It has been two weeks since my last doctor’s appointment and I feel like I’m living in a fog, just taking each day as it comes and hoping I don’t accidentally wander into traffic or the snack aisle in my pajamas. I’m trying hard to be positive, think good thoughts, and live happily, but honestly, I’m pretty depressed and don’t have much energy to write or do anything that requires more effort than finding the TV remote.

I keep telling myself I shouldn’t complain because some of my friends are going through absolute hell and it feels like I’ve lost the right to feel negative. Still, my brain didn’t get that memo, so here we are. Guilt and sadness really are the worst combo platter.

Going into my appointment with my plastic surgeon, Ms. Z, I was actually feeling fairly okay. I had accepted that there were cancerous cells under my nipple and that it needed to be removed, and I wasn’t particularly attached to it anyway, especially because I was already planning an awesome tattoo in its place. It was a cold day, and I was absolutely thrilled to discover that my nipple was hard (yes, TMI, but come on, it’s impressive at this point) even though I don’t have feeling there.

For a few glorious minutes I was ridiculously proud of this zombie superhero nipple that could still react to cold temperatures, and then it hit me: it was going to be removed. Instant mood crash. When Dr. Z examined everything, she was super impressed with how well I was healing and was ready to send me on my ‘merry way’ at which point I had to be the one to mention that my pathology report showed cancerous cells and the surgeon had recommended removing the nipple. She was surprised and asked for clarification, and I’m still a bit stunned that she didn’t already have that information.

After I repeated that yes, the nipple was on the chopping block, she told me there wasn’t enough skin and that removing it would look terrible and leave a huge wound that could take months to heal. Basically: it would be a horrible idea from a cosmetic and healing standpoint. Instead, she suggested a different plan: remove the nipple, scrape out the tissue underneath, send that to pathology, and then reattach the nipple using the same type of sutures as during the mastectomy so it’s much less invasive and should heal faster.

Of course, I had to ask the very important question: with this new “hard nipple” development (erect nipple? perky?) would it still behave like that afterward? She flatly said no, and I felt devastated all over again. She also stated that if there are still cancerous cells left after the scraping, then they’ll remove everything, no negotiation. It all felt so matter of fact, and honestly, it doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice: either go for a super invasive surgery that leaves me disfigured and in a ton of pain, or try the scraping and hope for the best.

So I’m going for the scraping. In my head, I keep picturing myself standing there while she yanks my nipple down and scrapes underneath it with one of those putty knives into a plastic Ziploc bag or maybe one of those little pee bottles. She said I’ll be awake the whole time, which is slightly terrifying, mostly because I’m worried I’ll never shut up, asking questions and trying not to sing…

So that’s where things are at. It is what it is, and I just have to get through it. I know things could be worse, but I don’t feel great about any of this. I’m scared. I miss my parents so much that it physically hurts, and I wish more than anything that they were still here to sit with me and let me fall apart a little. I’m really sad but trying so hard not to drown in it.

I really, truly hate cancer. I’m angry that my nipple currently holds this much power over my life. That stupid little diva. It’s a full-on love–hate relationship. My BFF Michelle nailed it in a message she sent: my nipple has had more plot twists than a soap opera, and if I want to hate it today, that’s fine. I can give it the silent treatment and let it think about what it’s done, and maybe one day, if it behaves and we both make it through this, I’ll look at it and think, “We’ve been through some serious stuff together, Nips, and I kind of love you for it.”

Maybe someday I’ll feel that way. Right now I’m still bitter, still scared, and still here, dragging myself forward, one foggy, sarcastic, nipple-obsessed day at a time.