Well, we got an appointment for the plastic surgeon tomorrow - the guy that works with the guy that we love. As I understand it currently, they'd work together, lop off the old and begin the new (expanders and what not) in one long-ass day. Perhaps 7-10 hours. I say, suck a little fat out of my chin, taper my love handles, and perhaps remove a few ribs. Since I'll be there, knocked out and will have to endure recovery no matter what - why not?
We still haven't told our little girl. How do you approach the subject? I figure the more info we have, with a game plan in place, it will be better. Because we still don't know shit. I don't want to tell her that I have cancer, but I don't know what we're going to do, or when I'll have surgery, or what they're going to do in surgery.
That leaves a lot of room for worry. For us too - which is why I'm glad we got in tomorrow. They nicely fit us in last minute, switched some appointments around. I guess the folks they switched already had their game plan in place.
I've put on a few lbs. I'm not fat - if you know me, I tend to flip flop between "fighting shape" and "not bad for my age". I hate that saying, but it's true. I'd much rather be in great shape, regardless of age. I know it's stress. I know it's me being depressed and not able to get my butt to the gym (and when I go, I feel kind of lame, I work slow, I lift less, I "work out like a girl", essentially). That's why it's best for me to go with hubby. Sometimes I want to kick him in the nuts when he acts like I'm being a badass, but of course I love him to bits. Nuts and all. So I tell him to shut up as I huff and puff lifting whatever God-forsaken weight I am stuck under or grunting to lift. And I love him endlessly for his encouragement.
So I need to be better. For me. For my daughter. For my recovery from whatever they're going to do to me.
It's amazing, I'm really not taking in more calories. I'm just less active. And sad. I think sadness affects metabolism. Has anyone ever studied that???
So, once again, Fuck You, Cancer. Fuck you for making me lose my breast in the near future, possibly both. Fuck you for making me sad so I am now carrying a few extra pounds. And fuck you, because I am ridiculously healthy in my lifestyle and diet. Why can't you pick on someone who needs a wakeup call? Not me.
Oh well. I'm in it. Maybe it's a sign that I should begin eating fast food and living like a sloth.
Too late, I'm hooked on my healthy lifestyle. Let's hope my new boobs are way better than these things. There MUST be a bright side to all of this.
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