Starting today, I begin the six day countdown for my nipple reconstruction; a procedure for which I will be awake.
I’ve known about this for a very long time and I’m supposed to be excited. After all these tests, surgeries, and appointments, it’s supposed to be the ‘finishing touch’, the ‘ icing on the cake’, or more appropriately, ‘ the cherries on top of that icing’.
The problem is, I’m not excited (There’s got to be a joke in there somewhere). In fact, I’ve picked up the phone at least a dozen times, to reschedule my appointment, and hung up every time thinking that I would be wise to just go through with it. I believe in the women who have gone before me, women who I love and trust, who have reported feeling complete after their procedures.
And who wouldn’t! Having Barbie boobs is very strange. I never really look at them for any length of time unless I happen to glance at myself in the mirror. Sometimes it catches me off guard and I‘m slightly shocked. Other times, when I’m feeling more solid, I think about the miracles of plastic surgery. But still, it’s my own little miracle, and apart from a few doctors and my wingman, nobody has ever seen ‘em. I’ve been keeping them hidden for a while.
So it puzzles me that I’m not more excited. By the end of this year out all be as fully restored to normal as possible. But the concept of having headlights is overshadowed by the fact that I’m going to have more surgery, and have to wear ‘nipple protectors’ for a few weeks. Also, I will be having my ‘dog ear’ removed so I will be extending my 17” scar a couple of inches, which should eventually give me back my waist.
Tucked in my wallet I have a gift card for one of the best bra shops in the city, and occasionally I pull it out to try to summon the excitement of bra shopping for the finished product. In my closet I have a party bag full of bandages and ointment, and I imagine how gleeful I’ll be when they are no longer under my roof. But – I feel nothing. My brain is as numb as m boobs.
I’ve been sort of in denial about being poked and diced and prodded, while under a general anesthetic. Obviously I’ll need something to relax me. (Hellooooooo, Atavin!). I’m shamelessly in love with anything that relaxes me – just as I’m shamelessly crushing on my handsome surgeon. Possibly this is a bad combination, as I will likely say something embarrassing. Worse, I will try to kiss his neck, or if my arms aren’t too numb, I will reach up and stroke his hair.
Second worse case scenario is that he’s called off on an emergency, and I’m stuck with a Fellow who I’ll be meeting for the very first time. The result will be tears, and instant regret about having chosen my best outfit. Then I’ll be sent home with my swollen cherries and a bandage where my waist is supposed to be.Hmm. It’s no wonder I’m not excited. But I’ve still got a few days to get pumped up.
The countdown continues.