Personal Success

I’m Right Here

My mom was here again, for another lovely visit.  Although most of her visits are always quite pleasant, there is one time I dread: dinner.  I have to be patient with my husband and my mom during dinner because she cannot shake the nasty habit of speaking to me ABOUT Willey in front of him. It is rooted in the depths of her Korean soul to speak as indirectly to him as possible. In so doing, she uses me as a communication vessel. It’s almost as if she feels the need for a translator, and it annoys Willey to no end. It’s like a scene from Groundhog Day: we just live it over and over and over again.

Halmoni
Yooni with her new eyelash extensions!

We were sitting down to a meal of sujehbee, my favorite dish of dumplings in spicy broth.
“Caroline, does he really like sujehbee?” My mother asks. I look at him. He is sitting directly across from my mom. I know what his line will be:

“Yooni, why don’t you just ask me? I’m right here.” He asks exasperatedly. My blood pressure rises. The girls look from halmoni to their father back to halmoni.  She covers her face with her hands. She used to just cover her mouth, but lately, she covers her entire face, and giggles.

“Do you like it, Willeeee?” She leans forward and asks with a renewed sparkle in her eyes.
“I LOVE sujehbee!” He exclaims. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m Willey, remember?”
She laughs some more.
Such a brazen display of flirtation!

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Preparing for bed, mom pulls the covers down and holds the TV remote. I am in the doorway of her guest room, saying good night.
“Caroline, have you seen this show?”
I look at the screen. There is an angry black woman with enormous gold hoop earrings yelling at a man. I don’t recognize this program.
“Hardcore Porn, they call.” She slips her legs under the cover.
I take another look. What? Why is she watching porn?! I don’t see any nudity and realize after a few more seconds, that she is not watching porn.
“Mom, Hardcore PAWN, not PORN.”
“Ohhhhh!” Again with the face hiding and laughter.

↹↹↹

I love dogs. I miss my dog Maggie. Even though I notified my mother by phone when Maggie died – despite knowing Maggie was gone – the first time my mother walked into our home following Maggie’s death, she looked around like a little kid and with tears streaming down her face, and asked in Korean, “Where is Maggie?” They were best buddies. They reminded me of each other: kind and meek to a fault. My mom walked Maggie every morning and sometimes in the afternoons, too. And even though she swears up and down that she didn’t feed her table scraps, I know she did.

Sadie the Lap Dog

We had hugged each other and cried, missing that dog. Now we have Sadie, who is an oversized lap dog with a strong personality. We think she’s part Labrador and part Pit Bull. I talk to this dog for the benefit of the family. After I pet her, she always shakes her whole body and I say things like, “Sadie, don’t shake my love off!” And now I hear the girls say the same thing to her.  In the guest room, the windows face the street and Sadie loves looking out and barking at rabbits, birds and leaves on the tree. Seriously, this dog is out of control. When she’s not barking, she’s whining. Compared to her, Maggie was a mute. I tease, “Sadie, look at the mess you are making on the windows!” And my mother echoes my fake consternation, “Sadie, look what you did with your lips!”

Maggie

Self-pity. You can be there in a matter of seconds. Grieving is feeling sorry for yourself, because your dog is no longer around to show you unfiltered, undiluted affection. You still expect her to come running to you when you return home from work…shopping….a night out at a restaurant.  You miss her quiet presence next to you while you type on your computer or read in bed.

Your dog is fine, she is no longer in pain. The cancerous tumor growing under her tongue and in her gums, pushing her tongue out the right side of her mouth can no longer hurt her. But you, you are left with loneliness and guilt. Why didn’t you stay home with her more? You should have walked her more often. You never took her to the dog park. Remember, you didn’t want her to catch any diseases, that’s why. Maggie was always the Beta dog. Cats were Alpha dogs compared to her. She quickly acquiesced to others. She hung her head low, shoulders cowered. She never harmed a thing. She could have been attacked at the dog park. You meant well.

When the kids were 3 months and 19 months old you took them and the dog for a walk to the post office on Mission Street. It was a daring undertaking with the infant in the Baby Bjorn, the toddler in the stroller and the frisky pup on a busy street, but you were going stir crazy with the diapers, the fog, and the boredom. You tied the puppy to a street sign post with a cement base. Just a few minutes in line and someone yelled, “There’s a dog running down the street with a post attached to her leash!” You looked outside and your dog was gone. You rushed home with two girls, not three. You cringe, expecting to hear screeching tires, screams. But they never come. You fight back the tears. You can’t lose her. When you get home, she is there, she took a different route, but somehow found your house. You are relieved and furious.

You miss her so much. The white snout, those sad eyes, even the stench of her infection. You miss those silky ears, the low growl of contentment she gave when you rubbed them. She jumped a foot off the ground when you came home. When you were recovering from your radical mastectomy, she napped next to you, choosing you over the rest of the family. Somehow, she knew you needed to rest. And while you worried about recurrent cancer, hers grew silently.

She loved bulgoki. Tennis balls. Hikes in the desert. She hated water. She would fetch when the mood fit. She was infinitely patient with children and other dogs. She was awesome.

You knew the end was near when she couldn’t eat. She loved to eat. And then she couldn’t drink water. Blood oozed from her infection, the antibiotics didn’t seem to have any effect. She drooled a thick, bloody mucous and you wiped her gently, frequently, sadly. How do you know when the time has come?

She was on the table, injected with a sedative. She looked so peaceful, striking her usual pose with one paw over the other, her eyes getting sleepy. You were grateful to see her comfortable. You told her you love her over and over again. Her eyes never left you. You bawled. The lethal injection worked quickly. You heard your husband say, “It’s OK, Maggie, you can go.”

And she’s gone.

Security

Tonight, I tucked Ava into bed and whispered, “How about tonight you don’t suck your thumb?” She replied in her snotty pre-pre-teen way, “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

She reemerged from her room to whine and half-cry that she has a canker sore. Willey jumped from his chair to give her a swig of Listerine, coaching her to swish for as long as possible. She whimpered in pain. Then he swept her up in his arms and flipped the light switch off with her fanny. “You can turn the light off with your butt.” She giggled as he carried her to her bed.

I’m sitting in bed, typing, with an ice pack on my chest. I had my fifth (and final, I swear!) surgery Monday. It’s been almost one week. I felt a swelling and bruising start today and basically freaked out because the last thing I need right now is an infection and to go back to Dr. Parson’s office for drains. That would be a major bummer. This surgery was to correct some positioning and to give me “nipples.” It went well as far as I can tell. It will be a resounding success if I keep infection at bay!

During this summer break, we took a vacation to Legoland. It was just what we needed: mindless fun. Ava had her first roller coaster ride and Josie rode mini-cars with her sister, both earning “drivers’ licenses.”

In addition to this fun, I worked all of June, teaching remedial English to incoming 7th graders and training for my new Ed Tech job. The teaching was challenging. How do you work with 12 year old students who can’t spell “dirt?” How do you impress upon these kids that they need to do their best ALL of the 15 days of summer school, not just two or three? How do you retain your cool factor while admonishing them for eating Doritos and candy for breakfast?

I’ve also taken this time to address dental and medical appointments for the girls. Ava is starting to show an overbite as well as what orthodontists call “overjet,” which is caused by her night time thumb-sucking. I want to do the right thing. I want to purchase an appliance if that is what is necessary. I know she will stop sucking her thumb if her thumb is met by a row of metal on the roof of her mouth. But I am mourning for her at the same time. She has always sucked her thumb and it brings great comfort to her. Her thumb is her best friend. It’s time for her to find security in something else, but what? Peaceful thoughts? I wish I had her equivalent of the thumb…something that brings me instant calm and repose.

Security is a state of mind. Sometimes, in the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, I wonder if I still have some residual cancer. Did they get it all? How will I know whether it’s back? I want a 100% guarantee that I will remain cancer free forever. I want to know that Josie and Ava will always be safe and happy and employed. I want to know that Willey will always be healthy, too. There are no guarantees. There is only the opportunity to shed light on the dark corners of my mind with the joy of the present moment. When we are fully present in the moment, there is no room for fear or worry.

Blister in the Sun

Hubby is singing “Blister in the Sun” and now I can’t get it out of my head. That is what he does lately: sing songs,  fill my head with repetitive, nonsensical lyrics and then leave the room. 

I haven’t written in several months. Now that I am publishing my “blah”g, I’m sure you’re expecting BIG news. Something grandiose in a bad or good way. I am sorry to disappoint. I’ve just been busy with life: completed my MA coursework (yay!), completed my 8 hour state exam (yay!) and recovered completely from breast reconstruction (double yay!)  Pardon the pun.

Here is the health update: I’m taking Tamoxifen daily. The hot flashes and back aches have mercifully subsided. I’ve completed my surgeries and have my permanent chest (for the next 15 years anyway, I’m told that implants need to be changed out every 10-20 years). I went from an “A” to a “C.” It’s both great and not so great.

Great: in bathing suits, bras, clothes.

Not so great: sleeping. I wish I could take them off and hang them up for the night! Also, running is easier when you are flat-chested.

In two weeks, I will go back to my oncologist for some kind of test. I should know what kind of test, but I don’t. I called them to ask, but they put me in hold limbo forever, so I just hung up. I have a list of questions at the ready, though.

Weird things happen during recovery, such as the sharp electrical shocks I feel as my nerves come back to life. Also, the dull throbbing pain from the muscles stretching to accommodate the implants.

I went to a kid birthday party a couple months ago. My “friends” had not seen me since my diagnosis. They greeted me with, “You have all your hair!” and “You look great!” If there is anything I can do with my experience, it is to spread awareness of the importance of going to your doctor for all your checkups.  There is a controversy brewing right now. Some health officials seem to think women don’t need a mammogram until 50! I shudder to think how far advanced my cancer would have been if I had waited eight years.  There is a very good article on this issue right here.

I want to help dispel the awful perception that cancer is a death sentence, or that once you’re diagnosed, you are forever “sick.” It’s simply not true. Just take care of it as early as possible.

 

When I’m a walking, I strut my stuff.

 

 

 

 

Tamoxifen, shmuhmoxifen….

OK, so my oncologist made a boo-boo.

He called me the morning after our meeting (at 6:55am to be exact) to apologize profusely and inform me that upon further review of my pathology report, he DOES recommend Tamoxifen. I was a little crestfallen, but it was what I expected all along, so there you go. I was also a bit wary because during our meeting, he gave me his personal philosophy on breast cancer:  that it is caused by prolonged use of hormone therapies, including birth control pills. Now, he is recommending that I take a pill every single day for the next five years?

I had my second oncologist consultation a couple days later. She vigorously recommended the same thing and was the first to give me NUMBERS to the risk: Five years on Tamoxifen CAN lead to an increase of 1 to 2% chance of uterine cancer. 1 to 2%? I thought it was something like 30%. I weighed the 1-2% uterine cancer against 6% invasive breast cancer recurrence (it could show up in the lung, liver, bones, anywhere…).

So I filled the prescription and am now taking the meds. So far, it does not seem like I have any side effects.  Because I’m back on a drain, I’m also taking horse pill antibiotics.  This process is a long one and I am trying to ignore the fact that I can feel the hard tissue expanders in my chest all the time. Occasionally, the pain wakes me in middle of the night and I have trouble going back to sleep. Maybe this is why I’ve been more emotional lately, crying at the drop of a hat again: lack of sleep.

I Googled “emotional stages of breast cancer” and got the following link:

http://breastcancer.about.com/od/lifeduringtreatment/ss/emotion_stages.htm

It’s all true. I am in the final stages of “grief”: acceptance and fight. Sometimes, I grapple with the hope part, because I’ve had setbacks at each stage.  The girls and hubby keep me happy. It’s all a process. This will take a long time, I just need to remember to enjoy all there is to enjoy in the meantime.

Letter to the Doctor

Dear Friends and Family,

I just wanted to share a letter I sent to my first oncology surgeon with you. The most empowering, important lesson I have learned on this journey thus far is to take control of your medical records and your health! As most of you know, I was given my diagnosis in a very cold manner: “You have Stage I breast cancer.” That was it. He immediately recommended a mastectomy with reconstruction. I wrote him a letter weeks later, because that day will forever haunt me. Not simply because of the content of the news, but especially due to the delivery. Here is my letter:

Dear Dr. ________:

Although I am sure you have to impart bad news of cancer to many people in your week, each person you inform is hearing it for the first time (unless it’s a recurrence, which I’m sure does not make it easier). You are telling people (as a medical professional) their chances of survival. I want to help you be better at this. When you deliver the news, it is good to be factual, which you were. However, it would not hurt to be sensitive: offer tissues immediately as tears are sprung and look the patient in the eye during the conversation, not her partner.  I left your office feeling as if I was handed a death sentence.

I received a second opinion from another surgeon this week. His approach was different, although the end data was the same. He went over my pathology report line by line (it’s six pages)! He made sure I knew what “in situ” and “invasive” meant. He stressed the very good fortune that I discovered this as early as I did and told me I have time to make an informed decision. He did not press the surgery option at all. He gave me several choices: chemo, radiation, and surgery. He did tell me I need to do something: I cannot and should not let it be.  I felt empowered and hopeful when I left his office. Do not get me wrong, I know I face some serious hurdles in my future.

You strike me as a competent surgeon. However, I do not feel comfortable with you. There is absolutely no lightheartedness, no warmth or levity in our dialogue. I am blessed with an incredibly strong network of support and love within my family and friends. I am seeking the same in my medical team.

My best to you,

Caroline Chung-Wipff

Speechless

Some occasions in life seem designed to test you. I believe they are there to see if you do the right thing, which is simply to say nothing. If an idiot offends you with an impulsive, derogatory remark, you are the better person for ignoring it. I’ve been taught that and I impart this bit of wisdom to my daughters and students. Growing up in Iowa in the late sixties, early seventies, I was called “chink” quite a bit. I learned to turn my head and ignore it. At a roller skating party, a boy of about fifteen, skated up to me and sang loudly with the music, “Like a refugee!” I was eleven and had no idea what he was talking about, but from the laughter and looks his friends gave me, I knew it wasn’t a compliment. There was also that song, “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting” which the boys really wanted me to know, but I digress.  I tell my daughters to do the same thing when “boys” or “people” bother them. I don’t recall arguing with my parents the way my kids do, but whatever….that’s not what I’m writing about, either.

My lovely mother is here to help me out. Because I am not allowed to drive for three to four weeks post-surgery and Willey has to work, my mother is THE driver. I will not alarm you, dear reader, by sharing her driving record with you. Let us just say she’s greatly improved in the last two decades. Let’s just say at about the same time boys were serenading me with the Kung-Fu Fighting and Refugee songs, my mother would feign any knowledge of English when she’d be pulled over by an officer for things like speeding or going through stop lights. She suddenly lost “all her English” and was usually let go with a warning.  I distinctly remember her saying “In Korea, no lights! I confused,” and the officer let her go!

When she arrived here at my house last month, I painfully detailed the importance of yielding at the roundabouts. We have two in a row we must drive through to get anywhere (Safeway, Peter Piper Pizza, the hair salon, etc.). “Caroline! You think I can’t drive? How long I’ve been driving now? I drive in Chicago! Mesa is so easy, no traffic.” I imagine the countless number of drivers who must honk at her (and give her other gestures) as she makes her away around, and I think her loss of hearing is a blessing in this case.

Like many of her 66 year old comrades, her hearing is all but gone. My sister purchased top-of-the-line hearing aids for her. Even with these, her hearing capacity can be 60%, depending on the condition of her batteries.  She copes with her inability to hear with the catch phrase she’s learned from co-workers in an Alzheimer’s home where she works as an aide. She says, “Gotcha” and nods her head “yes” at the same time.  Most people just say, “Yeah” and smile. My mom says, “Gotcha.” If you know my mother, this woman who immigrated from South Korea 43 years ago and speaks with a thick Korean accent, you would appreciate the utter charm of it. “Gotcha” and a nod of her permed head.

Yesterday, after dropping my daughters off to summer school, we headed to Phoenix to meet my oncologist.

“Mom, you’re going to go straight, just as if we’re seeing Dr. Parson, but Dr. Isaacs is in Phoenix, which is five exits past Dr. Parson’s office.”

With both hands gripped tightly around the wheel, she gives me a shake of the head and a  “Gotcha.”

She drives.

“OK, mom, make a left at Shea and go straight for awhile. I’ll tell you when to turn right.”

“You forgot to shave? That’s OK. Why you have to shave?”

“Oh.My.Gosh. You forgot your hearing aids?!” I ask in disbelief. Suddenly, I realize I could probably drive. I feel fine and have gotten a lot stronger since my surgery two weeks ago. My chest is throbbing, I’m anxious about what the oncologist will say and now I have to address this.  I choose to remain silent.

Another shake of the head, her eyes squint into the light (no sunglasses either). “Sometimes, hearing aid is bother. Really bother you. I don’t like them.”

We head into the office and meet a wonderful doctor. Long story short, he reads my six page pathology report and tells me that with the double mastectomy and the very small sizes of my cancers, he recommends no further treatment. No chemo! No radiation! Not even Tamoxifen! I am elated, ready for some Kung-fu fighting.

Ouch

OK. I’m back. Here is a short and sweet history of my week:

Monday: Grocery shopping, clean house, pick mom up from airport. Ate nothing after 6pm.

Tuesday: 7am, pre-op stuff. No food or water or even gum. Shots in both breasts for dye to mark my sentinal nodes for biopsy. The Surgery. Post-Op: extremely groggy. Nauseous, not really good. Got up in middle of the night three times to use restroom, vomited copious amounts each time. Discovered my lymph nodes are clean – YAY!

Wednesday: Want to go home. Now. Badly. Had to wait until 5pm. Forced two bites of croissant and kept it down. Walked to the bathroom with the IV stand in one hand and my drain pack in the other. (For more on draining, check it out: http://breastcancer.about.com/od/reconstructivesurgery/p/surg_drains.htm). Dr. Bourne let me go grudgingly. Hubby looked doubtful. He tried to feed me salmon and chocolate cake. 48 hours since I ate something. Wouldn’t have the salmon, too dry.  🙂  Lots of kisses from kids and mom and sister who just arrived from California!  Went straight to bed with three vials of meds on the nightstand.

Thursday: Happy to wake up in my bed. Have to empty and measure drains regularly. Pin them to clothes. Be careful not to tug at them. Looked at the work. Almost fainted. Two tubes coming out of my ribs. Tightly bandaged chest. Needed to re-bandage, too tight!  My sister JoAnne washes my hair in the kitchen sink. Aaaaahhhhh! Feels so much better. By Thursday evening, feeling more like myself. Walked around, wrote a paper.  Started bleeding and went to the doctor. He applies pressure, changes bandages and says I might be able to remove the drains next week! “If you start bleeding like that again, just apply pressure.” I can also take a shower tomorrow! JoAnne picks girls up from summer school. We eat dinner and I crash. (By the way, my chest does not look like this picture. Dr. Shaun Parson did an outstanding job – the drains are on the sides of my body and much of my breast tissue was conserved).

Friday: Wrote two papers first thing in the morning, while drinking coffee. Heaven! Kisses to the girls. Received a steady flow of cakes, flowers, gift cards, get well cards, phone calls and emails. Where is my cell phone? Haven’t seen it since checking in at the hospital….My sister insists on taking pictures, as if I want to remember looking like this. Brother from California arrives with wife and daughter. Josie, Ava and Jae swim in the Hyatt Place swimming pool while Willey and I buy me a new cell phone. We all go out to eat at Hodori for lunch.

Saturday: Take Ava to dentist. She gets sealants. “She’ll need braces,” the dentist informs us. Great. Go home and watch “Samsoon,” an old Korean TV series my friend Grace sent to me by mail. Sister, mom and I are hooked! Sister leaves Saturday night. Brother comes to drive her to airport. It’s all too short, this family time. I decide to forego Vicodin and just take Ibuprofin instead.

Sunday: Happy Father’s Day! I wake up with my chest on fire. It feels like two people took a knife to it. Wait a minute…..they did! Willey takes the girls out while I work on three assignments for The Principalship class. This is the last week of my first summer session and I have many things due. Hoping I can take the drains out tomorrow, they are seriously cramping my style. I looped them on a necklace and feel like a cheap Flavor Fav imitator.

Tomorrow, I see my plastic surgeon and I hope I can get at least one drain removed. It’s disgusting, this plastic vial of blood and waste collects and you can’t get away from it. Every once in awhile, I feel a sharp jab at my ribs and it’s the tube, jutting out. It’s difficult to disguise.  Tuesday morning, I see my oncologist surgeon who will review the results of  pathology report. At that time, I will have a better idea of next steps: radiation, chemo, hormone therapy….not sure yet. I go back to my class Tuesday night.

I’m doing well. Of course, I have moments of anger. Why do I have to go through this? Why can’t I go to Hawaii this summer? Or Canada, Alaska, Austin, TX….anywhere but here, doing this.

But I can’t think that way.

Pity parties do no good. Plenty of very good people are going through much worse. I have to overcome this and overcome it well. My daughters are watching.

What’s on the Menu?

I’m asked how the girls are taking the impending surgery. Here are their words:

June 12, 2010

-My mom is having surgery on Tuesday. I’m a little bit frightend but mommy said she would be alright. So, Ava and I have made a little menu for my mom with all different food and drinks when she’s in her bed. Her friends and our relletivs are coming over and helping us. I’m going to miss mommy. But when she’s up and around were going to play lots of board games and do math puzzles .My mom has done so much for me in the past that I’m not going to realy be used to all these people being with me.

Josie 🙂

June 12, 2010

My mom is having surgery on Tuesday.

I gave her my zu zu pet  so she could  press the nose  and it would make a noise so we could come running to her. We made a menu for her so she could pick what food she wanted. If  needed anything  more she would tell us.  There was coffee on the menu.  Diet coke, water, and  many other things. I feel a little scared because my mom is having surgery. But my mom is always brave.  I will have quit violin for a  little while.  But till my mom gets better we have to go back to violin.

Ava

I am grateful for the amazing outpouring of love, support and encouragement I am receiving from friends and family near and far, and from complete strangers I have met online via friends. It makes me want to be a better person.

I’m asked,”What do you think you are supposed to learn here?” Although I believe everything happens for a reason, I don’t think I have led a life of unhealthy habits I need to ameliorate, nor have I sustained any toxic relationships. I don’t think this is a wake up call, because there is no place in my life where I need to realign my actions to suit my goals. I do, however, feel a renewed sense of appreciation for people in general, for the importance of health and responsibility. I always considered myself to be a strong person, but  I’m having my mom sew a giant “S” on a blue nylon shirt after my recovery. Willey is making the cape.

On Friday, I had a 9am appointment with my plastic surgeon and a “check engine” light came on in my car.  My first thought was, “On top of everything….my classes, and my surgery … my car now?”  I was in Scottsdale and wondered if it was safe to drive. I completed my appointment (they took the “before” pictures and had me sign papers acknowledging all the risks of surgery, including infection, asymmetry, the need for more surgery, etc.).  Suddenly, I felt as if I was  being challenged. Someone or something was testing me to see when I would break. I will not break!

So I go home, find a mechanic with great reviews online, pack Josie’s swimsuit and towel, go to the mechanic, learn I have to go to a different mechanic sometime next week (it’s probably the o2 sensor), pick up the girls from summer school, drop Josie off to her playdate, have a date with Ava at the mall, go home, make dinner, get ready to go out with some friends and chat with the husband before I leave.  I had a wonderful evening talking and laughing with a group of strong, beautiful women.

I’m ready.


“Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.”  John Lennon

The Wait

Surgery is scheduled for June 15th, exactly one week from now.

I find myself “nesting” as a friend mentioned. She had a medical condition too, congenital heart disease. We spoke of cleaning house, having enough food around for hubbies to zap warm, and so on.  Her story reminded me of how we are all so alike. We react the same way much of the time, it’s just that some of us get handed a bad card and the rest of us say, “How on earth do you handle it so well?”  For one, you would too. You have no choice but to “handle” it. And if you have kids, well, I don’t have to say anything else, do I? We do everything for our kids, our children make us better people.

So now I wait. Friends and family call to check in. They send me stuff to read:

They ask, “How are you doing?” “Fantastic, ask me in eight days!” I dread the recovery. I know, you fans of “The Secret” are trying to hush me right now, but let’s be realistic, shall we?  A radical mastectomy (both breasts for those of you who don’t know) and biopsies of BOTH armpit lymph nodes….it’s not going to be pretty. And I don’t rest well. I’m not a good patient. So mom, JoAnne and Willey, accept my apologies right now for the grumpiness you shall bear.

The surgeon informs me, I will be “Ace bandaged tightly” around the chest following surgery. I’ve asked my sister and daughters to wash my hair.  I’m getting waxed tomorrow. Why? JUST BECAUSE.  I am also getting a pedicure and manicure on Monday. JUST BECAUSE! You’d think I was preparing for a beauty pageant. Which brings me…

to the Plastic Surgeon’s office!

It’s like a spa. It’s housed within a medical building, but when you step into the office, you’re met with several square feet of granite before you make eye contact with the gorgeous receptionist (blue contact lenses, reconstructed breasts).  On a table sits a large, flat bowl of miniature chocolates and cookies, cold ice water with cut lemons await. The women who walk in and out do not resemble the women who walk in and out of the oncologist surgeon’s office. No, these women wear a smile, high heels … they push their babies in strollers, they have lean muscles observable through their Juicy sweatpants and they sport perfect hair.

Talking to the plastic surgeon is a bit like speaking with Santa Claus. Hello, you’ve been so good through this, the poking, the prodding, the cutting and the pain…..what size breasts would you like darling? It’s the gift or reward I have earned. At least, it feels that way. Christina Applegate still mourns her original breasts, “I had beautiful ones,” she recalls. Well, mine have been encased in very padded bras for almost three decades. This might not be so bad.

This summer holds more work for me than I anticipated. But that’s OK. Life happens.  I’ve got my trusty sidekick here, to keep me busy: