Just FYI, my surgery is going to be Tuesday, July 29th at Moffitt.

I do not know the time, or for how many days I will be in the hospital. I know that, from overhearing a conversation in pre-op at Moffitt when I had my last surgery, it will be at least over night.

Last time my surgery was at 11am and went until 4:30pm. That was for a lumpectomy with unexpected complications, so perhaps a double mastectomy with reconstruction will be the same / less time…. who knows.

Anyway… that’s when/where it is, and if you happen to be in the area and want to come visit me I would undoubtedly love to see you… even if I am doped up and don’t remember.

So, yeah. That’s that.

I’m not gonna lie. I’m really quite nervous about it. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it or how I’ll feel once it’s done. I’ve never wanted even augmentation, never mind completely fake boobs…. I still don’t feel normal after a lumpectomy, and have no idea how this upcoming surgery is going to affect me. My left breast is quite normal and, in my opinion, quite nice, so I’m rather hesitant to have it cut out… but, on the other hand, I really don’t ever want to have breast cancer again (or any kind, really), so I’m willing. It’s a paradox. A highly debatable paradox.

Honestly, I understand the point of view that would have me stay like I am and not succumb to science’s evil, breast removing ways… but, I also totally understand not wanting to die of cancer. That’s really the more scary thought. Sure, my kids might be allergic to nuts, but at least I’ll have kids! Right?

Right.

Don’t tell me if I’m wrong.

If I’m wrong, then fuck me. I’m screwed. It’s not like I wanted it. It’s not like I preferred it. It’s not like one day I was like, “Hey, you know what? Breast cancer would be awesome! We’ll only make it once for the one side, though, ok?” and then I decided to just have both of them taken off for the fun of it.

No. I don’t want this. It’s not a thing that I would choose to do under normal circumstances. But you get breast cancer, you get chemotherapy, and then you get another lump, and, even if it turns out to be scar tissue, it makes you think. It makes you think real hard. It makes you NEVER want to die from breast cancer, and, especially considering the chances of recurrence, makes drastic measures seem quite reasonable.

So sure… maybe I’m wrong… maybe a cure will surface three months from my surgery. Great. That’ll be fantastic. I’ll jump for joy and be happy for everyone that it benefited.

And for me?

Well, at least my boobs won’t ever sag.