With eggs, please.

Biopsy results.

Is it ductal or lobular? Lobular (shite, that’s bad).

Is it grade one, two or three? Three (buggar, that’t bad too).

Is it hormone receptive? Yes (damn it; give me a break here).

Is it HRT positive? Yes (I think I’ve broken out in sweaty patches on my nose, Im so embarassed. Why is the surgeon sitting so close to me. I don’t want to show any weakness right now. Keep it together. My boyfriend is here, I have to keep it together, for his sake too.)

The consultation room is small, my boyfriend, the nurse, the surgeon and me. My voice is a little shakey, but hopefully I’m the only one who notices.

Results as to be expected, I suppose. I had been briefed that this would probably be the way it would roll.

So I had prepared myself. Chemo for six weeks (I hated the way that I had shortened the word from chemotherapy to chemo, as if to say, now I’m in the know), followed by surgery. Chemo first to shrink the lump/growth/mass/Fred and surgery to remove it.

So what was she saying now, something about oestrogen, ovaries, chemo, fertility. Yes, yes I remember these words on one of the pages, the multiple tabs I had opened up the days previous.

Fertility. Chemo. No eggs.

The words were slow in penetrating my brain. What is she talking about?

No eggs. No babies. Maybe ever.

Ever? Never?

Ok, my brain processed. What can we do?

Harvest.

An image of the bulmers advert where they are all, ruddy cheeked farmers, happily harvesting the ruby red, delicious apples for the golden, bubbling cider.

On top of this thing that is happenig to me, we now delve into a conversation regarding my fertility, or potential lack of, the prospect of harvesting eggs and maybe even embreyos. I look aghast at my boyfriend, his expresssion glazed with incomprehension.

The room is definitely getting smaller, I can practically feel the walls creeping closer.

But its ok, I can refer to the the scrawled notes which zig zag across my notebook and goole all the terms and phrases and inform myself as to what is going on and digest the whole thing, have a think about it and come back in a while and talk more. Right?

Not so.

For eggs I need ovaries that function, for ovaries that function and apparently they are, as Im riddled with oestrogen which is causing this whole mess of a situation in the first place, leading to the culmination of me having to have my breast ( a symbol of femininity) removed (the irony, the bitter bitter twist of irony is not lost on me!), I need not to be in the middle of chemo.

The surgeon stares at me expectantly. I look back wide eyed, clearly my brain is not as quick as I thought.

In slow motion she explains, if I want eggs (eggs = babies) I won’t be able to have chemo first, so its straight to surgery.

Oh!

My breast seems to almost give a tingle of panic.

They need a decision by Wednesday. That’s a day and a half away. I need to decide if I want children and egg harvesting in a day and a half.

I can’t decide if I want google or facebook as my home page at the moment, let alone these mammoth questions.

That’s why, logically me and my boyfriend find ourselves in Starbucks. Where else do you go when you have to make the decision about procreation and your future seed?

Starbucks with a green tea (organic of course).

Again I could feel little trickles of tears at the corner of my eyes, this day had been a bit overwhelming but I could not give in to them, not on the couches in starbucks with mocha frappo decaf soya chino drinking bohemians all around me.

There in followed a conversation about kids, the meaning of life, old age pensioners and who would look after us when we got old and infirm. If anything a bit of a selfish reason to have children but a reason nonetheless.

I’m all about the options I suppose. And that’s what we decided.

I’ve never been sure if I wanted kids, in fact I would always claim that I didn’t think I wanted them at all but faced with this massive decision, I wasn’t truely sure.

So let's be all about the option. Lets talk to someone about eggs and see what happens.

Cause and effect though, that means surgery, in three days. 


I only have three days to wear all of my lowest cut, most revealing tops and truely enjoy my breasts.