Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy Read Online Free PDF Page A

notebook like the ones I use at my job at ABC News. My file becomes my secret weapon. I spend hours in the Mount Sinai medical library. I pull every article I can about breast cancer and young women. I memorize the words in my pathology report: lobular (sounds like a type of pasta), intraductal (nice to meet you cancer).
    But it is still so confusing deciding whether to have a mastectomy or a lumpectomy. All the male doctors are telling me that I can have a lumpectomy, which means I can keep my breast. Basically, they would only remove a small section of tissue around where my tumor was to make sure there are “clean margins,” meaning no more cancer cells. But I would then need radiation afterwards to zap any remaining cancer cells left. As part of the lumpectomy pitch, there are code words about leaving me “unchanged.” They are quoting a long-term study out of Italy that sounds like a brand of Italian designer shoes. The study found that women lived just as long whether they had a mastectomy or lumpectomy. But when I pull the study on Medline, I discover that I don’t even qualify for it because my tumor had an “extensive intraductal component.” When I tell this to a doctor his eyebrows go up and I can tell it is working.
    The women doctors have boobs and are so over it. They are telling me mastectomy. Cut it off and get it out of there. I sense a booby bias: The men think it will be too hard for me to lose my breast. In fact, there is a whole movement in the cancer world called “breast conservation.” Jane says it sounds like a forest protection program.
    At the end of each of my medical consults, every doctor tells me that it is my choice. It isn’t fair. I want this decision made for me. They need to understand that I am an ambivalent person, that just last week I couldn’t decide whether to serve hot food or cold food at my friend’s bridal shower. And they are the doctors, they are supposed to know what to do. I try to bypass the system: I close the door and ask them in a lowered voice, “What would you tell your daughter to do? What would you tell your wife to do?” They still dodge.
    Tyler tells me he has made up his mind after listening to all of his doctor colleagues, but that he didn’t want to tell me what he thinks I should do until he hears what I want. He doesn’t want to influence me.
    I go back to Dr. B, the first doctor, who cried, because I like his vulnerability. He looks me in the eyes. I exist. I want to see him when I wake up after surgery.
    I choose a lumpectomy like he recommended. I save everything—I even have my kindergarten report card and all my baby teeth, every love letter I ever received. I know that I can’t give away my breast.
    But the day before my lumpectomy, I am stumbling.
    My best friend, Robin, calls me from France. She had a family trip planned before I was diagnosed and didn’t want to go. I made her go.
    “Rob, what should I do?” I am sobbing into the overseas phone line. “No one will tell me what to do.”
    “Ger, you’ll know what to do. You always do.”
    Robin’s faith in me shows me that I can make a choice and finally trust it.
    The most awful thing about my ultimate decision is that it still doesn’t guarantee I would live. I could cut off my breast and still die. That feels like it is the cruelest part after such a big sacrifice.
    I call Dr. B. I am scared he will think that I am challenging his authority. I am scared that I will get him into trouble, because we were already on the books for lumpectomy surgery tomorrow, and this seems more serious than canceling a haircut appointment. “Dr. B, I think I should have a mastectomy instead.”
    I pull out my medical file and list the reasons for my decision. He is silent. And then, “Geralyn, you’ve convinced me. You’ve made the harder, smarter decision.”
    When I call Tyler to explain that I have cancelled my lumpectomy surgery and decided to have the mastectomy, he tells me that he’s