Now, what to do with the news of the results?  I had been squatting near that river in Egypt for a week thinking David Niven would be telling me it was nothing. Not that it was the most terrible news ever. It was pretty good news, for certain, it wasn’t quiiiite cancer, and would be done away with to make sure it wasn’t. But still. No one likes to face surgery, and especially on something as personal as one’s boob.

Up until this time, I had opted to keep the process to myself until I had news to tell. If there was no bad news, no one but P and I would know. With the advent of the news of the calcification gang, I thought it only right to at least tell my sister.

I dreaded this, T is doing so busy with positive things- back in school for her master’s degree, lots of reorganizing at her work, etc. I didn’t want her to waste worry on me, and I didn’t want her to re-live any of the hell she went through with her own boob journey. I was pretty shaken up at the prospect of surgery, and not having all the facts yet, and googling to do on DCIS, and I knew that if I heard her voice in surprise or sympathy, I would lose my shit. Should I sing it to her, like Colin Firth in The Kings Speech?  Smoke signal? Western Union telegram?

I took the coward’s way out. I texted her.

She reacted with dismay initially, but then she did exactly the right thing (she’s a Jedi at that) and sent me a gif of David Rose from Schitt’s Creek.

We always deal with our situations with humor. You should hang out with us at a memorial service. We put the “fun” in funeral.

When T got her lumpectomy (how I hate that term, but it’s better than the alternative term partial mastectomy, totally vom), we were talking to her doctor beforehand (the best cancer surgeon in Cincinnati), and first, she told us that whew, she had been up all night because her mother in law had died. I asked her “Um, are you feeling up to doing surgery today?”. She said that surgery relaxed her. Then she forgot her password to get into the computer. Like five times. And kept dropping her pen on the floor. When she left the room, T and I were cracking up at the absurdity. The surgery went very well despite the surgeon having a case of the fatigue dropsy.

So P and I went to the surgeon for my consultation. The nurse ushered us into an exam room and asked the typical questions, name, date of birth, what was I there for (“They’re going to cut a lump out of my boob”) which boob, all the Papillon questions again.

Then she said I was going to have a breast exam, and to put on that gown. WHAT? Why in hell am I having an exam when the spot is so far in my chest cavity that they had to do a special deep dive biopsy?? I texted T furiously. She replied that this happened to her all the time when she was going through her stuff and was furious on my behalf. See why I had to tell her? One word from me and she’d show up with a flamethrower. I have to get used to this, I have a lot of mammograms and manual exams coming up. It’s going to become my new handshake. Milkshake, whatever. Hi, nice to meet you, feel free to squeeze my boob as we converse.

Nothing like meeting your surgeon wearing a stupid plaid boob squeezer gown. I had selected a lovely graphic tee with Lagertha slaying some Viking dude and a bunch of knotwork and Thor’s Hammer necklace combo, but no. So I had the exam, he was as cool about it as you can be while fruitlessly feeling for lumps in a perfect stranger’s boob. I liked the surgeon, he answered all our questions patiently (Can I keep what you cut out? “No”), and had good direct eye contact. He is very experienced with this kind of surgery, and was pragmatic and not a hand-patter. except for my boob, of course.

The scar will be minimal, and no deformation should happen. But one fun fact- I have to go to the radiology floor before the surgery and have a needle inserted into Pancho to point to where the calcification is so the surgeon can find it. Before I’m knocked out. So, sounds a lot like the biopsy, but with a human pincushion element. I keep picturing Mia Wallace in

Pulp Fiction-

, though she had the advantage of being knocked out before the needle went in. Oh well, should make a good story, and it can’t be worse than the Blood Eagle, right?

The consultation ended, and post exam pleasantries having been extended,  the surgeon left the room. On his way out, he dropped my paperwork on the floor, and attempted three times to pick it up. I laughed at the absurdity. Family tradition!

The surgery is scheduled for February 4th, my father-in-law’s birthday, and coincidentally the same date I had my only other surgery on my ankle.

Watch this space for the exciting surgery episode!

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