After confirming the size, location, et al of the lump that had been nestling in my right breast for a while, I was booked for what the surgeon called ‘a simple procedure’ to extract it. I treated it so lightly that I only told my mother the evening before the operation. Understandably she was upset because I had scheduled for Good Friday, the same day that my dad had his heart attack two years prior – the start of the downward spiral before he passed 3 months later.
Initially, I had planned to just get a friend to drive me because I knew I wouldn’t be able to drive myself back. I honestly did not want to make a fuss about something ‘simple’. But my mother made such a big deal about the affair that I asked my sister, Lindsey and my friend Fiona to tag along – to hold my hand and whatever.
This I was grateful for. The surgeon was such a Ugandan that he made us wait for 3 good hours before he turned up at the hospital. I remember thinking that maybe his delay was God’s way of forcing me to see the doctor that my mother had recommended. But then again, when else would I have free days to recuperate? I was planning a vacation in June and didn’t want to affect any leave days of mine. (More on this later) Such was my nonchalant attitude with the whole affair.
I will say however that the surgeon did an marvelous job. See, I have small perfect boobies. Yes, I know I said ‘perfect’. Yes, I’m being vain. If there wasn’t a risk of being arrested for peddling internet porn I’d share a picture here (yes, you do take pictures of your body parts when you’re afraid you’re going to lose them). But I’ve digressed. During the operation, only the lining of the dark area of the nipple (the areola) was cut. He managed to prod through this hole to remove the lump. This was must be why it was such an unpleasant affair. But within a few days, after the swelling had come down and the bandage was removed, it looked as good as new.
All I had to do then was wait for the results.