The cherry on the cake

I recently headed back into hospital for the reconstruction of my cancer-ravaged left breast. It was the first time I'd stayed overnight there since my mastectomy, and to say I was nervous would be as much of an understatement as calling breast cancer a 24-hour bug. It was a surreal, emotional experience, being led back to the same ward where I'd spent several days last June for the removal of what was about to be replaced.

Not that I've been completely left-boob-less for the past year, mind. Mastectomies these days are far more advanced than the lop-it-off approach (technical term) of old. They quite often come with pre-reconstruction, whereby a tissue-expanding implant is inserted beneath the skin to ensure it remains stretched by the time your bust is ready for an A-list silicone replacement worthy of a modest-busted Dolly Parton. Which was precisely the goal I'd been aiming towards throughout months of arduous treatment.

As he stood before a topless me at the foot of my hospital bed, my surgeon sized up my real boob against my meantime-boob, explaining that he didn't think size and weight would be a problem, but that he might have to spend some mid-surgery time getting the projection right - which, I think, was a polite way of saying that my boobs are a good shape, but they don't stick out all that much.

In preparation for the surgery, he apparently lines up all the available implants in the relevant cup size, then tries out the likeliest ones before settling on the one that'll stay beneath my skin. I loved the thought of him standing behind a table filled with size-ordered fake breasts, like a bell ringer ready to perform.

Once the implant was in place, he would then set about the creation of the piece de resistance: a new nipple. And that, for me, was the fascinating part. He explained that he'd be lifting my skin and twisting it into a point (higher than a beesting, flatter than a coconut macaroon), which he'd then fix in place to form a small mound that pretty much matches the height of my right nipple. It was all I could do to stop myself singing "you're twisting my melon, man!". I wondered whether you could get a Blue Peter badge for such creativity.

It felt a bit like he was talking about restoring a once-glorious but now destroyed building, a bit like The Hawley Arms after the Camden fire. It'll never be quite the same again, but hopefully the regulars won't be put off going back.

When I woke up three hours later, I caught myself mumbling my husband's name - thank God it wasn't my surgeon's - as the anaesthetist handed me a tissue to wipe my tears. I was utterly overwhelmed, not to mention out of my mind on morphine. But what later brought me round from my drug-induced haze, was a quick glimpse of my new breast. And wow! Is there a Guinness world record entry for the world's biggest nipple?? Because this might just be it. My nurse had warned me that my immediate post-surgery nipple would eventually shrink down considerably, but still! This was a thing to behold - it could have taken my eye out.

"So what do you think of it?" my surgeon asked at my follow-up appointment a week later, as he peeled away the dressings. I couldn't help but beam. My new bust - albeit not the fully-functioning, healthy heap that my old one once was - looked brilliant, and I loved it. It was proud, beautiful and perfectly round, like an especially delicious iced bun.

I cried again, out of relief, pride and sheer shell-shocked bewilderment at the months of treatment I'd made it through to finally get to this point. Not that I'll be bursting through the reconstruction finish line just yet. Because taking me down the home straight is my upcoming appointment to have my new nipple tattooed to a shade that matches the other side (or in a kaleidoscope of 60s neon colours, we'll see). And once that's done, I'll have been put back together like a rather unusual, X-rated jigsaw; whole again, with all my vital ladybits intact. Consider it the cherry on the cake.