My diagnostic Happy Meal contained several prizes. Some have yet to reveal themselves (chemo or no? only the lymphnodes know). Others are in the guise of a puzzle–each frustrating piece shape-shifting on the fly according to my answers to a series of mind-blowing questions: lumpectomy or mastectomy? single or double? fake boobs or flat chested?
Have I mentioned that I’m an incredibly indecisive person? As someone regularly beset by buyer’s remorse, the magnitude of this decision is unnerving. Just last month the biggest decision on my plate was whether or not to buy an espresso machine. Now, seemingly out of thin air, I’m asked to decide whether or not I’d like to keep my breasts. They gave me approximately two weeks to decide. How kind.