October 9: 1 day until surgery

How to prep for a bilateral mastectomy: 

First, clean all the things. The counters, the fridge, the tub. Wash all the sheets. Throw out the expired food that somehow accumulates in the pantry. Break down the boxes from all the crap you bought when you learned you had cancer. Dust. Vacuum. Fold the clothes that have been draped over the door to your wardrobe for weeks. 

Rage clean. Pity clean. 

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Second, see your friends. Arrange for late-night dinners, sneak away from the store for a quick bite, sit in the corner by the cookbooks together and laugh and cry and rage. Let them buy dinner for you. Let them shower you with small, thoughtful gifts that post-surgery you will need, but which pre-surgery you can't fathom using. Accept the help from your sister-in-law and deep clean your kitchen together. Answer their texts. Take their phone calls. Feel a growing lump in your throat when you think about this family you have, this wild extended family, all of them so precious, all of them so good.

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Third, get a reading list together. You own literally hundreds of books you haven't read, and now might be/is the time. Somewhere on your shelves is the new Murakami novel. There's The Briar Club, a book you bought for your mother but figured you might as well read first before handing it over. Go as a River, the description which intrigued you so much you bought the book twice, not realizing it until you shelved the second copy. And then Whiskey Tender, which you bought after being so moved by the author's reading and then promptly forgot about, because when is there ever time? 

Also, there is rereading. Your weird girl favorites, like Otessa Moshfegh.  A Mary Oliver book of poems. Stephen King. Books from your childhood. Does Charlotte's Web still hold up?

And then the things you started but never finished, because life. You have started This is How You Lose the Time War a half-dozen times. You were so gutted by Before the Coffee Gets Cold that you simply couldn't finish it, although you've hand-sold it a dozen times. Short story collections with bookmarks sticking out of them, because it really doesn't make sense to read a short story collection all in one go, does it? Biographies, memoirs, things that intrigued you in the moment, and maybe after all they hold the answers you are looking for, about how to live a good life.  

Place the stack by the bed, next to the reading light and the phone charger. Think how hopeful it looks. Remind yourself that future you, two or three days from now you, will be grateful for these words.

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Fourth, prepare your body. 

​Look at yourself in the mirror, really look. You've loved and hated this body, but it has always been with you, always brought you where you needed to go. It has been a good body. You joked with your husband about a goodbye party for your breasts, maybe over Zoom and of course fully clothed, where everyone could say something nice about them. Raise a glass, toast to send them on their way. 

Instead, alone, you sob and sob. 

The instructions from the surgical care team, relayed by a voice on the other end of the phone while you dash notes into your planner, are very specific. Stop taking all oral medications, yes, even your multi-vitamin. Absolutely no Advil. After midnight, no food. After three am, no water. Remove your fingernail polish (this too? the indignity of an unpolished nail). Wash with antibacterial soap on a clean washcloth. Dress in clean pajamas. Sleep on clean sheets. Arrive as sterile as you can possibly be. 

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Fifth, pray like hell.