26 days

I really meant to write this two days ago so it could be some zombie related post, but I forgot. I've never seen 28 Days Later anyway.

In 26 days, I will be drugged, cut up, sewn up, and then rise from the dead. I'm sure I've explained this before. This surgery will be my DIEP flap, which will take skin, fat, fascia and blood vessels from my stomach, and be shaped into two breasts that will be, um, installed where my old ones used to be. The two flaps will then be reconnected to blood vessels under my ribs. Some surgeons try to get the vessels between the ribs, other will resect a small part of the breast bone cartilage. I don't know which one my doc will do. I will then be left with a new belly button (they cut a new hole for it; I kid you now), a 2 foot long scar on my stomach (and here's me being grateful I avoided a cesarean- ha) and two smaller football-shaped scars on my fake boobs, or foobs as most people who have gone through this call them.

Still with me? Not freaking out? Well, if you're not, you're doing better than I am. If you were to ask me how many times a day I think about this, it's easily 10+ times. Most thought are innocuous enough, such as "Oh, I must get this before Sept 22" or "I have to get that taken care of." But in the last week, I past the less than one month mark, which made it seem real and I freaked. Every day I'm very much aware of how many more days are left and how little time I still have to do things in. And so much to do. Kids start school next week. Liam's birthday. Dentist and doctors appointments for the kids. Doctor's appointments for me.

And then I descend into depression of what can REALLY go wrong. The flaps could fail. Or even more likely, only one flap could fail and then I'll be left lopsided. At least right now, despite being flatter than a weird shaped pancake, I'm even and I don't even mind too much. Granted, I haven't worn a dress since last December, but I'm vaguely satisfied. Even worse, this surgery isn't without fatality risks. Am I even willing to even risk death just so I can fill out a blouse again?

Sigh. Repeat the last two paragraphs about a million times an hour, and that's my mental state right now.

The one thing I'm not going to be able to avoid is pain and discomfort. The recovery for this one is even worse than a mastectomy because the nerves for the stomach aren't cut. Because a major section of skin is cut out the belly, standing upright isn't possible for a few weeks. And again, arm movement is restricted while the chest tries to heal. But yay drugs!

Anyway, thanks for letting me get that off my chest (HA!). Please forgive any mental and emotional meltdowns for the next little bit.