Well, school holidays are here and I actually find myself with some time to write about my most recent BC experience. I wanted to write in detail about this to pass on some information to other women who are trying to decide whether they will have a breast reconstruction.

When I was diagnosed with IBC in October 2008, I decided then and there to have a reconstruction when the time was right. I knew then that I wouldn't like seeing my scar, or having to wash it in the shower every day. When you are a D-cup (not boasting - just stating fact!!), a one-breasted chest is not a pretty sight.

I asked my surgeon to recommend a plastic surgeon and he sent me to Howard, who turned out to be a lovely, kind, rather shy man. He proposed to do a DIEP flap (deep inferior epigastric perforator - the name of the artery used to give the new breast a blood supply) reconstruction as it would give good results and leave me with some muscle in my abdomen.

To prepare for the 6+ hours of surgery, I was told to get some regular exercise and to take a good multivitamin for a few weeks before the op. I have learned to follow doctors' instructions, so this is what I did.

I arrived at the hospital at 7.30 on a Friday morning and was taken to be prepared for surgery about 10 minutes later. I got changed, was weighed, put to bed with a blanket to keep me warm and visited by the anaesthetist. Howard also came in, drew some lines on my body and explained in detail what was going to happen.

When they wheeled me into the theatre, a number of thoughts flickered through my mind. What would I think when I saw a large piece of my belly sewn on to my chest? Would I dream during the operation? Would I have any sense of time passing before waking up around 1.00pm? I remember thinking, as my brain remained alert, that I didn't think the anaesthetic was going to work. There was no increasingly drowsy counting backwards.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room. No dreams, no sense of time passing, just a big chunk of time gone. I had always planned to start by looking down at my chest to see two lumps, and I savoured this moment.

I always try to smile after an operation as a way of staying in charge. This time it was really easy.

Howard's standard practice is to have patients spend their first night post-op in intensive care, so this is where I was taken next. My husband and son came to visit and were amused at my giggliness as a result of whatever drugs they were giving me.

The major concern of the ICU staff was to keep the romantically named flap warm. Vince, the nice, grumpy Scottish doctor taking care of me took time to explain that Howard always leaves incredibly detailed care notes, and that it's vital to avoid the vasal constriction that could cause flap failure.

In my drugged state, the fact that I was hooked up to a drip, the oxygen mask on my face, the catheter and the cyberman devices on my legs constantly massaging them to maintain my circulation all failed to annoy me. Neither did the hourly checks by the nurses to see that the flap was warm and of a good colour.