After about a year or more of listening to people tell me that they wont be able to do anything with the fucked up cancer one because I had radiotherapy after chemo/surgery, and that Id have to have an up lift done on the other side if I wanted a matching pair again, the consultant plastic surgeon told me today that she didn�t want to operate on the �good� one (actually, she said �on what is a perfect, youthful breast� Yay me and my one decent boob!).
Instead, she wants to do a �fat transfer� to reshape the fucked up one (which isn�t actually that fucked up, it just doesn�t match the �perfect, youthful� one. Can you see how Im hanging onto that �perfect, youthful� tag, there, huh? Im pathetic.). The fat transfer seems to be that they suck some of my fat out of my stomach or my thighs or someother place where there is fat (my head? Hahahaha) and squirt it into my fucked up boob to plumpen it out a bit.
Then the consultant plastic surgeon had a kind of a row with the regular surgeon, right in front of me and they measured me and turned me this way and that and talked about me like I was a slab of steak and then they decided that they had to have a meeting with my oncologist to decide whether I would be suitable for the whole fat-squirting thing as it an make subsequent mammograms difficult to interpret.
So they made me another appointment for after they�ve had their meeting. In October. Now, I like talking about me quite a lot. I find myself endlessly fascinating. But even I would be hard pushed to make myself the topic of conversation for four bloody months. AAAARRRgghhhhh! I just want it over with, and I said so, which got me a lecture about the importance of ensuring that I got the treatment most suited for my condition which was just bloody annoying as I know they have to do their job but they don�t have to be so po-faced about it.
The alternative to the fat-squirting would be the uplift I was talking about earlier, but that will leave scars (well, DUH, I knew that) and they dont think that I will get the result that I want if they do the uplift which is astonishing as I hadn�t actually said what result I wanted and so they can obviously read minds as well as cut up boobs. If oncology say they can do the fat-squirt and I don�t like the result I can have the uplift too, afterwards, if I like but its more surgery and more waiting and more piss-arsing about and I might still have mismatched boobs but by then I might be old and not really care. I guess. *sigh*
The plastic surgeon kind of pissed me off a bit too by saying that the difference between the �perfect, youthful� boob and the fucked up one is �minimal�, which made me feel like I was making a fuss over nothing when actually the opposite is true and it�s a fucking big deal for me to have mismatched boobs when I have spent 46 and a half years having a pair that were absolutely identical and which you couldn�t detect a mismatch in even if you stared at them really hard for a really long time�.and many men have. I think that part was just her being a bit of a bitch � she was one of those tall willowy types, pretty enough and very flat-chested in an absolutely never EVER been motorboated sort of way. She fucking well better not make my boobs look like hers when she gets in that operating theatre with her knife. I have no desire to look like her. Im not Chinese, for a start.
I had a bit of a moan to the breast-care nurse and she was nice and understanding like breast-care nurses are, and she gave me some leaflets (which I think breast care nurses are contractually obliged to do, they do it that often) and then I went and had lunch with my mum.
After lunch, and because I was felling grumpy and didn�t really have to go back to work, mum suggested we go to Bishops Waltham and go to Chesapeake Mill which is a kind of antique/boutique/craft kind of place. I couldn�t really remember how to get to Bishops Waltham from my mums but I got there OK and we drove around for a while trying to find this place as she said it was �big and on a roundabout, in a dip�. It was nowhere to be seen.
After the fourth or fifth circuit of the narrow streets of Bishops Waltham, round the one way system and taking different left and right turns each time, trying to find the elusive roundabout, in a dip, my mother turned to me and said,
�Oh, hang on. Its in Wickham.�
That would be why we couldn�t find it in Bishops Waltham then, no matter how many roundabouts and dips we scrutinised. Because its in bloody Wickham, which is the next town along. About 6 miles away.
With remarkable composure, bearing in mind this is my mother, who has heard me say �for fuck�s sake! Are you mental or something?� several times (and sometimes to her), I just pulled the car back onto the main road and drove to Wickham. We went to Chespeake Mill and it was very nice. Click the link up the top there, American people � its kind of interesting. Sorry for nicking your boat and all.
Anyway, I didn�t buy anything because I didn�t have any money, and I still have mismatched boobs. Oh, and Im starting to think that Hector Riva is a lying bastard as I didn�t win the �153 million he kinda promised me in that advert.