There is some required reading prior to delving into this post, people. I know. You feel like you’re back in school. Sorry if that gives you nightmares. But here’s the deal: If you have not read Boob Retrospective or if you read it ages ago and it is not fresh in your mind, you should read it now so that you know what I am talking about.

I had a shitty morning. I was minding my own business, cooking up some scrambled eggs for my five-year-old, when the phone rang. It was my radiation oncologist. I answered and she thought I was my husband. I guess my voice was a bit deep because I hadn’t been up that long. I figured she was about to tell me that all systems were go for my radiation starting on Monday after getting the scan results from last Friday.

But no.

What she told me, rather, was that they were going to have to take some of the saline OUT of my expanders before beginning radiation because otherwise it would cause me to get some radiation to the left breast. (They don’t want to deliver any radiation where it isn’t needed for obvious reasons and if heaven forbid you should ever need any to that area in the future you have problems if it has already been irradiated).

Because I was in front of my children I held it together and finished cooking the breakfast. But then I went into my room and had a good cry. I mean for fuck’s sake. Here I am, finally a sunny day in London, and no more every other Thursday chemo to contend with, and now this Thursday I get to visit the plastic surgeon so he can make my boobs… smaller. By 4 centimetres. Talk about reverse progress.

I can assure you this is not going to look good. I don’t mind so much about the flatness, but it will get all wrinkly, particularly at the top and on the sides where the expanders don’t have much fluid in them. And I get to go through the next six weeks in London and then enjoy my beach vacation like that. Really good for a girl’s self-image. It’s a lucky thing I haven’t gone swimsuit shopping yet. That’s sure to be a barrel of laughs. “Um, yeah, do you have anything that will work with… this?”

The day after the deflation I must have yet another radiation planning scan and then the whole delays my treatment by two days. “But I already bought plane tickets for the US and we were leaving the day after my treatment ended.” I said. My radiation oncologist said that we could double up on two days provided the treatments are at least six hours apart. And that I could get reinflated “right away.” But naturally I won’t be here to get reinflated. I will be in the United States on my bloody vacation, won’t I. Wearing a potato sack.

I really shouldn’t complain, seeing as I have my scalp and mole biopsies to look forward to next Tuesday. That and I found this weird little lumpy thingie on my right arm yesterday and believe you me, once you find a little lump on your body that ends up being a tumour, you do NOT like to find any little lumpy thingies anywhere else. At all.

I am sure (and I am assured via telephone) that this is nothing. However, I don’t like it.

My plastic surgeon was in surgery all day today so I have not been able to speak to him about my impending deflation. I am certain he is no less unhappy than I am about having to undo his slow, steady expansion. Alas. Sucker punched again.

Well, screw all of that. I was meeting my glamorous Parisian friend, Marie, for lunch today at a little place called Cocomaya. So I went for a brisk half hour walk in the neighbourhood, it then being too late for me to get to the gym and back before lunch. Then I put on my lowest cut shirt, showing off my fresh cleavage tattoo. I figure I might as well display what I’ve got before it’s stolen away from me on Thursday morning.

And I went out and had a very nice time with my friend. After lunch I walked through Hyde Park to Harrods to see about the big sale that’s on. I really need to go horseback riding in Hyde Park one day soon. I haven’t been horseback riding in ages.

Of course Harrods was mobbed with (mostly irritating) people. Including one red-faced old bag who yelled at the nice man behind the loose tea counter as he was assisting me “what are you the only one working behind this counter now?” “Yes, madam.” “What the others are all on tea break are they?” “Yes, madam.” “Bloody hell!” I thought she might reach across the counter to strangle him. I suppose this would have been an opportune moment for me to whip off my headscarf and say “is it all right with you, madam, if the nice man finishes helping a cancer patient who is about to have her boobs taken away (again)?” But I am sure she wouldn’t have given a shit (especially since she was probably drunk) so I completely ignored her and just slowed down my order a bit.

I bought strawberry and mango black teas and this lotus situation that comes in an unremarkable little pod but then opens into a gorgeous flower once you pour boiling water over it. I guess I have to see my own situation this way. I am just in my pod phase. Soon I will bloom again (just please don’t pour boiling water on me).

Following that I bought some fresh cod (you may as well pick up something for din din if you find yourself at Harrods in the late afternoon) and some very fine artisanal chocolates. When I got home I gave each child one chocolate and then I gave myself three. This was met with mild outrage by the seven-year-old but I looked her straight in the eye and said “Mommy had a hard day.” And then I popped that third one into my mouth and savoured it. No guilt whatsoever.

I had my eighth and final chemotherapy treatment two weeks ago this coming Thursday. Every Tuesday night before a Thursday chemo I used to think, I have one more day. One more day to feel normal before they hit me again. This week was going to be a day when I didn’t have to think that. But now I am thinking I have one more day. One more day to look (somewhat) normal before they take my newbs away for about eight weeks, just in time for summer. One more day. One more thing to endure. One more festering turd on the road to killing it.

Of course I’ll be a good sport. I will embrace the flat look. Make it work for me. Conceal the wrinkly bits if they show. Get a padded bra or shove a chick fillet in there to plump things up.

And I will still be me. Because they can’t take that away from me.