The Knife

I don't really understand how people can bear to be surgeons and cut into flesh, even for life-giving purposes. I suppose Dr. C. will not think of himself as cutting off a nipple so much as cutting out the bad stuff, the killer, though both are true.

It's all scheduled now, down in my calendar: this Wed., pre-op meeting with surgeon and tests like X-ray and EKG, and the surgery itself next week, on Tues. The focus of interest should be getting through it and the post-op path report, which could answer important questions like whether this is a recurrence or new cancer, how aggressive the nature of the malignancy actually is, and whether or not the surgeon got enough out so the operation doesn't have to be immediately repeated, as eleven years ago.

Instead I find myself thinking about fitting into my bras, and what I'm going to have to do to look passably normal. This is actually more of an issue to me than how I'm going to look without a bra, since I can control who will see me naked (basically, as of this writing, no one), but I have to go out and face the public (including that pitiless population, my students) dressed, like it or not.