choices

It hit me last night, the reason why I do the things I do. It's because I want to regain my power to choose. Whatever it  may be, anything. I played tennis with my drains in because I wanted to, and I could. It wasn't a rousing game against Maria Sharapova, but a fun game with hubby and little daughters. Yesterday, when I went for my fill at the hospital, the nurse came to get me and asked if I wanted a gown. I instantly said no. I don't have anything against those hospital gowns, in fact I like the smell of the laundry soap they use. I said no because I could, because I was given a choice. During this past year and a half, my power to choose has been taken away from me. I couldn't go on the hiking trip we had planned on last summer, I couldn't return to work when I wanted, nor I could I take care of my family the way I wanted. So many things were dictated by my health. I feel like I have been on the sidelines for so long, that now, when I can choose to do something I want, I am ready for it. I am the toddler, stomping her foot, demanding her way.

Another part of the problem is that I don't feel pain like most people. Lucky, or unlucky, I'm not sure. I have skied out the day with a broken thumb and torn ligaments. I have broken my elbow and not realized it until the next day. I have sprained my ankle badly enough to tear the ligaments and not remember how it happened. I cannot answer the nurses when asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10. They ask to rate my current pain against the worst pain I have ever felt. Well, I have never experienced horrible pain. What's the worst? A sprained ankle? A broken thumb? Childbirth? None of those things really hurt, so how do I answer?  So, I have to estimate what a normal person would feel and try to be more conservative in my activities. I promise to be more careful, after my skydiving lessons are completed. Kidding.

I was called this morning at 7:00 am to go for an ultrasound of the breast to check the placement of the expander. It turns out the the expander has found its way under my armpit and around to my back, under my shoulder blade. How attractive. You may have heard of a foob - a fake book, and a toob - a tissue transfer boob. I have an apoob - an armpit boob. I wouldn't recommend one.

I stopped in to see Dr. B after the ultrasound, to sign the surgical consent form, and to show him the markings the tech drew on me, marking my expander. He told me I have the "complication gene". For some people, things just seem to go awry. He thanked me for being a good patient, for laughing in the face of all these issues. He has no doubt I will come through this surgery just fine, ready to do something else to make him cringe. Nothing like having Doogie Howser wag his finger at you.