Scaring My Ears

The doctor's appointments are waning. Now that I feel mostly normal, they're more of an annoyance. I have my first follow-up appointment with Dr. Botnick. My left breast, armpit and part of my back are still flaming red and painful. My left breast has definitely risen up slightly. It's not just me being crazy. Dr. Botnick confirms it. He reminds me that natural breasts are not totally even and the difference in mine isn't detectable to the human eye. Except mine, which is really the only eye that matters. I tell him I'm nervous it will only get worse when I get my final implants, but he says it won't. He thinks everything will always be fine though so I make an appointment to see Dr. Slate.

Dr. Slate has moved offices and so I have to wait longer than usual as his staff is learning the necessary procedures at the Breast Center. I had forgotten how annoying it is to be asked a slew of redundant and irrelevant questions about my medical history. But I answer them and then am led to an examination room. Dr. Slate gives me a big hug before opening up my gown. "Does the left one look a lot higher than the right?" I ask him. He pauses and then responds "I just can't get the past the color, so give me a minute." Nice. He agrees that the left breast is "slightly" higher but assures me that he can make them even during my final implant surgery. Sadly though, the fix comes from making the right side higher so I'll look even more fake than I already do. Sigh.

I notice the fakeness most when I'm exercising, which thankfully I've started doing a lot. I bounce on trampolines and run on treadmills and the boobs don't move at all. Very bizarre. I want to wear a t-shirt that says "not by choice," on it so that people don't think I'm like every other plastic L.A. girl out there. I also start working out with the most amazing trainer (Ashley Borden) who is just a goddess. She has me lifting weights and doing push ups and swears that someday soon I'll do a pull up. It feels so good to use my body again, particularly my arms, and start getting back in shape. It's often incredibly uncomfortable thanks to the rock hard expanders I'm still sporting, but it's worth it.

In the midst of feeling good, I get a bill from Dr. Phillips' office. When I spoke to his financial coordinator (or whatever the hell she's called), Valerie, after being informed a few weeks prior to surgery that he didn't accept any insurance, Valerie assured me of Dr. Phillips' fee and that I was paying in full prior to surgery so I'm super confused. And pissed. I speak to Valerie who assures me I won't get another bill. Phew. But I do. I'm livid. I go back and forth speaking to Valerie and others in Dr. Phillips' billing department trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. I'm told that there was an error (euphemistically called a "misunderstanding,") and I owe Dr. Phillips a shitload of money. When one woman in the billing office tells me she'll speak to the powers at be and let me know how to proceed, I respond "let me tell you how I will proceed. I am an incredibly sympathetic plaintiff. I'm young, cute, recently bald and pregnant, informed 2 weeks before massive, life changing surgery that my doctor doesn't take insurance, induced by one of his staff members to use him based on his fee and then hit up for money I never knew about or consented to." Silence. And then a message from yet another person in the billing department informing me that my balance is zero. At last!

Good thing that Boris and I are on our way to San Francisco for a fuck cancer celebration weekend. We have planned our weekend around eating at restaurants I've been wanting to try - most of them serving cancer inducing foods. In our very chic hotel room (thank you Debbie) the first thing we see is a big card in the sitting area that says "fuck cancer." I can't believe anyone got the hotel staff to write that. It's a beautiful and touching card, accompanied by champagne, chocolate covered strawberries and a cheese plate (hurray!) from Nitasha and Kulmeet and Rachel, another good friend who lives in San Francisco. Such a great start to the weekend which was wonderful. Boris and I did spend half the trip missing the boys, but we had a great time.

We return to shocking news. One of my pregnant with cancer friends who finished chemo about a year ago has a recurrence. She needs more surgery and possibly more chemo. I want to die for her. And I'm terrified for me, too. Selfish, I know, but I can't help it. I know that triple negative tumors (which she also had) have such a high recurrence rate, but never really think it's coming back. We've all suffered enough. And I know that I'm not her and that just because she has a recurrence doesn't mean that I'm going to, but I'm terrified nonetheless. Just another reminder that I have many, many years to get through before I'm truly done with this shit.

We also happily return to our boys who are so insanely cute and amazing it's mind boggling. My baby Baron is already standing up and trying to walk. What!? He's gifted for sure. He spends a good portion of his day pulling up on anything he can get his hands on (including me) and then swaying back and forth occasionally moving a foot in the process. He smiles and drools and claps with excitement. And I want to write a book called "Amazing Things Miles Says," because he is just...well, amazing. As I'm putting him to bed one night we sit snuggled up on his chair. I kiss his arms and head and he says "don't kiss me, mom (sadly, I'm no longer mommy). I'll kiss you." And he dots my arm and face with tiny kisses. I tell him that I love it when he kisses me and he smiles. I kiss him again and he says "I love you kissing me, mom." I melt. Recently while listening to the radio in the car, he said "change the song, mom. It's scaring my ears."

I wish I could just change the channel when I hear something that scares my ears. Like recurrences and shitty statistics. Instead I listen to the louder and beautiful sounds of my boys and my internal voice that doesn't believe this could ever happen again.