My surgeon is going to America, San Fran--I have brought her a San Francisco guide book and she hugs me.
We discuss my recovery and she wants me to have nine sessions of physio.
Looking at her art work, she tells me she can recommend reconstruction. I really don't feel I need it. The scar is minor. The indentation is hidden under a bra. A cockeyed nipple has character. It is a memory, part of my life.
Dressed everything looks normal. I can forgo my annual appearance on the beach topless...or not.
There is a nurse at the appointment who wants to make sure that the information sources that I already have are marked to show which ones speak English. "It is harder to speak a foreign language on the phone," she tells me. I know. No hands or facial expressions to measure meaning. Still 90 percent of this whole thing has been in French. English would have been easier, but I wouldn't trade the language for a different service.
I am a lucky woman.