Trust. I think I need to stop eating late at night (my coping tool right now, don't tell me this bad my fat ass already knows)because I have weird dreams and they are affecting my psyche during the day if I can remember the dream. For instance, last night my hubby and I had big bowls of vanilla ice cream(sugar free) and loads of caramel(not sugar free). What I can remember about my dream was that I was being carried into the operating room riding a camel wearing only some bright yellow rubber ducky boots! If there are any dream interpreters out there please share what this means:) This could be some freaky interpretation of fear or it could mean put the spoon down before 7pm.....
Trust, like faith is an incredible thing to posses. I should have trusted my hubby to tell me to put the spoon and bowl down but he finished what I didn't eat, so I hope I can trust him to help me take off old and new pounds after my surgery:) I trust a good pair of leather shoes, but can I trust my surgeons? I trust any book written by Cornell West to give it to me straight and tell me what I need to be doing to make my community a better place but can I trust the anesthesiologist to get the right dose of medicine correct? I know better than to completely trust any politician but can I trust the nurses to empty my fluid tubes and change my dressings? Ugghh....am I paranoid? Probably, but it's where I am right now. Trust is an issue for me.....
Some people have asked me where did I get the name for my blog. One friend stated it was "bold." Hmmm, not sure about bold but here's where it comes from: After my merry go round of mammograms and doctor appointments with my boobs exposed, my final meeting with my breast surgeon as well as the plastic surgeon both came up with similar results as to why a mastectomy, single or plural was the very last resort....to save the breast for pleasure reasons. WHAT??? are they kidding me? Is that the only reason? Did you pay a bunch of money in medical school to be able to spew that s**t to women? My breasts were used to feed my children for a total of 24 months between all three....hence the sagging.....and as far as I am concerned they have fulfilled their mission. I was attached to my 21 years old boobs....not these 42 year old puppies.
If the goal was to preserve them for pleasure reasons then should I have been asked where my pleasure is derived from? Here we go with trust again. I trust the doctors to be straight with me and ask me pertinent questions. I am not paying them to think for me. So, I simply stated, thus the title of my blog......Damn the Breast, SAVE MY LIFE.....
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