This week I had my final appointment with my plastic surgeon before my implant surgery. Talk about a sentence I didn’t think I would be writing a year ago. But it’s been nearly eight months since that concerning mammogram/ultrasound, and now I talk about my boobs with the same reckless abandon as I do what I had for dinner last night.
This week Anessa prayed to Santa Claus and I mulled over the arrival of AI griefbots - how was your week?
The dissonance I’m currently feeling between my warm and sticky summer, filled with popsicles and baseball, versus the suffering I’m witnessing outside my bubble is unsettling.
I’ll be the first to admit that it’s been a while since I’ve felt particularly patriotic. The passing of the administration’ sweeping domestic policy bill yesterday was like pouring acid in a gaping wound. All of which tends to make for an awkward Fourth of July.
Lately I’ve been feeling unmotivated. Questioning if a depressive episode is creeping in. I’ve settled on the term malaise - mostly because I like the way it sounds. Turns out it is also an accurate usage of the word: a feeling of being unwell, fatigued, or generally not yourself.
This week was my daughter’s end of kindergarten ceremony at school. It began with the children filing into the school auditorium to Taylor Swift’s “Never Grow Up” playing over the loudspeaker, which could only just be heard over the crying and sniffling parents. And then we were called to rise, to start the event the same way our children do every morning, by reciting the pledge of allegiance.
As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks post-op. The god-awful drains sucking the gross body juice out of the remnants of my chest have finally been removed. Which means I’m no longer wearing specialized bras with hooks, or shirts with internal pockets to hold the collection bags which my mom then has to empty 2-3 times a day. Oh, and I no longer feel like a compromised cancer patient.
As I heal from what I hope has been a successful surgery, I am grateful to my friend Bud, AKA Emma’s dad, for offering to fill in for me on the blog this week. With the potential cuts to both Medicaid and the NIH on the horizon, Bud's insights provide a much-needed reflection on how we perceive worth. While his words are philosophical, the consequences of perceived worth are a reality for millions.
Well, next week is my mastectomy and I’m ready – emotionally, anyway. I still need to double check supplies and be sure I have everything that has been recommended to me, but at this point I’m just anxious to be on the other side of this surgery. All while fully aware that there is at least one more surgery awaiting me this fall to place the implants, and possibly another after that to fine tune the reconstruction.
My new book THE LUCKIEST IS AVAILABLE FOR PRE-SALE!!! Thank you to everyone who has already pre-ordered - the book jumped up over six million spots on the Amazon charts alone - like woah. Writing it wrecked me in ways I had not anticipated. Wounds I thought had long since healed were actually just buried under layers of pain, joy, and life. To the extent that my therapist asked me if I thought the increase in my anxiety might have to do with writing this book.
A few months ago Miguel got an offer to do a corporate gig in St. Kitts/Nevis and he said, “hell yes”. Then we realized I was going to need a mastectomy, and I said, “hell yes, I’m coming with you!” We are currently on - what I am referring to as - a “boobymoon”. Think honeymoon or babymoon, but instead of celebrating a marriage or a baby we are celebrating and honoring the end of my natural boobs.
When I was discussing treatment options with my surgeon for the original tumor, I figured I was for sure winning at cancer because I made her laugh when I told her I wasn’t attached to my breasts, “well, physically I am obviously, but not emotionally.” Essentially saying if you need to take them, so be it. But that was when it was my choice.
