Don’t you hate how when you reach a place, a decision, mindfully and finally peacefully, it suddenly gains its own momentum? Mocks you for ever thinking it was on your terms.  To back up a bit I last shared 4 months or so ago after a previous hiatus and promised I hadn’t been hiding. And I hadn’t. Really. I’d just gone in. But these last 4 months I’ve been consciously out,  busy filling my life with normality.  I realise now I’ve also been waiting.  But less consciously.  Waiting to feel strong enough to give my kind cancer surgeon the nod to cut away my remaining breast. And an equally kind plastic surgeon the nod to try his best to recreate some semblance of feminine normality from nothing. Nothing. Everything has to go. Breast tissue, skin, nipple. Everything. I’ve been waiting to feel peaceful about deciding to deal with the what ifs rather than the what is for the first time in this fucked up recurring reality. And I’ve been waiting to feel peaceful about doing what I know I must.  The irony is not lost on me that my first cancer surgeon 13 years ago advised me if she were me she would have removed everything.  To not live in fear of recurrence. Although she admitted she’d never been faced with that decision. You never know how you’ll be until its you. And I hope it never is. So I chose to deal with what was. What is. And have continued to. And I have no regret. I refuse to be led by fear. To live in fear. Who knows how different I would have been had I done something I was not ready to do. Or felt was not necessary to do. I have never been overtreated.  We’ve just done what is reasonable based on what we were presented with. The fact that my cancer isn’t reasonable and that I insist on being a one percenter, noone could have predicted. It could have been different. It also could have been worse. So now my waiting is over. I have peacefully come to the place of readiness both physically after the toll of last year and mentally, to move forward. To do what is reasonable. And now necessary.  So I went to see the plastic surgeon my kind and committed cancer surgeon recommended, and he was lovely. On the same day I had a bone scan. An ongoing follow up to see if there is any metastases in my bones. You really don’t want that. And thank fuck there isnt any. It seems that aborted chemo did its bit. I also had another CT scan and damn if those pesky lymph nodes in my right breast that bothered the radiologists last time, are still bothering them. Not my reasonable doctors so much. So nor me. But. Once we open you up to remove your breast, we can check them out with pathology and do what is necessary says my reasonable doctor. So the momentum has started gathering. Its becoming a little more urgent. And it seems the plastic surgeon is in huge demand, which I suppose is a good thing (therein lies another conversation altogether). It seems my surgery is somewhat complex, go figure, due to previous treatment and surgeries, so my cancer surgeon wants to work with someone well versed in autologous reconstructions.  The only time my cancer surgeon, my plastic surgeon (don’t you love the ownership) and the anaethetist they like to work with are available together in the forseeable not too distant future is the 5 September. Not distant enough. Much sooner than I had planned. I’ve got stuff on. Fuck. So much for mindfully and peacefully. Shit now needs to get done.

Anyhoo. I thought I might share this next phase too. Not just because it helps me, but it seems there are those who think a mastectomy is a boob job. Best I tell them otherwise.

what is this

Mummy bloggers. Fuck I hate that phrase. It’s so condescending, sexist and all kind of wrong. Not the words but the dismissive way in which the label is always used. But it’s only a label, and you all know me, I think labels suck. You are what you are who cares what they choose to call you or label you.  Labels are words and you are not words you are how you behave.  I have also started living more and more by my oft repeated mantra, the cease your relentless participation thing. I often do choose now not to participate. Because I can. I chose not to last night when they had a thing on Media Watch on ‘mummy bloggers’. Because I’m not one. Not really. Although I am a mummy. And I sort of blog. And because I knew it was going to irritate me on behalf of those who are and who I spend more time with now. Irritate me because of how generally dismissive mainstream media are of bloggers. Well ‘mummy bloggers’. Even when they’re pretending not to be.  By bloggers I’m meaning those who it seems have a long term goal of sorts. Whether simply to measure their success by increasing their followers, their page views, or sharing their experience to benefit others. Or those with a commercial goal.  Even if just to fund their ongoing blogging. So I chose not to watch for many reasons … one my pissed offness, two my feeling of maybe I should be taking this more seriously and mostly three, it would force me to think about what this is. But then I watched it via Woogsworlds blog, I do love the irony, and I thought about it. What this is. I’m not really a blogger. Really. This is just me for a year focussing on all the things I’m grateful for. And mostly the gift of life itself. It’s for me. It’s out there (a little) because that forces me to continue. I have to complete my year. I do not want to comment on other’s blogs just to increase my page views.  I want to comment on other blogs because I like what they say and I want to share what I think. I want to remain authentic. It bothers me enough when I see if I put fuck in a title I get more page views, because suddenly it seems thats why I do it, but I do it because thats how I speak. I don’t want to read someone’s blog and suddenly feel let down by her inauthencity when she oh so subtly recommends I buy this or this because she swears by it but its clear she’s paid to say that. It’s disingenuous. No matter how many times she says she doesn’t take on brands she doesn’t relate to. I think I spent too many years in advertising, I am a tad jaded. Sadly, everyone has a price. The choice is ours to read or not. But I understand why its done. I just don’t want to. And there are ways to do it (ads on blogs are preferable to sponsored posts in my view) and those ‘mummy bloggers’ (damn I struggled to find the right descriptor for these fabulous women some journalists some not some career women some not with children who write and share online) who keep their authenticity will get all my page views.  So blogging as a business is not for me but I love the big up yours these talented inspiring women are giving to the mainstream media. I love what they share. I love their truth. Just not when it gets smudged a bit.