So one of my good friends told me last night (at that party I was talking about where I might as well have spilled the punch all over myself) that she checked my blog several times throughout the day for the update that I hadn't bothered to post. So for her benefit, and any other of you curiosity-challenged, I'm going to break a record and post twice in one day.
I visited the plastic surgeon today. He went through about three different treatment options, in great detail. The third sounded perfect. I was actually feeling a teeny bit excited. I mean, seriously, I get a tummy tuck out of this? How sweet is that? A six-week recuperation. I can handle that. Have had worse. But just as he finishes, and I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy, he puts up his finger and says, "But for you..."
Yeah, of course I'm special. Apparently due to the size (3 cm) and type of tumor, he's fairly confident I'll be needing radiation. He then described the process he recommends, which will mean two, maybe three, surgeries, spanning a long time and who knows how much pain. He finished and asked if I had any questions. When I shook my head he moved on to the need to take pictures. A big bubble of emotion came out of my mouth. He paused, and asked if I objected to the pictures. Rob took my hand and said he'd go with me. I didn't--couldn't--say anything, but couldn't have cared less about the stupid pictures (though I have to admit that was a tad bit humiliating). But I hadn't thought that far. I hadn't been listening. I was still back on the radiation. I'd somehow convinced myself that wouldn't be necessary.
He had no comment on the possibility of chemo. That'll be decided after the surgery. But it looks like I'm officially in this for the long-haul.