Thankfully for me, and in no small measure for you too, no doubt, my funk has lifted and the world appears a bit brighter today. Theo is back to full health and I’ve another reason to be cheerful.
There’s a dodgy sales tactic whereby you go to buy a widget and you think it’ll cost $100, the salesman says it costs $1,000 and you’re outraged, so he says ‘I’ll give it to you for $500’ and you feel relieved, even though it’s $400 more than you wanted to pay.
It’s a bit like that for me today.
I’ve found out that my right nipple can be spared without badly compromising the overall cosmetic appearance of my reconstruction. By the way does being reconstructed make me the bionic women? Maybe. Anyway they won’t be perfectly symmetrical, the scars won’t be in the same place, the nipples won’t look the same but it’s not oncologically dangerous and keeping Pinky in place is a crumb of comfort I’ll take right about now.
Isn’t being miserable boring? I’m very conscious I’ve been spraying misery all over the place like some mad toxic sprinkler system. You back yourself into a corner and there’s nothing anyone can say. But of course my grief is legitimate and understandable but, let’s face it, more than a bit boring.
Another small mercy is today is the first day this week that hasn’t involved a long drive north to meet a specialist. This allows a sense of normalcy to pervade the day and I know, now, to cherish that.
Back up the coast tomorrow to meet my anaesthetist. The appointment was made on my behalf by my cancer surgeon Dr. Leong, who we met again yesterday. Dr. Leong will perform stage one of my op (sparing Pinky) and then the plastic surgeon Dr. Moko will take over. It was a full on meeting with talk of node biopsies, a description of the pathology of my breast tissue, the possibility that microinvasive cancers may be found and a reiteration of the risks associated with my surgery. More of the yes doctor, no doctor business. More paperwork. More snorts of disappointment as I pay for the treatment.*
As we leave, Dr. Leong says “Try and rest over the weekend and I will see you Monday. My practice manager will tell you when she’s teed up the time for you to meet the anaesthetist, Dr. Crilly.”
Ted and I steal a quick glance at one another before biting our lips and looking away. We manage to keep it together til we get into the lift when we start hooting with laughter.
We call each other Ted after Father Ted… whose surname is Crilly. What are the odds?
*I am incandescent with (no doubt carcinogenic) rage at the inadequacies of my health fund’s contributions for this whole clusterfuck, but that’s another post.