Abreast of A Competition

I didn't want to do it - even tangentially touch on the subject of 'breast cancer'.  But today I can't help it.

Because last night, an important package arrived, all the way from a German manufacturer via China (of course).

You may have heard of Soap-on-a-Rope?  Well me, I have Boobs-on-a-Bra.  In fact I am sitting in them as I speak.

Made of a soft silicone and pale pink in colour, the item was suggested by my sister Fiona who came across them in a routine haul through EBay.

It took me about five seconds to decide I wanted a set, but I was overcome with indecision when it came to picking the size.

B Cup?  D Cup?  HH Cup?

A brief survey of my breast cancer Facebook group, my husband and a couple of pals and the choice was made.  A B Cup.

But when the item arrived, I opened the box and was a little startled.  You wouldn't believe how big small fake boobs can look.

To work out how to put the device together took three sets of hands:  Me to hold up the chicken fillets, Ethel and Al to adjust the straps.

Yesterday evening, Al and I had decided to go to trivia so I thought I'd give my new boobs a bit of an outing.

The thing with these boobs is that they have nipples, so under my jersey dress, I really did look like I had emerged from the cold.

But Al seemed to think they looked real enough for the guys.  And he was right!

What a sensation they caused.  Garry gave them an appreciative squeeze.  Mike, the loveable Trivia Host (now almost like family), was momentarily taken aback.

I did have a few occasions when the fillets poked out, or snapped apart but all in all, my newest acquisition passed the test run.  They were a little sticky and uncomfortable on my scar line, but I put that down to the humid weather.  And Ethel points out, I'm so used to being braless now, it might take some getting used to.

While they are most likely to be stored in a shoe box and used infrequently, here is what they look like on.  (I apologise for the hideous site of scarring and excess flesh (left, just in case, I actually want a full reconstruction some-time-maybe-never).

When I think about it, they are really appropriate for me because guess what my name "Bronwyn" means?  That's right, it means "White Breast"

Lyndal has kindly offered to colour them brown to match.  I may take her up on that offer one day.

In the meantime, I am now in lather as I am not sure what I should call them?  Nicky and Paris are gone.  What shall I call this new even more plastic pair?

To help me out, I've decided to run a small competition.  Submit your best suggestion for a mammary moniker below, and I'll reward you with the first, hardback copy of my upcoming new memoir, signed even!

I'm afraid, as an out-of-work haus frau, that's the best I can offer.

That, or maybe a grope of my new boobies - but you'll have to ask nicely.



Competition closes when I can be shagged writing my next blog.  Yeh.  I'll decide then.

Jugger Nought

One week since my double mastectomy and I have lived through a week of sweltering heat and humidity while carting around a 'drain' inserted into my armpit.

The drain was removed yesterday and, when Dr Lambley ripped off the dressing, I burst out in unconvincing giggles - which is usually a sign that I am in pain.

(It is also usually a sign that I have heard a very bad joke such as:  What do you get when you put a monkey in a minefield?   A baboom.)

My scar is still very sore to touch and movement is limited.  It seems this latest war wound is somewhat more painful than my first de-boobing episode and I am still getting used to the very strange feeling of a chest like an Ikea Flat-Pak.

As I reported to my Facebook friends, on leaving the hospital last Friday - BRALESS - I felt like a hussy.

Later, during the week, while enjoying one of my many ritual coffees with my bestie Louisa, I was startled half way through my Skinny Flat White when I realised I had no bra on.  There was a millisecond when my brain did a funny double flip and backward pike as I imagined I had stupidly forgotten a vital piece of underwear.  In fact, I had a minor panic before realising my mistake.

Afterwards, Louisa and I went shopping for some new tops for me.  We looked at some with those tiny little shoe string straps that I have NEVER been able to wear.   I couldn't help but gloat as Louisa is, as I used to be, rather well endowed.

"I hate to rub your face in it, Louisa, but these little straps are unbelievably comfortable," I crowed.  "Not like these ones" as I grabbed her the hefty straps of her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and 'pinged' them like an oversized banjo string.

"I know!" breathed Louisa, indicating my chest with her eyes.  "It's so wrong, but so right!"

I had to laugh right there because I feel Louisa has nailed it.  All of this is very wrong, but in many ways, is very right.

Never mind the fact that, in a few slices and dices if not fine chopping, Dr Lambley has divested me  of (possibly) irrational fears of recurrence.

He has also divested me of a whole ONE KILOGRAM of fat.

I am now a sleeker, more stream lined version of 'me' I guess and along with it comes a bizarre kind of freedom.

So free, in fact, that last Wednesday, as Brisbane sweltered in conditions comfortable only to a Kalahari Bushman, I brazenly lay topless on my bed - yes, topless I say! - enjoying the palliation of fan and air-conditioning.

So free that there is no longer that morning headache of locating the right bra for the chosen clothing of the day.

So free that I can actually do those Baywatch Babe runs on the beach without fear of being knocked out by a low flying double D... although, admittedly,  I am now built more like the paddle board, than the babe.

I am already salivating at the many activities I may improve at now that I am divested of a whole 1.7kgs in total carried across the chest area such as: body surfing (who knows, maybe now I can actually catch a wave); or crowd surfing;  or planking (the options are endless); or trapeze; or archery; or shooting (I sucked at shooting both lying and sitting unsupported.  No seriously: I used to topple forwards).

I can even, as Harry intoned, rock my air guitar without obstacle.

But this freedom has come with two particular issues:

Firstly, my wardrobe is proving vexatious.  I had no idea that dressing for a non-existent chest was so onerous and it seems that many of my existing dresses are going to have to be sent to the Op Shop or flogged off on EBay if I can be shagged.

As my good mate, the mini-titted (but gorgeously sexy) Mel has been at pains to advise, dressing for a AA chest or, in my case an A Minus chest, takes patience and planning.

It is incredibly tedious!  Every top must be assessed for design elements that conceal rather than enhance the booblets.  Gone are the days when I could just pluck any garment from a stand based on cut or colour.  Now I have to micro-analyse its features.

In fact, so galled am I at the difficulties I have already observed, I am now thinking of setting up a business exclusively supplying fashion for the negatively-chested.  The working title for this hare-brained project is 'JuggerNaut' (what do you think?)/

Or perhaps I should channel my new-found sympathies to charity work on behalf of those whose cups are doomed to be half-full?

Forget the alcoholics, we need "AAA Anonymous"(at least guaranteed a top-spot in the White Pages). This charity would be aimed at those for whom nipples are merely decorative, who can get together and compare the many horror stories of being side swiped by the rogue F-Cup in the room.  Oh, the distress of being reduced to a minor role by the busty chested vixens who flaunt their wares!

It's just not funny.  All these years of moaning about the perils of excess cleavage and, all of a sudden, I see that it ain't exactly fun from the other end, either.

At last, I do finally understand why the breast enhancement industry has gone gang-bust (ers).

Because you really do feel as if perhaps, you're not quite measuring up when you look down and what you see is the floor.

Which brings me to the second issue.  I am, so far at least, not entirely sure just how comfortable I feel 'flaunting the flat' as it were. Having already ventured out in a singlet top, I have wondered if people have noticed my obvious lack of lumps.

It is all well and good laying myself out like a fallen harlot at home but really, do I really want the world to know that I am thus deformed?

And, am I  doomed to be forever obsessed about the wars of my chest?  Isn't it all just a little unhealthy, giving a monkey's about what amounts to a couple of mounds of body fat?

In short, I am, in these early days, tortured by the terrain of my thoracic topography.

I can only hope this obsession pass with time as I get used to this leaner, meaner me.

For now, I am coming to terms with the new lay of the land.  The guns have died down, the bodies have been buried, and what remains is an empty battlefield.

Like any battle ground, I am certain that one day, everything will be a distant memory.  And all I'll have are a couple of scars and maybe still some remnant tightness of the skin to remind me of this testing, if not interesting, time.

In the meantime, this Friday, Fiona turns 48.  Next Thursday is Fiona's fourth chemo shot.

There is consoling to be done, healing to be had, prayers to be said.

There are travels to be planned and celebrations to anticipate.

There is, simply, life to be lived, in freedom.

Let's carry on, shall we?

Mastectomy 2

It is a humid Tuesday morning and I wake at 7.30 am after an average night of sleep.  I am in no hurry to leap out of bed as I am unable to eat anything for most of the day.  It's a bummer as I'm so hungry I could, as they say, eat the crutch out of low flying duck.

That's because in five hours, I am to be admitted into the Mater Hospital again. Lee, Anne, Nic, Mum, Fiona have all texted or called me to wish me luck.

These are the last few hours of 'Paris' my lone right breast, which has been the focus of my attention for the last 14 months.

That's how long it's been since her partner in cleavage crimes, 'Nicky', bit the dust.  

I have prepared for 'Paris's impending execution with the diligence of a professional assassin.  Because it does feel like I'm snuffing out a life.

If you have been following this blog on a regular basis, you'll know this event has been well-researched.  It is not a decision I've made lightly. 

I've consulted two plastic surgeons, I've discussed the issue with all my various doctors and advisers, I've watched endless YouTube videos, and Googled widely.

Many of my friends have listened, bleary eyed and most likely secretly wishing I'd bloody shut up about 'the Last Tit', to regular ruminations and pontifications on the pros and cons of de-boobification.


I've also spent months and months sussing out numerous chests and breasts.  I've been a surreptitious tit watcher.

Additionally, I've consulted my fashion expert, the flat-chested Mel about how to dress. I've even got my counsellor at the Cancer Council all primed in the event of any emotional fall out.

In fact, I think I've put more thought and research into this decision than into other life changing ones: such as what career I should follow (I just copied what my best friend Louise had and to this day rue my decision);  whether I should have a baby (put it like this - when Al and I need to work out our anniversary we need to deduct a year from Harry's age);  or whether I should go blonde (the shortest hair colour change in history, lasting barely 24 hours, so hideous was the result of my brief dalliance with peroxide).

Come to think of it, I don't seem to put a lot of thought into much.  Spontaneous, perhaps foolhardy, usually in hindsight, most of life's great decisions/choices/purchases have occured on a whim.

But in the case of Paris, I have, luckily, my experience with Nicky to guide me and so I KNOW it is not as simple as it may seem: lopping off a breast.

At last, I have been motivated by a mix of medical reasons, practicality and vanity.

Medically, I should remind you that my particular brand of breast cancer, the invasive lobular kind, has a higher than usual chance of recurring in the other breast.

The key words are 'in the other breast'. Other form of breast cancer, when they recur, are most commonly found in the cervix or ovaries, bones, bowel or brain.  But ILCs most commonly recur in the breast.

Look, I'm just not the kind of person who lives in fear of the worst.  But I must admit to increase palpitations whenever my routine breast scans occur.  How can I be sure that it will not recur at all?  This mastectomy will remove that fear.

Practically, a lone breast, I argue, lacks context and when dangling pairless, appears well, impaired!   Especially so, the matronly Double D, which can appear of humongous proportions when compared against a void.

In terms of vanity, the lack of symmetry is especially disturbing and disgusting to me.

If Nicky and Paris were hard to manage, Paris alone has been a particularly onerous charge, her single status somewhat hard to conceal without recourse to an uncomfortable prosthesis.

And ultimately, it's the bloody prosthesis, more than anything that has driven me to the knife.

Weighing in at 715 grams (I know: I measured it!), fake Nicky bounces heavily when I run, shifts somewhat on a golf back swing and is so uncomfortable that young boys often spring me with my hand down my chest.

The bra in which this fake must be contained is so ugly my clothing choices are limited.   It is also incredibly annoying when I am in a hurry and cannot locate the prosthesis.  (I have been known to scurry out with a rolled up sock or a bunch of balled tissues stuffed into the void when bras are in the wash or the fake is hiding).

However,  it hasn't all been bad.  The prosthesis bra provides a handy pocket for the stashing of coins, credit cards and my Ipod.   A lot of the time, I've almost forgotten I am titless.

What's more, Nicky-less for more than a year now, I am very aware that a mastectomy brings its own discomforts.  

Feeling is slow to return and, as the nerves regenerate, one is prone to localised itching.  There are also rogue pains and, all these months on, though I have good range of movement, in some positions it is still a little uncomfortable.

But medical concerns, practicality and vanity have won and I lie in bed thinking over my decision.  I feel Paris with my hand (too big to cup) and try to memorise the feel of a whole breast.  The skin is smooth and warm to touch.

You would think I become maudlin at this point, but I don't.  What's the point?  The decision has been made, the die has been cast, the boob has been unleashed.

And so I rise.

Ben is due back from New Zealand today and I believe the lad will be hungry when he arrives.  I zip down to the shop to buy some ingredients and whip up a slow-cooking beef borscht for the boys.

I finish this blog.

I ponder the last days of Paris.  Yesterday, Monday, I went to the movies with my good friends Anne and Sue.  We saw 'Quartet' and I do believe Paris had a giggle or two.  We went to lunch.  I came home and went for an 8K run.  Then Ethel came over for dinner.  And Harry was home!  It was a good day.

On Sunday, I had 12 people over for a curry lunch finished with a noice pav, luv.  A dozen of my besties mooched on the deck, enjoying the breeze.  They left at 7 pm.  It was a good day.

On Saturday, my new Hiking Club set off on our first walk.  Again, there were 12 of us - 13 if you count Spunky.  We went to the Daisy Hill Conservation Park and had a nice two-hour hike.  Afterwards we had coffee.  In the afternoon Al and I went to Mel and Pete's for tennis and a  barbecue. Yeah, that was a good day, too.

Paris has had a pretty good life.  I am sure that wherever she goes, Nicky will be waiting for her and I can see the two of them now, reunited under some great big boulder holder up in the sky.

Who knows, maybe George and Jossy are up there, staring approvingly at my fine set, misbehaving as usual.

Meanwhile, here on earth, life will go on.

Eventually feeling will return to my chest.

I will keep you posted about how I get on but for now, my operation is in one hour and I must go and pack.  Dr Lambley is wielding the scalpel so I'm hoping for a nifty scar. Dr Warden, the hilarious Scotsman is once again sending me to sleep  so I'm hoping for a few more laughs before I go under.

I am just glad to be getting on with it after all this pondering and thinking.

Wish me luck!

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".

Diagnosis 4

Once again today I meet with my surgeon Dr Lambley to discuss the results of the MRI scan I had yesterday.

Tomorrow I am meant to start my chemotherapy but in this continually shifting vignette, the furniture has been moved around once again.

Dr Lambley tells me that the MRI has shown this cancer indeed requires a mastectomy of the left breast. The progress of the carcinoma is worrying enough for radiation also to be thrown into the mix.

That is not what I want to hear! Secretly, I had been hoping that with breast removal and chemo, I would not need radiation. It's the nuisance of it - the length of treatment, the never ending saga.

The reason for the MRI was so that Dr Lambley could work out whether a'simultaneous reconstruction' would have been possible at the time of mastectomy, meaning that radiation was not needed.

However, the placement and progress of this cancer means that this is not possible. The total area of the tumour is now around the 5cm mark, the size at which things are not so peachy.

Thanfully, Dr Lambley reports that the last lumpectomy showed a pretty unaffected chest muscle so far so at least this tumour has not spread any further than the breast.

However, chemo and radiation are recommended as part of what is called adjuvant therapy.

I guess somewhere in my brain, I am processing this latest punch in the face but I am strangely removed. I have surrendered myself to the process, at least for today.

I ask Dr Lambley whether I can have both breasts off as I believe being uneven is terribly uncomfortable.

He says he prefers to do that as the final step in my treatment because a double mastectomy takes much longer to heal, there's a greater risk of infection and it might mean my chemotherapy treatments are delayed. This is not an option.

My darling friend, Christine who has been through the whole kit and kiboodle of the cancer journey has schooled me on the benefits of a simultaneous nipple reconstruction.

Alas, this is not an option. I'm not entirely clear why not. It has something to do with blood flow and the fact that the nipple tends to wither away. Yuck.

So basically the scenario I am left with is this. One breast off - the sooner the better. Chemotherapy, radiation then reconstruction resulting in two breasts.

At once, I see my blissful plans of returning to refereeing in March next year disappearing in that long vapour trail of things I will be stopped from doing in the coming months. Looks like I'll have to be content being a linesman. :(

So what is left to do other than to laugh. I tell Dr Lambley that I hope he does a neat job as all the pictures I've seen of these operations look like they've been performed by Charles Manson.

"My grandfather used to call me 'Charlie'," Dr Lambley laughs.

"And make sure you lay off the alcohol the night before," I say. "I want a nice straight line."

There are diagrams drawn, and questions asked. Al wants to know if there is a chance that with chemo and mastectomy I might avoid the radiation.

"It's possible," says Dr Lambley. But I am already able to read his facial expressions: the subtle shift of a lip and a brow and I know he believes it is unlikely.

Cancer it seems, is an enemy not to be messed with and the strategy is not to take it out in half-hearted pot shots with a 9mm Browning. No. The strategy is to come at it with both guns barrelling. I am reminded again of Riley and her confrontation with the Aliens.

And so I am resigned. What can I say? Boo hoo? I am booked in for my mastectomy of the left breast for this coming Tuesday.

Instead, I focus on the positives.

I have another two weeks up my sleeve to kick up my heels - albeit one-breasted - before the demons of chemo are unleashed into my veins.

This means I can go to my friend, Mel's special restaurant opening on Friday.

It means I can enjoy Harry's 18th birthday party this Saturday and dance my booty off with 80 teenagers and embarrass my son with some solid party-porno moves.

I can go to lunch with my besties as planned on Monday.

It means I have another five days in which to enjoy the self that I have been.

I will use this time to reflect upon that self and to bid my good byes to the body that I have loved and nurtured.

I will enjoy the feeling of Nicky and Paris, droopy as they are, hanging from my chest. (We have been through a lot together, the three of us).

I will bask in the symmetry of the body God gave me.

And I will dream about the not too far off future where, salined but perhaps more streamlined, I'll come sprinting down the home strait, running like the wind.

Diagnosis 3

It's Sunday morning in Melbourne and I'm just about to enter a packed little cafe for breakfast with Lyndal and Garry. (We're down here in part to see Lyndal's exhibition - she's a wonderful sculptor and I'm one of her biggest fans.) After breakfast, we are due at the Tutankhamen Exhibition at the Melbourne Museum. Al's a great Egyptophile and this is the "most impressive collection of Tut artefacts ever assembled" out of Egypt.

The night before was a lame endeavour in kicking up my heels - three glasses of wine and relatively early to bed. There was no strip poker. No wild orgies with AFL Footballers. And no tattoo to regret in the morning. Al didn't even moon anyone.

Then my cellphone rings. It's a 'blocked' number and turns out to be Dr Lambley. I suppose there's a small part of my brain that is a little alarmed. After all it's a weekend. What's so urgent?

Dr Lambley explains that the results of my second lumpectomy have revealed further progress of the cancer. He says that with my type of carcinoma, unfortunately, lumps are generally not present. In other words, these suckers are hard to detect.

He tells me that he would like me to have an MRI to determine just how advanced my situation might really be. He says further surgery may be needed and immediately, I know he means a mastectomy.

I explain my chemo starts on Thursday and can I wait until after all of that if I need surgery.

He says that he's pleased I'm having chemo soon - it sounds like his preferred option - but it's important the MRI is done before treatment so that we can get a good picture.

By the time we arrive at the Tut exhibition, dark thoughts are palpating at the edges of my consciousness.

When I learn that King Tutankhamen died suddenly (and inexplicably) at 19, of course, I think about the lifespan of a man, the time we have on earth, the contribution that we might make.

King Tut's father, Akhenaten died at 17 but his grandfather made it to the ripe old age of 30. Look at what this dynasty achieved. 3200 years later, humankind marvels at their achievements.

As I stare at the vessels that once contained the mummified organs - stomach, lungs, intestines, liver - of Tutankhamen, I think about what I have achieved in my life. I think about becoming a part of ancient history. What sort of lousy legacy have I left? Some amateurish artworks, some second-rate poetry and a manuscript. I can't see Howard Carter getting too excited about that lot.

After the Tut exhibition, we walk down to the National Gallery of Victoria to see an exhibition called 'Vienna'. It's educational. I hadn't known about the "Viennna Seccession", including Gustav Klimt (who died at 56), and an artist I've never heard of, Egon Schiele (who died at 28).

While I am taking it all in, the exquisite works, that's all I'm processing: when they were born and when they died.

After we leave the exhibition, I find my conversation returning to Dr Lambley. The issue he has raised, about the need for a mastectomy, is a hound at my heels.

You see, even though they're somewhat large and flabby, I'm rather attached to my breasts. It's a lot to get my head around quickly - the idea that Nicky and Paris (as I call them) may be wrenched from my bosom and replaced by Silicon Sally and Saline Samantha.

Still, already, I'm working out the timing of things. When my chemo will finish, when my breasts will come off, how long before I can get back to my beloved soccer field? I'm trying to be practical, visualising my life over the coming months.

Al can't work out why the operation should not happen before the chemo. We argue about the logic of it.

We go to the airport where I'm mindful of having promised myself some shameless lush-like behaviour. I didn't even manage the Margarita I had wanted. As a last ditch effort, I buy myself a packet of Maltesers.

On the plane, I make the mistake of reading a book on Post Cancer Nutrition. Alas, it seems that even sugar has been demonised by those who believe diet is at the root of everything - and I feel guilty about those Maltesers. Damn it.

After we return to Brisbane it is evening and I decide to call Dr Lambley back to clarify my situation.

Al asks him why I can't have the operation first as isn't the chemo done to just do the mopping up.

But my surgeon is adamant that is no evidence to suggest that doing things in either order is more effective. However, if I have the mastectomy first, it may be 2-3 weeks before I can start chemo.

You know what the subtext is: I don't have the luxury of time.

So my thoughts return to Tutankhamen. I may not be a Pharoah or a Living God, but I nearly 30 years on him. Surely, that has got to be a plus.