If I thought my reconstructive surgeon was young and soft spoken, his Visiting Fellow was even more so. He may or may not have been over twenty-five, but his British accent made him sound like a genius.
I stood in front of him, holding open my robe, naked from the waist up.
‘Are you sure….’ I asked, glancing at my stomach ‘That I have enough fat for this surgery?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at my boobs, and then at my middle, which is now hanging over my pants. ‘You have enough.’
I guess I’ve been in denial. I know I’ve gained weight. Out of necessity, I’ve changed the way I dress, and wear blouses rather than T-shirt, and sweaters with an empire waist. And though I still manage to squeeze into my demi-curve Levi’s stretch jeans, it’s getting harder and harder to cross my legs.
But I still find it hard to believe that I have enough fat to make a pair of perfect little breasts. I also find it odd that a doctor who specializes in microsurgery doesn’t use any tools to assess the fatness of my belly. ‘It doesn’t seem very scientific,’ I said to the young British Doc.
So he wheeled his chair over and started playing with my tummy. Squish squish squish. Then he fished around in the pocket of his lab coat and produced a cloth tape measure. He took a few measurement that didn’t make any sense, so I suspect he was just humouring me.
'Did Dr H tell you that you’re good to go?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Well, he’s one of the best, anywhere, so you have enough fat.’ He paused slightly. ‘Good work.'
I don’t know what I was expecting. I’d assumed a more fairy tail ending, as in Hansel and Gretel, where the wicked witch thinks Hansel is way to skinny. I imagined the doctor was going to tell me to ‘fatten up’, so that I was good enough to eat.
I was hoping he’d tell me to go back to my gingerbread house, and eat more candy.