No nipples for Christmas.
Not that I was expecting any in my stocking, but it would at least be nice to have a surgery date so I could plan for their arrival. And that was the point of my visit when I visited the Plastic Surgery Clinic last week.
As usual, I’d gone into the examining room and stripped down to my underpants. I was just slipping into the familiar blue and white striped robe when there was a knock on the door. ‘Are you decent?’ came a soft Dutch accent. I started laughing, ‘Does it matter?’ I opened the door, and there stood Dr H, the man who had seen, touched, cut and sewed parts of my body that even I will never see. I considered my new boobs mine as much as his.
|'Get your sister away from me!'|
I showed him my scars. ‘They’re very red, aren’t they?’ Dr H nodded, and said that they were indeed very red. I told him I’d seen the scars of woman who had the same surgery, and they weren’t nearly this red. ‘Yours are aggressive,’ he said, in the least aggressive tone possible. I asked if that was bad, and he said no, it was just the way I was healing.
‘You’re surgery was October?’ he asked. I told him that it was June. I find it funny that the best doctors are always getting the smallest of facts wrong, especially since all the facts are on the clipboard in their hand. But I couldn’t hold it against him. Firstly, he’s been wonderful. And secondly he looked very tired. I’d heard he’d just recently returned from a trip away, where he’d been volunteering his services in a war torn country. Not that he went to do breast augmentation or anything like that. He’s more into microsurgery, tissue engineering, and the rebuilding of the face, head and neck.
‘So, nipples?’ I asked him. He shook his head, ‘Not yet’. He explained that my slow healing body needs more time to settle. A few more months, most likely. However, he did say that I’m good to go for the final touches on my waist. Currently I look like Spongebob Squarepants, but after a little contouring, I expect to look like Barbie. (She doesn’t have nipples either). And I will go from a 17” scar to a possible 24”!
I got back into my clothes. Jeans, T-shirt, and light cardigan. I walked down the hall carrying my coat and felt a blast of cold air. Instinctively I pulled my cardigan closed; an instinctive chick reaction to cover the headlights. But my boobs are numb and I don’t have anything I need to protect. No nips. At least not this Christmas.
But I did start thinking about a Christmas many years ago. My sister Susan, who at age eight, did not approve of dolls that are not anatomically correct. So she took my brand new Barbie, stripped her naked, and drew on a couple of nipples. I was devastated, because I, at age seven, liked things to be exactly as they were in the package.
Times sure have changed though. My package is different. But once again I am spending Christmas with my family, including my sister. There will be liquor, and there will be magic Markers.
So maybe it won’t be a nippleless Christmas after all.