I nodded. So far what he was saying made sense. I couldn’t give up yet. “Yes. Okay. When do I have the surgery?”
“First we need to decide if you want reconstructive surgery at that time,” he said.
“That won’t be a problem for the treatment after?” I asked. Could you radiate fake tits?
“Research indicates that it’s fine. You can wait if you rather, though. It’s up to you.”
I looked down at my breasts. For the longest time, they’d just been two blobs that were nice to have during sex and breast feeding. I remembered the halter dress Emma got me and how sexy it made me look. Part of what made me pretty, and made Brayden’s eyes pop out, was how the dress accentuated my breasts. Would losing them be like losing my womanhood? My sense of femininity? Would replacement boobs help with that?
“If you’d like, we have support groups where you can meet women who have made each decision; one to not reconstruct and the other have reconstruction,” my doctor said.
“Is it vanity to want them?” All I could think about was all the woman who got bigger tits to add to their sexual appeal. I didn’t want that, and yet, I didn’t want to not look like a woman either.
He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Not any more than wanting reconstructive or cosmetic surgery after a trauma. How you look and feel is part of your identity. Breast implants can help with the emotional healing as it’s one less thing to have to deal with.”
“Okay. I’d like that then.” I wondered if insurance covered that and if Brayden would care if it didn’t.
The door burst open and Brayden blew in breathless like he’d been running. “I’m so, so sorry I’m late.”
He looked at me, and I could see the regret on his face, but it didn’t make me feel okay about his being late.
“We’re about done,” I said with little affect. I’d give him a piece of my mind later.
“Okay. So…what’s next…” He picked up my purse and sat in the chair.
“We were discussing chopping off my tits.”
He frowned as he looked to me and then the doctor. “I thought this first phase of treatment was to avoid that.”
My oncologist leaned forward with a disapproving stare. “Do you have an issue with your wife losing her breasts?”
“What?” Brayden blinked.
I was warmed by my doctor’s defense of me against what he thought was my husband’s sexual desire for my boobs.
“He’s not like that,” I said. I was angry at him for being late, but it wasn’t fair to let the doctor think he only cared about my looks. During the short time Brayden and I were in sync again, he’d gone out of his way to let me know he cared for me and could accept me losing my breasts.
“I just want her to be okay,” Brayden said. He reached for my hand, and while I would defend him from unjust judgement, I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook for being late. I moved my hand out of his reach.
He gave me a pained expression. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Her prognosis is still good, but we need to take a more aggressive approach.”
“Good,” he repeated the word like he wasn’t sure he liked it. I could understand. I’d rather have excellent prognosis.
My doctor went over the plan again and info about reconstructive breast surgery. Brayden sat, listening attentively.
“We can schedule your surgery for two weeks from now,” he finished.
“Two weeks? Shouldn’t she get in right away?” Brayden asked. “You said we need to be aggressive. Couldn’t two weeks give the cancer more chance—”
“We want her to recover a bit more from the chemo and no, two weeks shouldn’t make a difference.”
He stood, which I took as the cue that our appointment was over. I rose from my chair as did Brayden.
“I’ll have the nurse get you some more information about the surgery as well as the reconstruction.”
“Thank you,” I said and then headed out the door. Brayden and the doctor followed.
I stood quietly as my doctor went to the nurse to ask her about the packet of information.
“Terra.” Brayden put his hand on my lower back, but I stepped away from his reach. “I’m sorry honey.”
I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for being late or the news that I had to lose my breasts. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him now.
“She’ll be right with you,” my oncologist said and then disappeared into his office.
A few minutes later the nurse came out with a packet of papers and informational brochures. She went over each and then finished with information about support groups.
“We have several cancer support groups to help you before and after the surgery,” she explained.
“We have one for spouses and family too,” she said to Brayden handing him another brochure. “In fact, one is starting in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I said, shoving the information in my purse. I was quickly coming to the end of my emotional tether and wanted to get home.
As I walked toward the elevator, Brayden walked quietly beside me.
Once inside the elevator, he said, “I’m sorry I was late, honey. Really, I meant to—”
“You always mean to be there, Brayden. And yet, you can’t seem to tear yourself away from work to be with your family.” I shook my head. “By now you’d think I’d know the true love of your life.”
“That’s not fair, Terra. I’m working to make arrange—”
“Fair?” I swung around on him. “Fair?”
He winced like he knew it was the wrong choice of words. Still, he went on. “I was with you during all the treatments. I took time away from that, and I’ve been working hard to get more time, but I can’t just walk away from
