He sighed. “Are you suggesting not having treatment?”
“If it won’t matter, maybe.”
“Even if your situation was dire, which it’s not at this point, treatment could prolong your life.”
“If I’m unable to live it, it’s not much of a life though, is it?”
His brow furrowed. I suppose my response was different than most people. Most people probably wanted to do whatever it took to give them a chance to live.
“Mrs. Burrow, your cancer is treatable right now. Five-year survival rates are about seventy-two percent with this treatment at this stage. Untreated, it’s likely the cancer would spread and kill you in less than that.”
He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, he said, “After treatment, we’ll see how it went. If all goes well, we put you on a six month check-up schedule to monitor that the cancer hasn’t returned. If it’s still there or spread, we’ll decide the next course of action then.”
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 lo
oked 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.”