Today, the visit to the surgeon was an intimate affair after hubby was left to find a car park with the kids. I felt a little guilty, as though I was going to meet my mistress. It was a candid exchange. There were polite greetings, warm smiles and then the getting down to the business of inspecting the surgical breast, tissue expander and the progress of my painful and useless arm.

In the room were two late thirty somethings brought together to deal with the issue of breast cancer. One to supply the body and the other the scalpel. Both bottle blonde. Both having spent as much time studying at university in their lives, but one, a highly successful surgeon, the other, not really a highly successful anything. The usual breast care nurse with her human touch was not required for this visit, since I yanked out the drain getting out of bed for our storm crazed whippet.

We talked about how I have been travelling in the seven long days since our last visit. It has been two and half weeks since the surgery that took my boob and lymph nodes and replaced it with a tissue expander that won’t ever get expanded. The surgeon said “You look great, the breast looks excellent! You are healing really well and your arm is lifting high. Of course I didn’t expect anything less given you are young and fit. I’m sure you will push yourself.”

And then the clinker… “I won’t need to see you for another three months!”

I reached down to the grey carpet and picked up my heart off the floor and pushed it back into my chest. I could feel some steamy heat seeping through the gap under the closed consult room door where the Dread Dragon was outside panting. I knew this moment would come. It felt like I had just been dumped after a string of successful dates. I was sure she would want to have many more rendezvous. I am disappointed. I struggled to comprehend. It was all going so well. Today she even said my hair was “pretty” and my boob looked “fantastic”.

In all of this shock and disappointment of not getting to see her for three long torturous months, I confessed. In the confession was an embarrassing explanation of the dreams I had been having of her, my fascination with her clothes, shoes and perfume. I even asked her about her enormous engagement ring.

“That is the most amazing ring I have ever seen!” I clumsily blurted out.

“Oh thanks! Yes I have waited a long time to get it” she replied with an embarrassed tone.

I also mumbled something about my respect for her chosen career in such a traditionally male dominated area. And then, I admitted to taking secret pictures of her shoes, legs and dresses.

All of this was highly inappropriate and impulsive. But I don’t care. I am a stalker. Hopefully by confessing I have avoided any sort of lawsuit relating to privacy breaches. Though there still is the small issue of the stalking.

I won’t be posting images of my fantastic plastic boob. So instead, it’s another image of the surgeon’s divine shoes. Unlike the others, with this one I had permission to take it.


Today I also learnt that going on a crowded ‘standing room only’ Melbourne tram is not the smartest of ideas. Post mastectomy and with my useless arm, the anxiety of elbows, handbags and congested bodies was just too overwhelming.

Oh and in case you were wondering, my new boob is fantastic! I showed my girlfriend today and she also agreed there has been an enormous improvement in the Lisey chest situation.