So. Blogger is back, eh? Thank you for joining us, Blogger.
I did not lose weight this week, largely due to a great influx of fish and cheese grits prepared by the loving hands that nurtured me as a child. Mother shows love through food and money. I let her. Luckily I didn't gain, unless you call two pairs of shoes, a flower pin, a lovely scarf, a cotton dress, and an embroidered clutch a gain. My little carry on was bursting on the return trip.
Yesterday saw me in the physical therapy room with Granny. Harvard- grad, debutante Granny, who wore lipstick in her recovery room and requested a "clean" blanket from the nurse. She had her hip replaced on Monday but looked really good. Then I raced back to the city for my own appointment with the surgical oncologist. That's right-- the breast man. The one who will be responsible for chopping and scraping.
He was a bit of a jerk, and kept me waiting an hour before coming in to prop his feet up only to repeat everything the RN who'd come in before him had said.
And he kept staring at my breasts. "You're pretty big," he said. He had no neck and a rat face. He was visibly tired.
"Yep," I replied. "An F cup."
"We're going to have to reduce you. And we won't be able to save your nipples." Still staring. (Note: I wasn't undressed. This was a consult- sort of an interview for me to figure out if I like this man enough to trust him to get me through a double mastectomy.)
Thing is, he has done hundreds of these before, and the other surgical oncologist at the hospital has a wait list until July. And...they work together, so he'd know if I booked with her. And while he eventually seemed like a smart guy, I can't shake the thought that he was sort of a creep.
I don't know what to do: trust rat- face? Do another consult with his counterpart? This is all so confusing.
In other news, it appears that I ran two miles yesterday. I can't remember the last time I felt so appreciative of my physical endurance...ever. Yes!