as it turns out, two friends rang me and asked me why I had not put anything up on my Facebook.'

Facebook? Good God! What a place to advertise this of all things! I may as well flash my tits to the world!

"But you can empower so many people if you write about it," is how one friend put it t me.

And so, in my bleary state, barely able to concentrate, I sat in front of my computer.

I came up with the most cliched title you could imagine, "My breast cancer journey"... yes, hardly titillating...

And an URL that remains an embarrassment: brownynplusbreasts.blogspot.com

And I started typing... and typing... and I kept typing.

This blog has now generated close to 13000 page views and, along the way, based on feedback I've received, I've been making a difference to someone out there I believe.

Many women have been motivated to have that mammogram they've put off for to long; breast cancer survivors have told me it's cathartic; others now have a new empathy for their friends and relatives who they may have supported through this dreaded disease.

The depressing thing is that one in eight women will receive a breast cancer diagnosis in their lifetime.

It could be one of you already. It could have been one of you in the past.

It's part of my path forward that I've managed to put my writing skills to use to help someone else.

For others, it can be as simple as paying it forward to just one other woman going through the same thing... and most fellow breast cancer survivors do.

So my biggest lesson so far is that every negative can become a positive, with the right attitude. Even something as diabolical as cancer can be seen as something life affirming in a way, if you have the right perspective.

Remember, as Max Planck, the famous physicist once said: "When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change."

He was right!

And now, so as I leave you in a perkier state than I found you in - I don't want to leave you sagging after all - I thought I'd share a joke about breasts:

A family is at at the dinner table when the son asks his father: 'Dad, how many kinds of boobs are there?' The father, surprised, answers: 'Well son, there are three kinds of breasts. In her 20s, a woman's breasts are like melons, round and firm. In her 30s to 40s, they are like pears, still nice but hanging a bit. After 50, they are like onions.' Onions? 'Yes, you see them and they make you cry.'

Cue uproarious applause. Okay, it isn't uproarious but it seems quite loud.

Afterwards, I go upstairs with the ladies for drinks. Several come up to me to tell me how much they enjoyed my talk. I find myself talking candidly about various subjects such as sex education, penises, and my pet subject of vaginal dryness.

Hey! It's International Woman's Day. I'm allowed to.

To all my sisters out there: stay well. And here's to healthy tits.

Prosthesis

If my friend Chrissy hadn't sent me her own prosthesis (I've nicknamed it 'Dolly') for my use, it's likely I will never have got around to it. I've been making do with Dolly and, when lazy, I have to admit to making do with a rolled up bedrock - or a bunch of tissues as I did when caught short recently.

But today, I take myself to the Women's Wellbeing Centre in Greenslopes where I have an appointment with a lady called Carol Martin.

A former Occupational Therapist, Carol specialises in post-mastectomy fittings of prostheses and bras.

Having lost any real interest in the shape or presentation of my tits of late, the truth is I wouldn't have bothered except for the fact that I have a voucher from the Chicks in Pink entitling me to two bras up to the value of $160. Who can walk past a freebie I ask you?

There's also the fact that Chrissy's bras have done some heavy duty boulder holding, so they're a little the worse for wear. That, and I'm not sure if they're the right size. (From an overhead point of view, it's difficult to gauge).

My appointment's at 12.30 pm and right on time, I overshoot Carol's shop on my first attempt as it's located on Logan Road, so close to the intersection with a side street that it's easy to overlook.

In the end, a little hot and bothered, I do get there and find her office is located in a small centre.

I'm not really sure what to expect and find myself sitting in a nicely appointed professional suite.

I thumb vaguely through a 'Madison' magazine but have forgotten my glasses so that's useless. I wonder around the small space flicking through some brochures. (Hmm, 'Exercises for Arthritis'. I wonder if that's the next fabulous thing on my future health agenda).

A short while later, Carol comes out to greet me and I am met by a voluptuous lady dressed in a hot pink dress and with lovely shoulder-length blonde hair. (Any hair is lovely to me these days. Even Donald Trump's rug).

I follow her into a small room where I see a range of boxes containing prostheses I realise, and some bras displayed on a small rack.

When Carol asks me to take off my top, I somewhat embarrassedly confess that I have been using a second-hand prosthesis as I reveal one of Chris's old bras.

(As it turns out, I will walk out of here with the same bra but in my size and doing a better job of containing Paris who seems intent on popping out of nearly all the bras I try on. Ooh, she's a wild one alright).

First up, Carol attempts to find a matching prosthesis and part of my brain realises this was not on my agenda. Dolly's been doing me fine and these bastards are not exactly cheap.

Still, in Australia, Medicare provides a rebate of $400 for a breast prosthesis which means I will be out of pocket by only a few dollars (relatively speaking) if at all. So why not! (Besides, I'm too ashamed to admit I'm a cheapskate. It's that hair. It's so damn glamorous.)

Then Carol gets to work. She puts a lovely cream-coloured bra on me then produces a prosthesis that is, she says, very pert and sticks up a little. However, it seems smaller an a bit too perky next to Paris. Not a great match.

I am allowed to handle a couple of different varieties and note that they are substantially lighter than Dolly. (She's climate-controlling but so heavy I'm sure she'd be a rather fine bludgeoning tool).

Throughout this process, Carol comments on my buxom shape enough times so I gather it's noteworthy. (Inwardly, I sigh. How many times have I heard these kinds of comments. Okay, I get it. I have BIG BOOBS).

In the end, I select a Size 8 which is lighter than Dolly (a size 7) although it doesn't have her thermal properties.

Next it's onto the bras.

I can report that the process of fitting a bra onto a lopsided chest is an onerous task, requiring substantial wiggling as it is so important to properly centre the garment.

At some stage, one is also required to grab the remaining boob and kind of shake it, much as, say, a dog might worry a bone, so that it sits correctly inside the bra cup.

I can also report that on insertion of a prosthesis, the remaining breast is thrown into relief, its oozing fattiness emphasised. My cup really does overfloweth.

As well, it's a trap for the unwary that a missing breast can create an unsightly 'cleavage' that most post-mastectomy women strive desperately to hide. So some bras are quite unsuitable because when you bend over, it's not exactly your 'Swimsuit Illustrated' look.

That's why, we mastectomised mummas rely on the overall sizzle of the bra to divert one's eyes away from the all too obvious thing that stares you in the eye - this girl is titless.

And so, after parting with $435 of which $400 will be returned, courtesy of the exorbitant taxes I pay, I leave Carol Martin with a new breast in place.

To the untrained eye, to all intents and purpose, I am a whole, not a half where the Boobsie Twins are concerned.

The ghost of Nicky has risen in a triangle of silicon that's shoved inside my bra and sits tamed as the real Nicky would not have allowed herself to be tamed.

This one sits where it's put and refuses to budge. It comes out when I require it too. It does not sag or wobble. There is nothing 'come hither' about this baby. At least, I don't think so.

I should be glad but a bit part of me is missing Nicky.

She may have made an unsightly boob of herself from time to time but really, that girl had personality.

I don't get it you know. Why so many women seek that silicone enhancement.

Who could possibly want plastic, this dead and lifeless shape, when you have the real thing?

Love what you have, ladies. You might think it's not much but from here, even your pancakes are looking pretty fine to me.

Remember, a beautiful chest is a cancer-free chest.

Mastectomy

Twenty-five days after my initial diagnosis I find myself back at the Mater Redlands, my local private hospital, for a total mastectomy of the left breast.

The hospital has given me the wrong time and in the end, it is a bit of a rush as I throw some things together into an overnight bag and Al rushes me to hospital - we arrive at 11.30 am.

Once admitted, once again I am met by the area Breast Care Nurse, Jenny Jones, who is friendly and easy to talk to. Here is a picture of her:

At this briefing Jenny gives me an envelope from the "Chicks in Pink" which entitles me to two free post-mastectomy bras valued at $160. These can be purchased I'm told from "The Women's Wellbeing Clinic" which has a great selection of bras and prosthesis. She tells me that the Cancer Council will send me a temporary prosthesis within the week. Isn't it amazing? All the support I'm getting for free, all because there are people out there who care!

Jenny produces a small case and shows me some examples of breast prostheses. The ones made of latex are very heavy. She says the ones with the adhesive backs can be hot.

After the usual pre-op checks, once again I am off to the operating theatre. Here I am in my hospital gown, ready to go off to theatre.

Soon after my bed has come to a stop, Dr Lambley arrives in his surgical gown and cap with a Nikko pen. He draws a dotted line across my left breast to indicate the line of his incision. He has already told me that he will cut across the nerve which means I will have no feeling in that area once the wound heals. He will leave a large pocket of skin which will be come in handy down the track when it is time for my reconstruction.

I have the same team looking after me, including the jovial anethestist, Dr Warden, the Scotsman. This time, he tells me a joke about the man who wakes up to be given the bad news: that both legs have been amuputated. The good news being that the man in the cubicle next door has made an offer for his slippers.

That's not bad. I tell him the joke about the professor instructing a group of medical students who are standing over a cadaver. "To be great practitioners, the first rule is that you can't be squeamish about the human body," he says. "So watch my instruction. Insert your middle finger into the anus of this corpse, like so, and lick it." The doctor inserts a finger withdraws it and licks it. "And now follow my example". As the last student inserts his middle finger and licks it, the professor gives his students a stern look and says. "The second rule if you want to be a great practitioner is to be observant. Had you been paying attention you may have noted that while I inserted my middle finger, I licked my index one."

Dr Warden tells me that, actually, in the olden days, doctors would dip a finger into urine and lick it - a honey taste indicated diabetes. I wonder aloud if that's where the association with 'piss' and 'beer' began.

In this way, I am wheeled into theatre. As the usual drugs are being inserted into my veins, there is more jokery. I recall some interchange involving nude surgery and G-strings.

The operation goes for around two hours I think and when I emerge from the ether, I realise there is a plastic tube coming out of my side to pump away excess fluids in my wound. I feel sore and sleepy.

Al comes to visit as promised. We discuss my proposed reconstruction. We have already had a talk about it.

After 17 years of marriage, it has taken this event for me to learn a surprising fact: Al has told me he has never been a boobs man!

"Then why did you marry me?" I asked.

"Because you're Bronwyn," he said. It's the sweetest thing anyone has said to me.

I can't keep my eyes open but as I doze off I realise I have a surprise visitor. It is my friend Louise, who started work at our local Council in January. The office is about half a kilometre away. It has taken my illness for her and I to meet in the flesh again. My room is dark and as I realise it is Louise, I don't know why, but I burst into tears.

Louise and I first met when I was 10 years old at Mt Carmel in Coorparoo. As I entered my Year 6 classroom, she was the girl with long blonde hair who shifted over and said "You can sit next to me." We hung around together through those primary years and then spent our high school years at Loreto. Louise and I went to QIT together and did the same course. We even had a brief time together sharing the same first job - at a small PR consultancy in Brisbane. Louise is my oldest best friend and is now a highly successful corporate official. (She is also something like an 8th-Dan in Zen Do Kai).

Seeing Louise like this makes me keenly aware of the shifting sands, the flow of time, the hand of fate. I wonder why my oldest friends have only really bothered to contact me on hearing I am unwell. Why is that? Why do we wait until people we care about are, possibly, critically unwell before we will pick up the phone? Say "I love you"? Take that extra step to make a connection beyond the superficial?

As Louise leaves I reach for her hand. Her fingers feel cool. I don't want to let go but I know I have to. I feel sad.

Later, my mum and dad come to visit and I sense their concern, seeing me like this - barely coherent in the aftermath of cooling tears.

Nurse after nurse checks my stitches and tells me what a fine job Dr Lambley has done. (Clearly he followed my instruction and stayed off the booze the night before. Ha ha.)

It will take me a few hours before I can raise myself from my bed and have a look myself at what has become of Nicky.

I am told she weighed 700 grams!

The next day I have more visitors. In the morning Al brings Ben to see me, on his way to school.

A little later, my sister Fiona arrives and as she comes in through the door to my alarm, she bursts into tears. She is upset to see me in this way.

Once she has calmed down however, and I have shown her my scar, she proclaims that I am "a lucky bastard". You see my sisters are much more buxom than me. And they are two of only a handful of my friends (Chrissy and Nim included) who know how onerous large breasts truly are. Put mildly, big tits are overrated.

After realising that all is not so bad, Fiona settles and relates her envy that I will soon be able to wear whatever I want, to run freely, to move unencumbered.

It is great to see Fiona who has come all the way from the northside. But importantly, it is good to see her leave with her worst fears laid aside. I am reminded of how an imagination can make a problem larger than it is. Cancer has a way of transforming the smallest fears into the kind that can suffocate.

Later, Harry comes to visit and we have a chat about his studies, his tutoring and his plans. I'm very pleased that he has made the effort. Dr Lambley pops his head in and bumps into my Mum and Aunt Ethel who are on the way in. It's a fateful encounter as my Mum regales Dr Lambley with stories of mystical cures for cancer. I tell him to make a getaway while he can.

When he leaves Mum and Aunty comment on what a lovely man he is. I think it's a happy coincidence that she bumped into him. It's helped to put her a little more at rest.

Aunty even comments that he is "handsome".

As Mum and Aunty leave, my friend Lee arrives bearing a bunch of flowers and some chocolates. She broaches the subject of the effect an illness can have on friends. Lee works at the Mater South Brisbane and has been in regular discourse with my oncologist, Dr Choo. Maybe it's not such a good thing - Lee knows exactly what lies ahead for me.

It's 8.30 pm when Lee leaves and I settle down for the night, nicely sedated by the pain killers that have been consumed four-hourly.

As I prepare to leave the hospital the next day, one of the female doctors, Gill, comes in. Jenny has arranged for her to come and show me the results of the full breast reconstruction she had after a double mastectomy and has offered to let me see (and feel!) her boobs. The are impressive. Size 14 D and made from stomach fat with created nipples.

This is value adding, I had joked to Jenny. "Take 2 pills three times a day and you can have a feel of my boobs."

Gill gives me her mobile number and kindly offers to answer any questions I may have down the track.

When I return home I don't know how I feel. Perhaps a little angry?

In the car I tell Al that I wish I could fast forward to October 2012 when this will all be over. It's only writing this that I realise how I have changed already. I'm a person who lives in the present. Never before, ever, have I wished to fast forward time.

Not long after I get home, Greg comes to visit. I run and jump into bed because I don't want him to see my lopsided chest. Already, I feel a bit embarrassed. Greg is bearing flowers and chocolates, and a book from Lynne (How sweet and thoughful: "You can Expect a Miracle: A Book to Change your Life" by Dr John Hinwood) As we chat, Greg lounging on the edge of my bed, another bunch of beautiful roses is delivered for the Englands and I despatch Al into a flurry of flower arranging. Here is what they look like:

And now, I suppose some of you may be wondering how my operation went? Yesterday I did have a good look at what was left of the world without Nicky. I didn't really know what to think other than that Dr Lambley really had done a neat job of the stitching.

I don't want you to see me in the flesh like this, and it is unlikely I will venture out until my prosthesis arrives. However, I am happy to share this image.

It is the line of stitching that marks the place where once I carried my left breast.

I hope you will not find this gross or unnecessary in the context of this blog.

I hope you will realise what I am beginning to, and what this image represents: That as we get older (should I get older), we are less and less the sum of our parts, and much more, the absence of them.

Perhaps this is what getting older means? Giving away, giving up, letting go.

As my friend Tim has already said: "Vale Nicky".

The Last Days of Nicky & Paris

It's the day before my mastectomy and five days since discovering that one of my breasts must be sheaved off under the surgeon's knife.

Since Thursday, I've been rallying my thoughts and emotions around the unexpected scenario of my body being reshaped. It hasn't been easy to come to terms with and to some degree, it surprises me.

I don't know if my feeling are normal, but I feel a little sad.

You see, my breasts, named Nicky and Paris after a stint at comedy two years ago, have been a central part of my journey into adulthood. I've always been aware of them.

Spouted (in what seemed gigantic proportions compared to the rest of my then 40-kg frame) the year I turned 12, the sisters have played a greater role in my life than would most breasts perhaps because they were spawned in an era when most girls were frankly, pretty flat-chested.

Even through the uglier stages of my development from buck-toothed, knobbly-kneed youngster to young adult able to attract favourable attention, Nicky and Paris have tended to command centrestage, providing a focal point for many an encounter with a leering male eye.

In fact, my old friend, Timbo, who I first met in the dark room of what was then Q.I.T. nearly 30 years ago, sent me an email yesterday.

This is what he said: "Just thought you'd be amused to hear that Marky Symons is in Sydney this weekend for my bucks' day today, and last night we were reminiscing about how a fair portion of our early 20's were spent discreetly (or not?) admiring Nicky and Paris."

So you see, straight from the horse's mouth, my breasts have been minor celebrities in their day.

When I was at Uni, in fact, at lectures my cleavage provided hours of amusement for the males among my fellow students who would make small balls out of paper and take turns at scoring down my teeshirt or top. It was annoying.

I spent many a social occasion with guys having conversations with my breasts. "I didn't get it" as I intoned during my comedy skit. "The conversations could hardly have been scintillating. I mean breasts aren't exactly known for their intelligence. Just look at their grades. EE. FF. It doesn't get much dumber than that. No wonder they're called BOOBS." Funny, no?

But of course, Nicky and Paris have not just been minor celebrities on a drunken night out on the town. They've also played an important role in the nourishment of my two kids. If 'breast is best' my two surely scored. In fact, I couldn't bloody get Harry off it. He was like a tick who would gorge himself until he literally fell off.

The "Boobsie Twins", as I sometimes call them, have also filled out many a feminine outfit and now I can't help worrying how I will look in the many dresses in my wardrobe.

I contemplate the imminent parting of Nicky and Paris.

No more will they form the dynamic duo, wobbling in unison on my routine jogs, threatening one or the other to be unwittingly unleashed to clobber me in the eye.

No more, together, will they attract the envy of my flat-chested friends. Ha! They may be 12 inches taller than me but I had 12 inches on their chests! Just check out Lyndal's pair...

You've got your peas, your plums, your mangoes and your watermelons... you hear what I'm saying?

I've never wanted different fruit. For all my cruel mockery of their general overripe droopiness, we've bonded over the years and I've grown quite fond of them.

I don't want to say goodbye to either of them but I have no choice.

And so, in the past few days, I have taken the time to honour Nicky and Paris with a last knees-up together:

Here they are, at Mel's restaurant opening on Friday, with one of their great admirers (and drunken gropers), Garry, realising his secret fantasy. (Actually, it's not that secret).

On Friday, they got down and boogeyed briefly - one last wild dance together - at Harry's 18th birthday party.

On Sunday, I took them for a walk with my best friend Louisa. Later, we visited my dearest buddy, Nim. Here she is greeting them at the door. We drank Moet, feasted on Turkish meatballs and talked for nearly four hours!

Now today is their last day together. It is blowing a gale outside and the sky is overcast.

At noon, I take Nicky and Paris to lunch with my dearest old friends, Janet, Tracey and Lindar who have driven down especially from Brisbane to have lunch with me. I have known these three since my 20s. We are the gallant four who share a past, a story whose introduction was written in the offices of the Lord Mayor, Sallyanne Atkinson, whose middle has seen us support each other through our child-bearing years, and whose end I hope will be seen together. These are friends who have an integral role in my history and it is wonderful that they have made the effort to see me.

Here is our last picture together with Nicky and Paris:

Soon after I arrive home, the telephone rings. It's Christine ringing from New South Wales. She says she has sent me personal parcel in the mail and confides that it will contain the prosthesis for her left breast plus a few bras.

We laugh about that: mail-order breasts. This surely has to be the apogee of kindness and thoughtfulness. I love you Chrissy!

Tomorrow I shall go to the hospital in comfort, knowing that, from the thousands of chest presses and push-ups I've done to help keep them pert into their old age, to the hundreds spent on top-shelf sports bras, and the effort made to ensure their last days have been meaningful, Nicky and Paris have had the best of care.

No I could not, it seems, anticipate the scourge of breast cancer. Despite my best efforts, I could not ward off the consequences of a life-threatening illness.

But I have done my best. They have had a good life together.

That is the all anyone can expect.