posted on the Breast Health Online forum
David is out in the
kitchen, cooking. I can hear the clank
and clatter of pots and pans, even from two rooms away with headphones
strapped over my ears. Soon our tiny apartment will fill
with dinner aromas: pasta with homemade pesto, steamed vegetables,
broiled chicken with some of that good apricot marinade we bought at
the fruit market in Castroville last weekend.
I'm not especially hungry. Ever since we booked my surgery
appetite seems to have shrivelled away to nothing: I think it must be
nerves. But I'll make a show of eating his
cooking anyway. He is such a good man: he treats me
like a queen. The least I can do is feign appreciation for his culinary
efforts, even if my stomach feels as clenched and unforgiving as a fist.
worried about, exactly?
anesthesia, for one thing. I'm worried about being knocked
out for the surgery. I've only had one experience with
general anesthesia, when I was twelve years old and had a couple of
molars extracted. Nothing since then. The idea of
surrendering consciousness -- of surrendering
complete control of my body to a surgeon's scalpel -- is a pretty scary thing
about the time I'm going to miss from my job, too. I've been
with the company for less than a year, and I've already taken off a
fair amount of time for various medical reasons. I don't
think my job will be in any jeopardy if I need more time to recover
than originally planned (I'm asking for a week to start). But on the
other hand, I AM trying to build a reputation for
reliability. I like to be where I say I'll be, WHEN I say
I'll be there. I like the fact that my boss can count on me.
Historically this hasn't always been the case.
to throw a rock?
-- I'll admit it -- I'm
about David, and about how he's going to feel about my breasts after
the reduction. Right from the beginning he has made it clear
that while he loves my body, just the way it is, he will support me in
any medical decisions I make. I know that he loves me with
his whole heart. Still ... I worry.
This is a man who was visibly squeamish over last year's
infected ingrown toenail. How on earth is he going to react to my
breasts covered in scars and bandages? We'll talk about all
of these issues before the surgery, of course, and we'll deal with
them, and in the end we'll be just fine. The smart part of me
But sometimes we have no control over the secret fears of our heart.
the bedroom carrying a plate. "Do you want your salad now?"
he asks. "Or do you want to wait and eat it with the rest of
your dinner?" He has concocted a lovely blend of romaine,
quartered tomatoes, sliced yellow peppers and garlic croutons.
The salad bowl has been chilled, and a clean napkin is folded
and tucked beneath the salad fork.
great," I lie to him. And
I take the bowl from his hand and dig in.