We went to visit my MIL today in hospital. She had a mastectomy this afternoon.
She was cheerful enough when we went to visit and much like herself - she wanted a sherry, so we were pretty sure that she was fine.
I have to admit that I was concerned. I wasn't sure what it would be like when we visited her. A breast is so much part of being a woman that I was unsure - even for myself - how it would be to see her after she had one of hers removed.
I don't know what I would do. Sometimes I have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror now. One doesn't always love what one sees. I can't imagine what it would be like to look down and see a scar where my breast used to be and know that it had been taken by something so very far beyond my control.
It's such a dirty thing, cancer. You want to whisper it, like the mother in "Saint Elmo's Fire." It's not something that you can just say "get well soon!" to or something that they have greeting cards for. I mean, it's not like you can run over to Papyrus and pick up a card for cancer patients with pithy little sentiments like "Hope your cells don't spread!" on it.
My MIL wants to go to her own home afterwards. I guess she wants to take her time getting used to the "new" her in a quiet and (I think, maybe) controlled environment. I wish that my SIL would let her do just that. If it were me, I know I'd want some time to myself - time to wallow if I needed it, time to adjust - without the hustle and bustle of someone else's house, someone else's schedule.
Well, until you get back home and can sit in front of the fire and have a glass of sherry yourself, mum, I'll have one in you honor.
My thoughts and prayers - and for the moment, my liver - are with you.