Tats and tatty-bye

Been back to the reconstruction clinic for the finishing touches and the tattoo team were very attentive. Preparation is everything, apparently, and I sat on the couch for some time bare-chested while Paul, the male of the duo sized me up and his female colleague used my ‘good’ breast as a colour palette.

The actual tattooing took just minutes and I must say the result is a pretty good match and – thanks to the anaesthetic cream they gave me – the procedure was painless. I asked if there was anything they could do to erase the permanent tattoos put on before radiotherapy (two dots visible when wearing swimwear or summer tops) and they kindly offered to ‘turn them into moles’, but I declined.

Now I’m fully re-constructed I think it’s time to wind this blog up. It has been about recovery, and although I don’t think there is ever a specific moment when I’ve felt ‘I am recovered’ there are times when I realise I haven’t thought about cancer for days, even weeks, and moments when the whole experience feels like something that happened to someone else.

As life has returned to ‘normal’ the need to write about myself – that I found so therapeutic at first – has lessened, and I know have been slack about keeping this blog up to date, so thank you to anyone who has stuck with it.

So all that remains for me to say to regular followers, occasional visitors or anyone who’s stumbled across this is cheerio for now and thank you for sharing this journey with me.

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Oh no, another ASBO!

Slipknot has slipped again. She’s been resting at Newark pending refurbishment and outstayed her welcome, so the man from British Waterways slammed a notice on her.

Another time recently she broke free of her moorings and floated off  down river, under a viaduct and into some reeds.

The boys spent bank holiday Monday moving her back to Beeston in the rain. Meanwhile I stayed at home recuperating..

One not to watch..

 Channel 4 Dispatches tomorrow night – The truth about going under the knife.

Not before Wednesday, anyway.

Wednesday is the day when I go to have the temporary saline implant swapped for a more permanent silicone one. Sounds straightforward, but it still involves an hour and a half in surgery. An hour and a half when I’m out for the count and someone else has total control over what happens to me – and it’s this that gives me the jitters.

No, I shan’t be watching. When I descend to the operating theatre (you do descend, it’s in the hospital basement), I want it to be with absolute faith that all processes and procedures are faultless.