Tomorrow morning I have an oncologist appointment to get felt up, measured, analyzed, to see if the killer drugs are killing the right cells as well as the wrong ones. I can already feel one tumour getting noticeably smaller, so that makes me feel like the full-body Nair (sans Nair) treatment I've been getting is paying off.
And just before my onc appt. I have my first consultation with a plastic surgeon. Even though my surgery won't be until December or January, my surgeon wanted me to meet with the breast man early so I could... pick out the boobies I want? Not sure, but looking forward to whatever it is he'll want to chat about because it reminds me that I will eventually get to that stage, even as I dread round three on Friday.
Last week in Osoyoos I was checking out the ladies by the pool like a 14-year old boy. Do I want tiny Kate Hudson ones that I can bounce around, go bra-less, sleep on my stomach with?
Do I want Jennifer Aniston ones that I still fit into an off-the-rack bikini, shove into a tight dress, alert the coast guard that I'm coming to shore with? Or do I want the the C-cups of my late teens, when I could use them to distract boys from the fact that I was really a cold-hearted lass not worth tangling with? Oh, my yute.
Not quite sure yet, but whatever I end up with, they'll have to do some mighty good shaping and moulding to get them looking more human and less frankenboob. I have my doubts.