By George, I have been blessed with some amazing doctors. Stellar, brilliant, compassionate, intuitive care-takers. I should've known that my luck was bound to run out eventually. Having heard some horror stories from the sick-ternet I should have been more prepared. But I bopped into this doctor's office without enough of my mental armor in place to prepare me for the carnage that was about to happen. I left feeling ripped to shreds. 

Some highlights, emphasis provided by me: 

" I don't usually give my patients lupron. I think we should just cut your ovaries out."

"Oh, did someone actually tell you they thought there would be a cure by the time you went into menopause? (sometime in the next 15 years) Who would say that to you?"

"I just think that since you had action in the satellite tumor while you were on Kad..." 
me: "No, I was on lupron (estrogen blocker), I was not on Kadcyla."
"Oh, I must've missed that in your file..." (which I read so thoroughly before suggesting you schedule major surgery) 

"Oh, I didn't see that pathology report when I went through your files - can you just go through and find it for me when you get a chance? "

"It's amazing that your bones are doing so well since your other doctors never put you on <> that is not what I would've done." 

While performing my breast exam, aka leaning over my vulnerable topless body...

"So when are you going to get your nipple reconstructed?" 
me: "As I mentioned, I had a horrible response to anesthesia. It just doesn't seem worth it."
"Well then, you can just get a tattoo. I mean it's not like you can feel this." (Proceeds to knock on my breast like it's a doorknob.)

I had not even left the office before I felt the tears coming. Body shaming. The death of hope. Rash pronunciations without a detailed reading of my chart (I get it, it's like 4000 pages long, but then don't suggest major surgery with huge side effects in the first 10 minutes of our consult, OK?) 

It seems that I am not as impervious as I thought I was to the judgment of others. Especially people in positions of power, like, my potential doctor. 

I cried non-stop for the next 4 hours. I cried at the post office. At the CPK where I went to drown my sorrow in gluten-free BBQ pizza. At the Madewell where my husband bought me an amazing pair of shoes. At the Lush, where I bought $40 worth of bath bombs. I didn't stop crying until I got home, texted my previous freaking angel of an oncologist for a recommendation for a new doctor, and then took a bath in $20 worth of luxurious, glitter and rainbow bath bombs. 

Look, my scar (free of a reconstructed nipple) looks just like this bath bomb doesn't it? There's still glitter in the tub. I spent almost three hours in there, drinking sparkling water from a champagne glass, burning my campfire scented candle, and devouring a fabulous beach read my friend recommended that's based on Pride and Prejudice, but also the bachelor. 

I want to say I feel better, but really I am pissed AF, somewhat devastated, broken out all over my cheek in stress hives/acne, and even the blissful Sunday I spent frolicking in the park with my family hasn't quite healed the sting. Being positive and hopeful and filled with gratitude requires a constant effort, and this really took the wind out of my somewhat-flagging-to-begin-with sails. 

Send me lots of jokes and dog videos on instagram, OK? That might help.