This is the week.
We're in the final days before my single mastectomy: I check into the hospital Thursday morning.
I can't help but hear the call, "Dead boob walking...." echoing around my head. My boob and I are going to our last restaurant together as a couple tonight.
Although I didn't have my daughter in the hospital, because I've done work as a birth doula, I tend to associate the hospital (especially the one I'll be in) with births: happiness, new beginnings, joy!
It is strange to wrap my head around the notion that I'm going in for an amputation. A subtraction.
But as I type this, the "bad" breast is aching...
It is a good reminder of what is under the skin. The tumor shrunk during chemo, but it is still there, a 5cm long, thin sliver. My nemesis.
Cut deep, dear surgeon. Cut deep and get it all!
But the breast... This breast has been with me since I was 11. I almost remember when the pare arrived in elementary school. Of course we've been together ever since. This breast was favored by my little one during our nursing days...
Thank you for all you did for us. You did your job well.
Rest in peace.