It has been a month since my last surgery. Sort of odd, after having a mastectomy one would think there’d be all sorts of things to write about, conversely, I find myself silent with nothing to say. No desire to tell the story. Still upset about all the tissue from the mastectomy being negative while everyone else wants to dance around me joyously, which yes, pisses me off immensely. It causes me to be silent and withdrawn. My surroundings feel morbid, grief stricken and hallow. Do not raw-raw me, you’ll only be rubbing salt in my wound. If at some point people believe I’m going to be at ease about having my breast cut off, they’re insanely out of touch. Murky the nurse thought she’d give me her opinion and I about bit her head off, it was everything I could do to remain seated on the examination table without getting up to punch her as hard as I could between the eyes. Anger, fury, mad call it what you will…feel like a boiling pot of hot water that is bubbling over the edges.
When I was at the Women’s Cancer Center last week I spoke no words, instead I stared aimlessly as though I were lost in space. They did my first expander fill, the plastic surgeon added 120cc of saline, normally they add intervals of 50cc. She is probably playing catch-up since she was on maternity leave. I continue to contemplate every step of this process, with several pieces still incomplete, radiation, another surgery for exchange and Tamoxifen (5 years of hormone chemotherapy) my head continues to wildly swirl between to-do or not-to. I get the pour it all on mentality…I’m just not one to openly accept without analyzing it to death and certainly believe I’ve entered overtreatment territory.