One boob or two?
tagged under
cancer
When I get super excited about something, I fail to shut up about it. When I get really pissed about something, I similarly fail to shut up about it. When the moon continues its orbit around the earth, I continue blabbing on and on. However, when something upsets and me and leaves me sad and miserable, I just might close my trap. The most relavent example of this phenomenon occurred just a few months ago.
First, some background. Frankenboob was already inflated to nearly 500cc, the initial volume of the expander. The expander is made of magical stretchy stuff and can hold 1500cc, a disgustingly large size for someone of my stature. My untrained eye was perfectly happy with 500cc, which seemed to match my unmolested right boob. Dr. PlasticSurgeon, who is more versed in choosing boob sizes, pointed out that radiation causes the muscle and skin to shrink, making one or two more inflations necessary.
Anyway, there I was, innocently lying topless on the examination table while Dr. PlasticSurgeon and her minion examined Frankenboob. The horrible latitudinal scar is about 1/3 down from the top. Ergo, the best way for the skin to accomodate inflations is for the skin above the scar to stretch down. But Frankenboob would have none of that. It didn't even stretch the skin on both sides. Oh no, it had to be impudent and stretch only the bottom skin, widening the scar and making everything red and miserable. As a result, there would be no further inflations.
To top it off, my stupid insurance company refused to authorize the radiation being scheduled by Dr. RadiationOncologist. Why? According to them, the type of radiation requested is "experimental" and not indicated after "breast conserving surgery." That's right, the same people who paid over $100,000 mere months ago for a mastectomy were claiming that I had two boobs.
The situation was by far not worst I'd experienced in recent memory, but it was enough to make me shut down. I stopped caring about writing. I stopped caring about my few remaining hobbies that didn't require me to leave the house. Oh sure, I still complained about doctor stuff when around other people, but I stopped inflicting the gory details upon unsuspecting masses. As one person at work pointed out, I was a lot more serious about my medical prospects.
I won't claim to have freed myself from the ups and downs of depression, especially since I'm currently lying facedown in the bottom of a trough. Despite this week being awful, the overall trend has been upward. Sadly, the contents of my stomach have also shown the same upward trend, but that's a physical problem, not a mental one.
First, some background. Frankenboob was already inflated to nearly 500cc, the initial volume of the expander. The expander is made of magical stretchy stuff and can hold 1500cc, a disgustingly large size for someone of my stature. My untrained eye was perfectly happy with 500cc, which seemed to match my unmolested right boob. Dr. PlasticSurgeon, who is more versed in choosing boob sizes, pointed out that radiation causes the muscle and skin to shrink, making one or two more inflations necessary.
Anyway, there I was, innocently lying topless on the examination table while Dr. PlasticSurgeon and her minion examined Frankenboob. The horrible latitudinal scar is about 1/3 down from the top. Ergo, the best way for the skin to accomodate inflations is for the skin above the scar to stretch down. But Frankenboob would have none of that. It didn't even stretch the skin on both sides. Oh no, it had to be impudent and stretch only the bottom skin, widening the scar and making everything red and miserable. As a result, there would be no further inflations.
To top it off, my stupid insurance company refused to authorize the radiation being scheduled by Dr. RadiationOncologist. Why? According to them, the type of radiation requested is "experimental" and not indicated after "breast conserving surgery." That's right, the same people who paid over $100,000 mere months ago for a mastectomy were claiming that I had two boobs.
The situation was by far not worst I'd experienced in recent memory, but it was enough to make me shut down. I stopped caring about writing. I stopped caring about my few remaining hobbies that didn't require me to leave the house. Oh sure, I still complained about doctor stuff when around other people, but I stopped inflicting the gory details upon unsuspecting masses. As one person at work pointed out, I was a lot more serious about my medical prospects.
I won't claim to have freed myself from the ups and downs of depression, especially since I'm currently lying facedown in the bottom of a trough. Despite this week being awful, the overall trend has been upward. Sadly, the contents of my stomach have also shown the same upward trend, but that's a physical problem, not a mental one.
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