You can’t always get what you want

I have been lots of things this week. I have been: nervous, anxious, impatient, upset, disappointed, cross, guilty, resigned, battered, bruised and very tired. But one thing has remained constant - I remain nippleless (at this point it may be worth reading the previous post if you haven't already - and if you are squeamish dear reader, look away now!) 

After more than 18 months of waiting for what I was hoping would be a last bit of plastic surgery and final operation, I came round from the anaesthetic to hear two nurses discussing across my trolley that it 'hadn't all gone to plan'. Not a good wake up call. 

Mr Plastic Fantastic told me in his lovely lilting Irish accent but with a little less twinkle in his eyes that because of the damage to the skin caused by radiotherapy he’d decided it was too risky to do the normal nipple reconstruction we were all geared up for. He had though done the other bits of nip and tuck to perk up the perkiness, and balance the boobs up more - and as a bonus thrown in some liposuction by taking out some fat around my hips (to use in the op - not just because he thought I could do with less of a muffin top). Warning here ladies - lipo HURTS!

It's taken a good few days to work through the flurry of feelings and thoughts, especially in the fug of post op drugs. I know it seems in some ways so silly to be upset about something which in the wider view of things is such a trivial and minor point (or two points). And it does seem trivial, which is where the feelings of guilt come in. But I know having this done for me was as much about the psychological as the physical. This was the Last Thing, the Final Bit, the Drawing of the Line. From when I was diagnosed I tried to keep things as 'normal' as possible, carrying on working, telling very few people, staying as independent as I could be (not always good or helpful in retrospect - I may write the Duff Guide to having breast cancer - how not to do it!). I knew from the beginning that I wanted every bit of reconstruction and to eventually look as 'normal' as possible again. But I also know, that so many things have changed in so many ways – and many for the better - they will never be 'normal' again - at least not my old kind of normal.

This time four years ago I'd just been told I had cancer and although I always felt I'd be OK, I hadn't even been told what my chances of 'survival' (as they put it) would be. I would do anything to say alive - and I did – being chopped up, burnt, poisoned - anything. So of course I am happy, lucky, grateful to be here today, moaning about the fact that I don't have nipples. Maybe it's time to embrace my non normality, after all I’m still here to live with it.

The cherries on the cakes

Like buses, I have waited 18 months for one operation and then two come along at once. Hot on the heels of last month's hystericalectomy (as it's known in our house, given hilarity around some of the after effects in particular a severe effect on my short term memory - hopefully just temporary) comes my - also hopefully - final bit of nip and tuck.

Tomorrow, 21 months after a breast reconstruction that at least gave me some kind of lady lumps back, I am getting the cherries on the cakes. Yes dear reader, I'm talking nipples. (The list of things I once thought I would never talk about with strangers but now do quite merrily really is as long as a piece of string). 

It's four years to the day since my original mastectomy, and a time I get quite reflective but also look forward. And this for me will be a step forward -  not back to normality as I will never be 'normal' in the same way again - though as the wonderful Whoopi Goldberg once said, 'Normal is nothing more than a cycle on a washing machine.'

As I now recognise I suffer from POT (pre-op tension) I've not worried about the fact I've felt too tired and distracted today to do much work and been instead glued to the Leveson inquiry and Twitter all day. Hey, noone can tell me what the right thing to do is the day before you're due to get nipples so I have to make it up.

My POT tends to come from having to relinquish my usual control freakery (in MY plan I will be in, I will have the op early, I will be out and home by tea time...) and from the frustration of being asked the same question several times, sit around for hours in a not very comfortable environment and pass the time by playing my favourite game of 'how I'd improve this particular bit of the NHS'.

But there are things i actually like, in fact LOVE - oh yes... The anaesthetic bit - ooh I love that. The gentle slipping off into a deep sleep, totally oblivious, which is usually welcome as I won't have slept the night before. I'm sure I'm usually mid-sentence when I conk out too - which would usually be considered the height of bad manners.

And then there's my plastic surgeon - I don't just love him, I have to 'fess up, I am totally IN love with him. Before he became my knight in a pinstripe suit I always thought that those women who wanted to marry their plastic surgeon only did it to make sure they could get cheap face lifts - but no, now I am one of those women. He's not film star material and would not normally attract my attention - although always dapper and smartly dressed, with twinkly eyes and a twinkly Irish accent, I think it's probably one of those hero fantasy attractions that psychologists would have a field day with. No matter, I will look forward to the four minutes I have of his undivided attention pre op when he may draw on me with a pen, and then the couple of minutes post op when he will reassure me all went well, bursting with obvious pride at his handiwork. And then he will ask him to marry me... (erm no, I made that bit up!!)

So off I go to do my usual pre op all night tidying/ ironing/ doing random things to keep busy - and I will see you on the other side - with cherries on top!