Well here we are again…another eve of another surgery.  A double header no less.  My reconstruction is upon us.  Wohoo!  I am finally feeling better physically so I am dreading feeling crummy again.  It must sound strange but it takes a lot of energy to psyche yourself up take on major surgery with a smile.  That said, Diedre is a gift and lovely artist so I am genuinely elated to not only have reached this milestone in fine form, but excited knowing how well she will reconstruct my body and thus perhaps my mind.  As many of you know, I also decided to proceed with a total hysterectomy.  Sigh.  This piece is a little harder to digest.  I respect that this decision isn’t for everyone, but it is right for me.  HARD but right.  I know I am in good hands with Nick.  And Michael, well, everything is better with Michael in charge.

I’m ready, prepared, able, willing.  I put my life, again, in the care of my dream time.  Michael, Diedre, and Nick – go get em’!

But first I had to survive another pre-op appointment.  And with it another round of questions by well meaning but utterly clueless persons.  Why are you having this surgery (If I had $100 for every person who has asked)? The only reason my eyes didn’t project fire laced daggers directly at her head is because my super power flames were too quickly soaked by my familiar tears.  I am reconstructing my breasts, because I had them chopped off after they and their co-conspirator cancer tried to kill me.  I’m giving up my uterus, ovaries, appendix, and related parts so that they don’t get the opportunity to interrupt my future with any menacing of their own.  Any other questions?

What do you know?  The view can’t possibly be good enough from your cheap seats to question me, can it?  And this poor girl isn’t the first, so many people have questioned, however, softly.

Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?  I’m a baby (or at least I was until I turned 40) who never gave up hope of having more babies (or at least I did until I turned 40 and got cancer). I am all girl (or at least I was until I had to start giving away my lady parts one by one right after I turned 40).  I’m actually not joking here.  I just spent ten years trying to have children.  Making this “choice” is a bullet to a very tender place in my heart.  But somehow, inexplicably, I found the courage to do not what I want but what I need to do.  To protect myself and more importantly – to protect my boys.

You don’t have to understand, in fact, you should consider yourself extraordinarily blessed if you don’t.  But please be gentle with me, I’m hurting.  We joke in our house a fair amount, that there is no crying in baseball (or football…my preferred sport).  But this isn’t baseball, this is cancer.  The universes ultimate game of mindfuck.  I have chosen to stay on the offense, to control what I CAN control since there is already too much I can’t.  But tears and raw emotion are an honest part of the landscape right now.

So annoying hospital administration lady with the 5,000 stupid questions, YES!, you have my consent… to make me less susceptible, better, healthier, stronger.  I consent to more major surgery because I consent to living another 45 years.  Do I really have a choice?

I plan to enter the hospital with a public debut of my chia pet’esque fur and I will stand tall doing it.  I plan to leave the hospital free and whole.

There are so many words swirling in my head tonight but the anxiety has gotten the better of me, so I will keep this post short.  I have a life and a job that matters, and most importantly – a family and friends that mean EVERYTHING…to get back to.  I am done with cancer. It has to be time to move on.

I consent.  Show me where to sign.

Much love,

jodi