After having a day of not so fun meetings with doctors at Georgetown Hospital all day, including being told I couldn't get what is really my last chemo today because my blood levels were too low (a 0.7 neutrophil count which puts me at serious risk of infection) and then meeting with my plastic surgeon who instead of showing me how he was going to work miracles and reconstruct these bad boys who nearly killed me, showed me a book of before and after pictures of other patients in which even the best outcomes of those who hadn't had radiation (which everyone tells me messes up the cosmetic outcome of any breast plastic surgery making one breast higher than the other.) The pictures confirmed my worst nightmare that these mastectomy breasts are disfigured, look a bit like hatchet wounds and have an unbearable likeness to what I imagine it looks like to have been attacked by a wolf. When I got home, Luke threw up all over me as I tried to put him to bed. That pretty much sums it up.
