It's all in the preparation.

Phew, my bag is packed for my trip to the hospital.

New pyjamas. Check.
Multiple pairs of appropriate knickers. Check.
Toiletries. Check.
Lipstick. Check (see 'Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy')
Journal. Check.
Embroidery Kit. Check. (On hindsight, I think I must have been delusional when I packed this item).
Lunchboxes of fresh fruit times three, in case the hospital food is crap. Check.



Right well, that's packed. Now, all I need to do is wait until it's time to go to hospital; which is in another two and half days.  I pace around my bedroom for a while, mentally ticking off the things that have gone in the bag. Then I wander downstairs, into the kitchen, look out the window for a minute or two, check my clock, again, for the fiftieth time in ten minutes and do a countdown check of how long I have before its time to go to the hospital; 56 hours, 20 mins and 34 seconds.

I go and have a quiet cry in my bedroom for five minutes. Five minutes only. It's all about time these days.

When that's over and done with, I phone my Mum, all bright and cheery pretending that everything is alright. I grin like a Cheshire cat and lie unashamedly.

'No, no. Not a word from hospital yet as to when my surgery date is. Nope. Nothing new, just going in for a few more routine tests, think they will call me for surgery in another week or so.'

The reception goes fuzzy on Skype and I silently curse myself for being so stupid. Why did I turn on the webcam? My mother is as whily as a fox and would smell a series of lies before your tongue could even formulate them.

She peers into the computer screen at her end, the webcam picking her up clearly. I move slightly back from mine, a stupid false smile plastered to my lips, the mantra runs through my head....every thing's fine, every thing's fine, every thing's fine, every thing's fine......

She believes me.

When I told my family, one after the other, I thought it would never end, worry, anxiety, sadness; all these negative emotions playing across people's faces and its all your fault.

I would never wish on my worst enemy to have to tell their parents that they have a disease. I worried my father would have a heart attack and I watched my mother's face drain of colour and her ever competent, strong, reassuring hands shake uncontrollably.  It has to be up there on the list of worst things about this whole experience, so far.

I never want to have to experience that ever again and no matter how prepared you are for anything in your life you can never be prepared for that awful moment of truth when you need to deliver bad news to people you love.

I don't want them at my surgery, distressed and worried for me. I'm trying to protect them, as sure as they would try to protect me but I'm also being selfish. I don't want to have to worry about them too,  in the midst of the whole thing, I will have enough to be worrying about. Ultimately selfish, I know.

My friend tells me, every act is ultimately selfish, as she tries to convince me to let her come visit after the surgery. She tries to tell me that it will make her feel better, so its a selfish act. I suppose in a way, she is right. Every act is selfish.

So I lie a little to my Mum and Dad, tell them everything is alright and that surgery is a thing in the future, to be worried about later.

That was the last task I had to do.  Tell a big lie.

I'm prepared now. As well as I ever could be. Surgery, here I come.