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!

Geronimo!

It's an easy, breezy Thursday morning after the Chrismas festivities and finally, I can feel the pressures and the tensions of the past year subsiding.

To say I feel like that fat man under the Steam Roller is an understatement.

I was telling Fiona recently that throughout this year, I have held an image of myself as a yachtie, steering a teetering boat through a turbulent sea.  It's all about keeping your eye on the horizon, and your hand on the wheel - steady as she goes.

By the time December came, I have to say my boat was pretty much limping.  I have struggled to catch the wind and, despite some fairly strong legs, haven't really put in a Cup-winning performance.

Now the weather has calmed and I feel as if I may have reached port.  How long I can stay here, I do not know.  I'm just planning to make the most of it.

I am looking forward to two-weeks of sitting on my now biggish arse, preferably reading.

Ben left for New Zealand yesterday as part of a two-week tennis tour.   Harry has been out most days, either mooching with his girlfriend or selling robotic toys at a shopping Plaza near Ipswich where he's been learning the dark arts of selling from the grandmeister himself, Craig.  (No, seriously, that man is GOOD!).

Today Al has gone down the Coast to play golf with his mates, returning tomorrow.

So me and my dog, Spunky, are now alone, he content to rest his chin upon the floor and me?  Well, here I am at the keyboard, contemplating the year that now foxtrots those last steps in its dying dance, the rest of us holding our breaths until its final bow on New Year's Eve.

What a year it has been.

Looking back, I can barely believe I have managed to get here more or less in tact - one breast, quite a few brain cells and a few litres of oestrogen short.

This year I  survived four shots of chemotherapy, 30 shots of radiation,  two funerals, and another cancer diagnosis in the family.

I've spent countless hours in the waiting rooms of breast surgeons, oncologists, hospital wards, surgical and oncology units, bloody collection centres, radiology labs, counsellors and plastic surgeons.

But along the way there have been some celebrations too.

After my last radiation shot in April, there was the family's memorable trip to Kangaroo Island in South Australia, followed by Karen's election victory to reward more than two years of my blood, sweat and tears.

In May, there was the Kokoda Challenge with Louisa,  in July, my sister's 50th birthday celebration, in August, a big party for 90+ people.

I think that's the month Al went to Thailand to play golf with his mates, too.

In September we received news of Fiona's cancer diagnosis.

In October, Lee and I left for our four-week trip to India, Nepal and Bhutan before I returned in November to settle down to five weeks hard but rewarding and exciting labour as part of my work while Al and the boys pinged off to Bali for an 8-day break.

And in November, Fiona started chemotherapy.  I have attached a photo below of she, me and Nicky taken on Christmas Day.  (It's not a great one but it's the only one I have).

You can see that Fiona is rocking the bald and I think she looks bloody great!  She's been handling the chemotherapy remarkably well, even better than I did, I reckon!

And at last, in December, the piece de resistance, just last week, when we had the great news that Al had won a car and some spending money in an art union.

We were able to distribute some of his booty among the family at Christmas,  our (apparent) generosity so astounding my mum that she burst into tears.    It's funny, because I really thought she would have been more inclined to burst into tears at the outfit I gave her - picked up for $7.50 from St Vinnies (because we had an Op Shop theme this year).  Those more ungenerous may say that the dress I chose was so hideous it would make anyone cry.

Much as I despise cliches, it has been, in short, a roller coaster - if not a Giant Drop - of a year and, if there is one thing the past 365 days have taught me it is that among the terrors, joy can be found.   Even among the struggle, can be celebration (if not celibacy, cough cough).

Now, looking back at the year that was, I have concluded that in fact, life itself is the ultimate thrillseeker's adventure.

Who needs base jumping or abseiling when you have this amazing, unpredictable,  hairy-scary thing that's simply, well, Monday (or maybe Tuesday).

Today, tomorrow, they are nothing if not terrifying.  So what are you going to do.  Tiptoe gingerly to the precipice and swoon?

Against all Mayan and other predictions, we have all lived to see another day and 2013 is  preparing to spread its wings.

Now don't be an idiot  and take it for granted.

I have my goggles on, my parachute ready and my compass, map and ration pack all set to go.

Chocolates, schmockolates, Forrest Gump!   Life is not some pathetic forage inside a box of Quality Street.

It's a jungle.  It's a minefield. It's Unchartered Territory.

Shit mate, it's not cancer that's 'not for sissies'.  It's Life!

So I urge you to take precautions.  Consult Bear Grilles, the Pope, or even Bert Newton, if you must but don't be like that fool, Hardy.   Expect the unexpected and be prepared.

You have no choice because Life is only ever a risk.  All you can do is stay alert and do what you can to survive should you anticipate the attack of zombies from outer space, Armageddon, the end of the Twilight saga, the final episode of 'The Real Housewives of New York' and other diabolical events.  Take whatever precautions you feel you need to.

Look after yourself.  Stay positive.  Wear a condom. Ask Mr Google.

There are a thousand pieces of useless advice I could give you - or you could ask your Mother for - but my point is that life is an adventure.

It is unpredictable, yes.  But it's also exciting!  Enlivening!  Engaging!  Invigorating!  (But not as invigorating as, say, a romp in the hay with George Clooney - in that G-String!)... (Al, I am only kidding!).

And with that attitude, I reckon that if/when you come to that ineluctable precipice, you will not retreat. You will not be frightened or upset.  You will not behave like I usually do when confronted with the sight of a large rat, or for that matter, the misuse of the word 'mortified' (I'll say this once, puh-leeeeese it means "embarrassed," people) or - truly teeth pulling stuff - the mispronunciation of the word 'Mischievous'.

Check your radio comms, put on those goggles, prime up that parachute, scream GERONIMO at the top of your lungs...  and jump for god's sake.

Trust me.  You'll be fine.