So remember today’s plan? Go to clinic; decide on operation; book date; open gin. It was tempting to reverse that order but no, I thought, best not let them know I’m a gin sot. No just yet.
Item one on list accomplished with aplomb. Made it to (still hideously pink) clinic. Still overachieving in the arrival stakes. Must work on that. Getting to a cancer clinic 25 mins early impresses no one. It was at this point the list went downhill. Not even Meatloaf sang ‘One out of four aint bad.’
How hard could it be? I mean seriously, all I had to do was pick a new set of knockers. Actually, very hard as it turns out. Reconstructions usually use implants. Implants are a bit of an issue so we were hoping to avoid them. The favoured tummy acreage option also presents problems: apparently my vast acreage may not be enough (I have never felt so sad at being told I was not fat enough. I mean, that surgeon needs to go to Specsavers. Your life in their hands, sheesh!); it could not be done at the local hospital (this did not worry me as my preference was to go to the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit up the road); it could all go horribly wrong if I need to have radiotherapy post surgery.
As a consequence, we’d nearly settled on going for the implant option right up until the moment we were told:
‘There is a 10% chance of rejection in the normal population. In your case we’d expect that to be much higher.’
Boom! Deal breaker. Cue wailing and gnashing of teeth. And that was just the Captain. OK, I exaggerate. I did the wailing. More of a drippy weeping but snot was involved. There are times I really really hate this whole Partners in Care that the NHS have going on. I just needed someone to tell me what to do. And THAT, my friends, is how you know just how awful this whole experience is. Because how often have you EVER heard me utter such a thing. And how many people have lived to tell the tale of How They Told Me What To Do, hmm?
Gorgeous Mr Lovely, who we met last week, and while being stunted in the height department was still easy on the eye, began to tentatively take charge. His boss had laid all the options out but we were floundering. He reassured us that the seriously dodgy bit (or the grade 3 invasive cancer) of my 52mm crappy area was actually only 6mm in diameter. This gives us time. Not much but enough. His advice was to go to the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit up the road. An urgent referral means I should have an appointment by next week. There I may be offered lymph node biopsy prior to surgery to decide exactly what my treatment plan needs to be. There are too many possibilities to go into about what may happen but this does feel like the right course of action.
So item two: decide on operation – fail
Item three: book a date – massive fail
Item four: open gin – you’d think this was a safe bet, wouldn’t you? Inexplicably I did not want gin. I wanted wine. I know. Who’d’ve thought it?