The past month has been particularly awful for me, mental health wise. To put it mildly, I haven't exactly been dealing well with my upcoming boob replacement. I lost all desire to write, or even just talk, about what happened. I don't even have much desire to transcribe all the recent fun, but I'm forcing myself to do it. I figure that I'll want to start complaining to the internet soon enough, and without backstory, it won't make sense. So now, without further ado, what went wrong!

Way back in March, Dr. Surgeon scooped out some boob. That piece of boob was then chopped up and dyed and poked and prodded. For simplicity's sake, let's say it was spherical. The entire piece is surrounded by some amount of margin. In a perfect world, the every cell in the margin would be analyzed. Alas, that's not possible, so the guys in lab coats typically take six samples and look at them. Since a sphere does not actually have six sides like a cube does, the sites that are chosen with some degree of randomness. It is that randomness that screwed me.

The sides that were chosen on my scoop came back negative for cancer. Dr. Oncologist postulated that if thirty sides were tested, they would have found at least one that was positive. But they didn't, so the end result was a false negative. The surgery was deemed successful, and I was subjected to chemo.

Prior to starting radiation, it is standard to take before images for a variety of reasons. My images showed very tiny pre-cancerous calcifications. Their size and location indicated that they had been their all along, and that they were so small they escaped being sampled.

After the second lumpectomy, the margins of the scoop were checked. This time, the positive cells did not elude the lab technicians. Unclear margins mean more surgery.

Prior to the second operation, I was informed that regardless of the results, this would be my last lumpectomy. Clear margins would also mean it was my last operation. Unclear margins, well, like I said, it was the last lumpectomy. In other words, I'm now in mastectomy land.

Shockingly, mastectomy land is filled with a gaggle of doctors, otherwise known as those things I'm totally sick of seeing in those buildings I'm sick of visiting. And I promise to tell you all about it next time.

I've been going to various surgeons a lot lately, and I have to admit it has taken a bit of a mental toll. I will  provide details when I stop having nightmares about the horrible pictures I was forced examine. Don't worry; I'll tell you about them in excruciating detail. Emphasis on excruciating.

Yesterday, we arrived at the hospital a few minutes late, so I wasn't planning on complaining when I wasn't called into a chamber for fifteen minutes. However, after waiting an hour in a frigid examination room, I sent Matt on an exploratory mission. Of course, he didn't even make it to the door before Dr. Surgeon'sAssistant finally appeared. My elation at noticing the continued existence of the outside world was short lived.

The pathology results were about as welcome as a jab in the eye. The margins were not clear. Dr. Surgeon may be willing to try another lumpectomy, but at this point it is not likely. In other words, Lefty has officially been given an eviction notice.

I have an appointment with Dr. Surgeon himself on Monday. At that point, we will discuss what to do with the useless globule of fat that was previously known as my left boob. Will he remove one boob, or, just to be on the safe side, two? Will I have reconstruction at the same time? If so, what plastic surgeon?

Considering the recovery time, I'm currently thinking this great adventure should commence shortly after Thanksgiving. I've already missed enough things this year, and I'm not missing the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, for which we have bleacher tickets. Did you hear that stupid boob? I'm still in charge! And you are expendable! So there.

After surgery comes the pain pills and pathology report. Oh, and the wearing of the surgical bra, which cannot be taken off. In other words, no showering for a week. Believe me when I say that baby wipes are no substitute for a proper washing.

Remember the horrible nightmares from Mr. Percocet? Well, Mr. Vicodin brought them back, in full force. Of course, who needs to sleep for more than a few consecutive hours? Especially when I can randomly pass out during the day? Today was the first day I didn't take a single vicodin, and I'm seriously hoping that I actually sleep soundly through the night.

Moving on, the pathology report is just super very extremely important. It contains all sorts of things, such as whether the margins on the removed tissue are clear and the makeup of the removed cells. If the margins aren't clear, it's back to the cutting board. You could say that I'm anxious to get the results.

I had a post-op appointment scheduled for Monday. After determining that no green puss was leaking from the incision, I was declared shower-safe. Dr. Surgeon'sAssistant also said something about the incision healing nicely, but by then I was too busy dreaming of a shower.

Then came the horrible news - the pathology report was not ready yet! It would probably be ready by Thursday, but I'd have to come back to the hospital. Apparently it is against hospital policy to give pathology results over the phone. Seriously. WTF.

I was going to have to come back next Monday, regardless, for Dr. Surgeon to take a look at his handiwork. I could wait until then, at which point my results were nearly guaranteed to be ready. Or I could schedule another appointment with Dr. Surgeon'sAssistant for Thursday. Let's see, I am very patient and capable of waiting an extra four days for incredibly important news. So I agreed to call her on Wednesday afternoon. If the results were in, I'd come in Thursday morning. Otherwise, I'd be waiting until Monday.

Today I made the call, and lo and behold, my results are in! But she wouldn't even give me a hint. In fact, she was completely monotone the entire time. I guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow morning. I promise to let the intartubes know. Well, after I tell my parents. And close friends. And coworkers. But before I tell the mayor and his henchmen.

I realized this morning that I forgot to mention an important consideration in my internal debate. The lumpectomy is drive-thru surgery, with approximately seven days recovery at home. The mastectomy requires four to seven days in the hospital for pain management, followed by multiple weeks of recovery at home.

Despite being outpatient, the lumpectomy was done in two phases. Phase one started with me replacing my shirt with a very short cape that did nothing against the arctic temperatures of the hospital. My theory is that if you are freezing to death, you won't complain about the little things, such as nurses opening the door to leave and showing your boobs to the entire world.

The procedure room was a modern torture table. One of the horrible biopsy tables was in the back. A mammogram machine, with a chair for the victim, was next to the door. In between, were portable tables covered with sharp, pointy instruments. I got to sit in the chair while the nurse squished Lefty with the mammogram machine. After confirming that my boob was adequately squished, the nurse projected a shadow over the exact spot. Dr. Pokey numbed the area with lidocaine, then shoved in a long needle with a yellow plastic thing at the end. I elected not to watch.

The nurse then extracted my boob from the machine, which was nontrivial due to the yellow plastic thing sticking out. The yellow plastic thing, as well as the needle, were hollow tubes, through which blue dye was injected. Then an even longer, but thinner, needle with a tiny hook at the end was threaded through existing needle. Its job was to hold the first needle in place, and it was twice as long as necessary for that job. The nurse taped the extra down, surrounded the whole mess with gauze, and taped the whole thing in place.

While this was going on, I was just staring down at the creepy needle sticking out of my boob. And staring. And staring. I couldn't pry my eyes off the disturbingly fascinating sight. It looked like a situation requiring an emergency room visit, yet there was no pain. Weird.

Anyway, I was re-caped and led to the surgery wing, where pre-op and post-op patients mingle. I had the fun experience of replacing my remaining clothes with a normal hospital gown without dislodging my new appendage. Then came the real excitement - an IV!

The easy veins in my right elbow were destroyed by chemo. I am not exaggerating when I say they are so scarred that it is difficult to get a needle in, much less get any blood out. The nurse, a new one, tried to use a vein in my arm. Let's just say she failed spectacularly. A "specialist" was brought in to use the veins in my hand. Alas, they weren't thick enough, and I had to lie there with my arm wrapped in heated blankets. Eventually, the IV was successfully inserted, and my shiny new husband was allowed to come sit with me.

I don't really remember what happened after that, though I have vague memories involving backgammon on his Galaxy Tab. I assume I won, because I'm awesome.

At some point, presumably after surgery, I woke up. Matt kindly informed me that my legs were still properly attached, in response to my queries about their whereabouts. He also fed me the best tasting graham crackers in the free world. That might not have been true if I had been allowed to eat in the past twenty-four hours, but I can definitely say they tasted better than the liquid vicodin. Oddly enough, it was a bright, translucent yellow. The same color as the magic boob needle! Coincidence? I think not.

There is a universal law requiring patients to be wheeled out of hospitals. Since I was unable to stand up without falling over, I decided not to complain. Well, not complain about the ride. I'm sure I complained about something.

I vaguely remember demanding bubble tea, but that's pretty much it for the following day or two. Well, that and a certain Matt refusing to give me vicodin every time I asked. He clearly would not make a viable automatic morphine drip. :-(