Ping Pong

I was supposed to have a CT scan this morning, so that my radiation oncologist could begin "mapping," or preparing a model for where and at what intensity I'll get hit with radiation. 

But first I have to have my boobs deflated.

Over the past three weeks, I've received weekly injections of varying amounts of saline into the expanders under my pectoral muscles, like ever-growing water balloons in my chest. The goal is to slowly stretch the skin and muscle so that eventually, about a year from now, they can easily insert implants into the pockets they've created. The process feels about as comfortable as it sounds.

But for radiation to work optimally, the surface needs to be as flat as possible. Turns out, they haven't figured out how to bend photons yet. Those physisicts are seriously slacking. So my medical team plastic surgeon is working to expand, expand, expand me just up to the point he has to deflate me for radiation.

Yesterday, when I asked my plastic surgeon what his end goal was - and I meant size-wise - he said simply: "Perfection." He's mentioned more than once how unfortunate it is that I have to have radiation. You're telling me, I think. He's worried about his artistry; I've promised to be diligent with the aloe and shea butter.

Perfect boobs isn't quite the same goal my oncologists have, though, and the back and forth (and back and forth some more) between my radiation oncologist and my plastic surgeon about timing, expansion, deflation, mapping and where I need to be for what appointments when has me feeling like a ping pong ball lately.

Right now, it's looking like I'll have most of the saline removed from my expanders in two weeks, then the CT mapping, and then radiation beginning right around mid-March. But I won't be surprised if that all gets turned on its head and pigs do a fly-by of my house in the meantime.