Mary Mary Quite Contrary

Aunt Mary. My Version

My parents used to compare me to my dads Scottish Auntie. Whenever I’d do something I considered adorable, they’d look at each other knowingly and say ‘She’s just like Aunt Mary’.  I was flattered! In my mind Mary had bouncy auburn hair, and a jaunty kilt which would swing merrily around her as she danced on moors spreading sunshine and merriment. In my imagination she was radiant. In reality, I found out years later, she was a shrew. 

So in an effort not to be a scowling old battleaxe, I often force myself to smile.  I figure that if I make my mouth move up, the mood will follow. But the thing is, my heart is not always in compliance. There are some days when I feel like I’m just holding at Mary at bay. But hopefully, I’m the only one to notice. 

Such was not the case as I went skidding down the street this morning with my hound dog, Jed. We’d just been walloped by a winter storm and we were doing our short-legged best (yes, me too) to navigate our way down the street. My feet were cold,  zipper had busted and I had a real hate on for old man winter.

Aunt Mary. For Real.

At that moment I bumped into a neighbour who was shovelling snow off his car. ‘Hey’, he said jovially, ‘my car is absolutely buried!’ I was baffled by his positivity. I also didn’t understand why he needed to point out the obvious. I stared at him blankly then blurted out the first thing that came to mind, ‘Well that’s a crummy way to start the day,’ I replied; my tone attempting to match his level of cheer.

My neighbour cocked his head and leaned on his shovel. I guess I’d failed in the cheery department. I heard the tone of my voice and  recognized  more Mary than merry. Now I understood what Linda Blair felt like in the exorcist. Like me, she was channelling a much stronger force and wasn’t always in control of what came out of her mouth (Pea soup, in her case. Hostility in mine).

‘Well,’ my neighbour said earnestly, ‘It’s just a way to start the day.’ Ah. I stood corrected. And I thought for a second about what he said and realized that he was right. He reminded me of two things. Firstly, I shouldn’t always feel the need to have a comeback. Sometimes a statement is just a statement and doesn’t need and additions (I should have just stuck with my fake smile). Secondly, not everything has to be positive or negative. Sometimes something just a way. Not a bad way.

I felt that his small correction had given me another tool to use against becoming possessed by the black soul of Aunt Mary. A simple trick of language to eliminate negativity. Still, I kind of wanted to punch him in the face. The excessive earnestness was a bit much, and if he hadn’t wanted feedback he shouldn’t have announced that he was cleaning of the car.

There it was – my inner crabby. The worst part of my DNA. However , as I’d learned a positive lesson that day,  it cancelled out my inner shrew. One point for me. One point for Aunt Mary. I plastered on my fake smile, and walked a way.

The Intern & The Snail

At  10:00 am on the dot, I showed up for my first annual appointment with my Breast Surgeon, and was greeted by the receptionist. ‘Oh Dear,’ she gave me a pitying glance, ‘He isn’t here.’ (My yearly check-up with Dr Escargot; the surgeon who forgot to show up on the day of my surgery, leaving his fellow surgeons scrambling to find an immediate replacement. But I’m almost over that now. Time to move ahead).  

Dr. Escargot

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes. ‘Is it me?’ I asked. We both laughed a fake laugh, and she explained there’d been an emergency, and he wouldn’t be back till 2. Would I like to see an intern? No. Screw off.  I would not.

I returned at 2 and was ushered into a room. The nurse said that Escargot would be crawling in shortly, but in the meantime, would I mind if the intern came in to ask a few question. This time I said okay, but it was mostly ‘cus I was bored. Also, Mount Sinai is a teaching hospital, so everybody is much happier if the fellows, interns, and students are allowed to touch some naked flesh. (My boobs are extra fun, because they were created from my stomach and have recently been adorned with fabulous new nipples).

I was sitting on the table when the intern walked in, clutching a clipboard to her chest. She asked if she could examine me. I asked if her hands were warm. Three years ago I never would have asked such a thing, but I had become a bit cocky. Now that my breasts are numb it doesn’t really matter – so it was mostly about who had the power (me). I lay down, and Dr Intern began her examination.

The Intern

After a few squeezes she asked about my follow up treatment, and whether I’d lined up a mammogram. I told her I would not be having a mammogram, as I did not have any breast tissue. She squeezed a bit more. ‘So you have implants?’ I shook my head. No – no implants. She looked confused. ‘Small ones?’ she asked. I told her no. She frowned and looked at her notes. ‘You had a double mastectomy. Right? But no implants?’ I told her she was correct.

I didn’t tell her that I’d had DIEP reconstruction because it didn’t occur to me that she wouldn’t know. Wasn’t my whole history on the clipboard? Weren’t the interns debriefed before they but on white coats and pretended they’re doctors? Was she about to cry?

Dr Escargot came in the room and took my hand in his. He explained the DIEP surgery to the intern and told her that it was a very long operation because of all the tricky medical stuff.
‘Twelve hours?' he asked me – in a manner you’d ask a pal with a shared experience.
I paused for a second. Did he really not remember?
‘Nine,’ I said.
We locked eyes for a second and I waited for recognition to creep in. Nine hours was considered remarkably short for bilateral DIEP, and only because I got two extra surgeons on board during the initial scramble to cover Escargots absent arse after it became apparent that he was not in the hospital, and and had just flown off to Germany! But …nothing. His little snail eyes were unburdened.

Clearly, the same could not be said for me. I still carried the resentment. Escargot may move like a snail but his shell was light – I was the one with the baggage. So along with my gown, I ditched it, and let the baby doctor have one more admiring glance before I hopped off the table and moved ahead for real.

Nothing TV

I like to do as little as possible after Christmas, especially this year when I could say 'so long' to the social whirlwind and sit back and enjoy doing nothing. So,  I was delighted this holiday when I stumbled upon Fireplace TV.

Initially I had it on to keep me company as I wrapped gifts and drank champagne, but then I started having it on all the time. Not having a fireplace of our own I quickly grew to love the sound of crackling, and the flicker of light. I found myself fixated many times by the quivering flame.

Nothing happens on this channel! There is no plot, no cast, and no drama. Remember how Seinfeld was a ‘show about nothing? ‘ Well that is an edge-of-yourp-seat thriller compared to Fireplace TV, where, if you’re VERY lucky, you might see a burning ember floating towards the chimney.

I was doing some yoga stretches yesterday, when Jim wandered into living  room and asked if he could change the channel. I told him no. He gave me the same look he gives me when I’m watching ‘Dancing with the Stars’ and asked why I wanted to waste my time watching a fake fireplace.

While I recognize that this may slightly weird for me, for Norwegians it is a national obsession.  Over half the population tunes in to nothing! It all began in 2009 with a five-day broadcast of a cruise ship traveling up the West Coast of Norway in real time. More than three million people tuned into watch – and that is over half the population!

Following the smashing success of a cruise ship doing nothing, Norway followed it up with a 10-hour train ride, 18-hours of salmon spawning, and nine-hours of knitting. Each marathon was a massive hit, pulling in eager audiences from a tiny rich country where everybody wears wooly sweaters.

So I looked into why it was so popular. Our lives are busy (obviously) and we’re surrounded by bite size nuggets of information constantly being hurled at our brain. So Slow TV (as it has been dubbed) is a chance to calm down. It’s the opposite of instant gratification.

There is another theory though, that maybe we watch things because we’re waiting for something to happen. While I continued , Jim plopped himself down on the sofa. Twenty minutes later Jed, who seemed slightly hypnotized, lay down in front of the TV. We carried on quietly for a while until Jim sat upright. ‘Janet, look!’ he shouted. ‘I saw a hand!’ 

Brimming with excitement, he told me that a human hand holding a poker had emerged from the right side of the screen and prodded a log! He could barely contain himself. ‘Come Sit Down and Wait!’ he said. ‘We might see it again!’

So we did our favorite things. We sat with our pets doing nothing, and watched a roaring fire on TV.  Hoping something might happen, content if everything stayed the same.

Bye Bye Monster

The Door

Three years ago, a handsome Dutch Plastic Surgeon walked through this door and shook my hand.

Prior to his arrival, I’d been sitting with my sister Sue in side-by-side guest chairs. I was wearing a striped hospital gown with my arms folded across my chest, and she was happily chatting away. She was making jokes about boob jobs and I was laughing in that nervous way one does when they haven’t accepted the reality of the situation. Jokes that are funny, as long as they don’t actually occur.

The room was small. A little desk, two chairs, one rolling stool. The biggest item in the room was an examining table that lay quietly in the corner, just a few feet away. I was trying too ignore its’ presence. After all, I was only there for a ‘consultation’ and didn’t intend to actually get out of my chair. Exam tables are not something I like to be on. Control is taken away and is replaced by vulnerability. Fantasy, once something at arms length, now becomes a possibility. Security is replaced with uncertainty as you learn to search for your fate in someone else’s eyes.

The Monster

It was on an exam table that my doctor first found a lump. And it was on an exam table when they found the second one. And it was my experience on many an exam table that once I sat up, the news would not be good. The exam table is the sleeping monster in the corner of the room, and as long as I don’t go near it, I will probably be okay.

Dr H patiently told me all about the DIEP procedure, and kindly answered all my questions, as well as all of Sue’s. His gentle manner (blue eyes, cute accent) made me feel safe and reassured. And then he asked me to hop up on the table. Thud went my heart – it was time to wake the monster.  So I took a deep breath, climbed up on the table, and opened my robe. Even though Dr H was just checking to see if I had enough fat (I did), I was no longer in my safe place. The door to reality had opened, and I started to cry.

The Gown

The only difference in the room, this time, was the absence of fear. I had none, and I could see each element with clear eyes. The exam table in the corner, was just a table, and if I sat on it, nothing bad would occur. The door, when it opened, wasn’t taking me to places I didn’t want to go. 

But as the room didn’t change, neither apparently did my ultimate reaction. Dr H came in the room and shook my hand. We had a nice talk and he asked if I was happy. (I looked into his pretty eyes and tried to picture him with his shirt off). I told him that everything was great, and he asked if he could check my new nipples.

‘You don’t need to get up’ he said, 'Just stay in the chair.'

So because I was so happy,  I took a deep breath, opened my hospital gown, and cried.

Bacon Cat

My cat smells like bacon.

Bacon Cat

I noticed this when I woke up early in the middle of the night, following a dinner party, with my nose buried in her fur. She smelled as though she’d just worked the late shift at a diner.

I nudged her out of the way, and rolled onto my pillow which also smelled like bacon. As did the towels in the bathroom, the curtains, my entire wardrobe, and my hair. Upon further inspection the smell of bacon had permeated every square inch of our little bungalow – and even the sofa was starting to look like a giant ham. While that may be tantalizing to some, I haven’t intentionally eaten bacon since 1995 and the smell was making me sick.

Bacon Dog & Bacon Sheets

But that’s the thing about Christmas! One cooks with wild abandon and does things they wouldn’t normally do. A few months ago I was in a restaurant and had a bite of Jim’s ‘Brussels Sprouts Slaw’. It was one of the best things I’d ever had and I almost heard trumpets going off as I ate. Of course the waiter mentioned that the delicious crispy bits were pancetta, rather than the caramelized shallots I’d expected, and I put down my fork with great sadness.

But that did not stop me making the same dish for a potluck dinner for 15 on the weekend. Even though I couldn’t eat it – I wanted to make the best thing ever. Not only do I not eat bacon, I don’t normally cook with it. So knowing that it had to be extra crispy - I filled three frying pans full of sliced pancetta, and set the stove to high. Let the games begin!

Five minutes later the kitchen was filled with smoke, and seven minutes later the bacon smog had filled the rest of the house. The cats looked at me in confusion, and Jed was walking around inhaling the new dog–approved ‘Bacon Air Freshener’, which he seemed to be enjoying. Back in the kitchen my eyes were stinging, and I had a lung full of pig smoke.

My Brussels sprouts were eventually served in my friend’s lovely kitchen, and everyone said they were delicious. (Or maybe they were just inhaling me, and I smelled delicious). Either way, it was too much for me and I practically dove into the cauliflower risotto in relief.

Two days have passed. Windows have been left open, the bed has been changed, and some clothes have gone through the washer. Jed has rolled around in the dirt, and much to his chagrin, smells once again like a basset hound.

Unfortunately for our little cat, she lives indoors, and can’t be aired out. Nor is she washable. So for the next while, she is our bacon cat. And from this I’ve learned my  lesson and written a little Christmas poem:

Don’t cook outside your comfort zone,

Don’t cook foods you can’t eat.

Keep the burners nice and low

lest kitty smells more savoury, than sweet.

Desperation Pants

For years I was a waitress. While serving drinks paid my tuition and bought me some plane tickets, it also gave me a life-long distaste for black pants, especially the kind I'd been forced to wear as part of a uniform.

Black pants may be staple in every girl’s wardrobe,  but I loathe them. The last time I wore black pants to a party, someone confused me with the caterer. So I’ve sworn off of them for good.

Sad, & lonely, & blue

Recently I bought a shirt that I adore. A Calvin Klein, teal blue, boat-necked, drapey shirt with ¾ length sleeves, an extra long waist, and no ironing required. It was prefect! Problem was that I had nothing to wear on the bottom, and the most obvious choice was black.

The next week was awful.  With an upcoming party, my mission over the next week was to find the perfect pair of pants. I tried on 21 different pairs  and they all made me feel like I should be restocking a salad bar. With each pair of pants,  the image that I saw in the mirror was a middle-aged, sexless waitress from an all-you-can eat steak house, with an inexplicable gash across her belly. Ugh. So when I finally found a pair that were high waisted and  ‘sort of felt okay’, I got a bit excited and  decided to buy them.

In my living room I put on my party shit and new black pants and twirled in front of Jim. 

‘Great shirt!’ he said. 

I gestured towards the pants and asked him what he thought. 

‘They’re okay’,  he said. 

I spun around hopefully and his smile faded, ‘You kind of look like a server.’

'A classy server?’ I asked.

'No,' he said gently, ‘They kind of look like desperation pants.’

Fuck. Had I not learned anything in the last 25 years?   My golden rules are never to wear black pants, always trust my gut, and never to shop the week before a party. There is never a happy ending.

My Desperation Pants went back in the bag, and I went to the party in my one and only fun

dress, and had a great time. The Blue Calvin Shirt hangs in the closet, untouched, as are my standards.

Being a Patricia

Wear Me!

There is a woman I know named Winnie who owns an antique shop. She’s just a wee thing but she’s got a big personality, and may or may not have been born into Chinese royalty.

Occasionally she lets slip something that happened in her youth, (like being chauffeured or carried) but she breezes over those details and always returns to things that matter: My dog, her dog, family, and Peking duck. Recently she lost her dear friend Patricia, a quiet and elegant lady who occasionally worked in the store.  Earlier this year Patricia was diagnosed with cancer, and went home to her family, and died.

During this year, Winnie stayed close to Patricia’s side. She took her to doctor’s appointments and brought her food. They lived just a few doors apart and spent a lot of time together. Winnie did everything a thoughtful person would do to make sure a beloved friend as comfortable and safe.

But as much as they were similar, they were also quite different. Winnie has the energy of a teenager and loves to chat, then fling herself into your arms for a hug. Patricia was more of a dignified observer, but enjoyed a good joke. Winnie liked to buy fun stylish clothes, and go out for dinner. Patricia, apparently, was more frugal  - though Winnie kept trying to shake her up.

Last time I was in Winnie’s shop she was up a ladder, acting nothing like the grandmother she is. She came sliding down like a fireman, landing squarely at my feet. Along with the small  woman came a flash of light. ‘What the heck?’ I said, squinting my eyes. ‘Are you wearing diamonds?’

Winnie was accessorized like Mr T. She grinned and held up her hand. On her middle finger was a diamond rind that was the size of a chiclet. I have one almost like it, only mine was $7.00 at Old Navy, and hers was real. ‘Where the heck did that come from?’ I said.

Winnie told me that after Patricia went home, she went into her friend’s safety deposit box, ostensibly to get some documents and the ‘good’ necklace. What she found instead was a mother lode of jewels. Gold bracelets, emerald earrings, money, and diamond rings. There was a ton of it.

Winnie said her first reaction was shock. She had no idea that Patricia had such valuable items. Then she wondered why Patricia had saved so carefully right into her 70’s. She had no kids, and nobody depending on her. She could have been having a ball. Eating, traveling, and buying cute sweater sets from J – Crew.

‘So that’s Patricia’s ring?’ I asked.

‘No?’ laughed Winnie. ‘It’s mine!’

She told me that when she was getting dressed that morning she noticed her own box of jewels – the ones that are too expensive to wear.  The massive gem she had on her tiny finger was a gift from her husband and she only wore it at home. But that day she thought, ‘What am I waiting for?'

A good lesson I thought. That night I went home for some roast chicken with the wingman. We wanted a glass of wine, and I open the fridge and reached for some plonk. Then I heard Winnie’s voice. ‘Don’t be a Patricia,’ it said, ‘It makes no sense to wait.’

So I put back the everyday wine,  and opened something sparkling instead. 

Cat Toys & Nipple Protectors

Bring me toys

I had this strange fantasy that once my stitches were out, my nipples would fall off and roll across the floor like marbles. Once on the ground, the cats would start swatting them and they’d end up under the bed covered in dust like the rest of the cat toys. But luckily that wasn’t quite the case.

The stitches came out pretty smoothly with the help of a tall strapping nurse named Kevin. He told me that he’d just been transferred to plastics, which became obvious when I opened my gown. ‘Wow!’ he said enthusiastically, ‘Those are beautiful!’  Apparently, for both of us, nipples were still a novelty. ‘Who made these?’ he asked, as though admiring a rare diamond. 'These are MARVELOUS.'

After the stitches came out, Kevin rebandaged me. As usual it was gauze, nipple protectors, more gauze, all held on with cloth tape. The ‘protectors’ themselves were nothing fancy. Dr. H had created them by cutting off the bottoms of a small plastic pill cup. Frankly – I expected more sophisticated technology from Toronto’s finest hospital, but they did the trick, and were Dr H’s parting gift to me.

Nipple Protectors. Mistmatched.

That night it was a relief at night when I could take off all my bandages and take my boobs bed. Luckily I’m a back sleeper, so I was confident that no harm would come to my fabulous nips. I took off my plastic protectors and set them on the dresser.  

At about three in the morning I heard a little scratching. I turned on the light.  Eddie, our 20 lb cat, was sprawled lazily across the dresser, his giant paw resting atop my nipple protector. I got up to grab him, but he jumped down from the dresser, apparently taking his new toy with him. I was too tired to look for it, and fell asleep with the sound of happily playing under the bed. 

The next morning I could only find one nipple protector. So I put it on. Then I went to the kitchen and took the lid off a bottle of Perrier, put that on the other side, and covered it with tape. I figured the missing item was probably down a vent, or in a shoe somewhere.

But luckily it was the only thing gone missing, and my new nipples were still safely stuck on me.

Perky in More Ways Than One

In anticipation of my recovery from nipple reconstruction, I cleared my whole week. But after three excellent Sandra Bullock movie, and a bunch of naps, I was feeling pretty good. In fact I was starting to feel downright perky. So on day two, I got up, had coffee, and prepared to take a shower.

I’d been told that I was free to take off the breast bandages, and allow for a gentle cleansing. So I peeled them off and stepped into the shower. In typical fashion, I avoided looking at my newly remodelled body parts of, concentrating instead on the shower head. But exiting the shower I made the mistake of looking down.  Holy Moly! I wasn’t the only thing that was perky! My nipples were enormous!

Dr H had warned me that they’d start off quite large, and then get smaller over time. But since I hadn’t really listened, I was shocked to see that my nipples looked like someone had taken a cocktail sausage, cut it into pieces, and sewed them on to my chest. They were nothing like the cute little nipples I’d lost to cancer. These were tubular, flat, gigantic, and fleshy. And, horrifyingly they were attached to me! It was disgusting!

I forced to look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I still hoped to see my perfect 17 yr old body staring back at me but this body was far from perfect. My new headlights were turned on full blast, but rather than stare straight ahead, they stared off in opposite directions like a goldfish.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the black Sharpie doodles when I had a chance. Or, perhaps my little cocktail wieners had been created in haste. Who knows? Perhaps, over time, my original boobs would even have been this imperfect

Though I was shocked, I wasn’t discouraged.  Amidst my revulsion, I felt a twinge of something resembling delight. I may not have been able to look at them, and they may be too porny for my liking, but I'll take Perky over Barbie any day.

Nips and Tucks

I would be lying if I said I didn’t put some thought into my underpants on the day of my procedure. After all, it’s not everyday a girl gets new nipples. And, it’s not everyday a girl gets to spend and couple of hours with her favorite Dutch Surgeon.

Also, since I was in an exam room rather than an operating theatre, I didn’t have to wear an unflattering cap, nor did I have to take off my earrings. So, relative to every other surgery or exam, I was quite dressed up. Dr H had also dressed up for the occasion (or so I like to think) wearing an extremely flattering pair of blue J Crew scrubs that perfectly matched his eyes.

I stood before him as he examined me. My gown was open and he was sitting on his little doctor stool, examine his handiwork and planning his strategy. Then began surgical foreplay, or what might also be called ‘drawing on me with a Sharpie’.

First he drew a nipple on my left side. Then he took out his little tape measure and drew a nipple on my right side. Then he suggested I look in the mirror. These are the nipples I would have for the second half of my life and I could choose exactly where they would go. What control! But about that time the Ativin started to kick in and I was feeling as though I would say yes to anything.

‘Great!’ I blurted, ‘Make them pretty!’

Next he examined my ‘dog ears’. Those annoying little pillow case corners that have been bookending my 17’ abdominal scar since my surgery. I’ve hated them. When other ladies complain about a muffin tops I was envious. I would have killed for a muffin, rather than a horizontal box of kleenex. Dr H drew an oval the size of an egg around each ‘dog ear’ and explained that they’d just cut out the skin, some extra fat, and sew it into a nice smooth line. Yippee!

Then it was time to jump on the table. A surgical assistant explained that she’d be doing the freezing at that it would be the worst part. After that I’d feel slight tugging, or pulling, but no pain. She wasn’t kidding about the freezing. F*cking uncomfortable. Even the Ativin wasn’t working and though I tried to take deep healing Belleruth breaths and surround myself with my band of allies and magical friends, I still yelped out loud. Dr. H gazed down at me, ‘Here, squeeze me hand’, he said.

When I finally released his hand (after way longer than absolutely necessary) Dr H and his assistant surgeon got down to work. They each took a side. Had it not been for the occasional glance at a scalpel, or the sight of string and a needle, I would have been fairly relaxed. There was no pain. And as is my habit when I’m nervous, I babble a fair bit, and ask far too many questions. At the end of ninety minutes I knew all about Dr H’s family, his relationship with his father, his hobbies, and where he lived. (I asked his surgical assistant exactly one question, even though I didn’t care about the answer. I was just doing it to be polite).

Way too soon I was being bandaged up. Four bandages in total with some plastic nipple protectors for my new accoutrements. Dr H helped me off the table and told me I’d done really well. I like to think he meant I’d made smart style choices with my underwear and earrings, but what I think he meant was that I hadn’t passed out, nor had I ripped his hand of his arm, even though I wanted to. Good for me!

Alone the room I looked at myself in the mirror. Bandages covered the new nips. My original belly scar looked back at me - still red and jagged but settling more every day. And now, new bandages covered the areas over my hips where the scar had been extended to a whopping 22 inches. But even with the bandages, and the blood, and the tape, I could see the curve in my body that I had dreamed about so often, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I strolled out into the waiting room where, as usual, my sweet Wingman was waiting, and I felt more like myself than I had in a long time.

Bye-Bye Spongebob. Hello me!

'Twas the night before Nipples...

By this time tomorrow I’ll have a pair of brand new nipples. Rather than think about the procedure itself, I’ve engaged in my old pre-surgery ritual. After I ferociously cleaned our little house, and made enough kale salad to last me a week, I touched up my pedicure.

May Contain Nipples

I don’t know what it is about surgery that makes me want to take care of my feet, but toenail polish is an absolute prerequisite for going under the knife. And, it has to be red.

Next is an Epsom salt bath – my last for about eight weeks. After which I put on a white t-shirt and look at myself in the mirror. My boobs look kind of pretty. Do I really need nipples? My rack has never looked this good! Is it too late to cancel? I examine my dog-ear. It too is looking less bulgy that in has in a long time, and I’ve kind of gotten used to looking like Spongebob squarepants. Is this procedure on my waist a waste?

Luckily I’m distracted by the bottle of ativin on my dresser. I put it there so I wouldn’t forget to put it in my bag tomorrow. Last week I called the clinic and asked if I could take one. The nurse said yes. Ten minutes later I called back and asked if I could take two. The nurse said no.

Then it’s half an hour with Belleruth; my savior. She takes me through a guided meditation and reintroduces me to my magical friends and band of allies, those invisible little beings of my imagination who will sit with me  as I’m reconstruced into a closer version of my old self. I listen to Belleruth through my headphones so it feels like she’s in my head. She reminds me that I am safe. Two cats and a basset hound lie at my (perfectly manicured) feet.

Now I’m having a celebratory glass of wine. I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time but it still doesn’t seem real. In a weird (but not really) way I’m looking forward to seeing my pals at the hospital and being told how great I look. Basically ‘great’ is hospital-speak for ‘alive’ but I’ll take it. And, I’ll have a few days of forced relaxation – my books and chick flicks are already lined up. 

The Wingman just asked what time I’d like to be picked up. And he’s planning to wait with me, then greet me, post-surgery smoothie in hand. 

This feels a bit like Christmas. I sort of know what I'm getting, but I don't know exactly how they will looks, or how I will be wrapped. But - I'm getting excited. 

One more sleep.

            

Cherries on Top

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.  

Hiking Sucks

Recently I was telling a friend about trekking in Thailand. Or more appropriately, I managed to work ‘trekking’ into a conversation. As I did so I thought of two things. Firstly, it sounded really impressive. I came across as someone brave and outdoorsy, and willing to forsake comfort for adventure. (As if)

Caution: Not fun

Secondly, I don’t know if I’m that person anymore. There was a time where I was so low-maintenance that I didn’t bother packing shampoo, or think about how long I’d be away.  Then my extended adventures became something that would fit between visits to a hair salon, to something I can do in a week.

Now I’d have serious concerns about hiking through villages and setting up camp. For instance, how long could I go without peeing my pants? (Answer, about half an hour)  I remember a picture of myself standing on a mountain with a sunburn and greasy hair – and that chick was a camel! And that chick could go all day without thinking about her bladder. Now it’s foremost on my mind.

That girl in standing on that mountain in Thailand was smiling from ear to ear. She was happy in the sunshine, surrounded by other trekkers, who, like me, were young and strong and seemingly carefree. And it made total sense that these people didn’t have to worry. They didn’t carry a days-of-the-week pill container, and they didn’t worry about wearing summer scarves to protect their necks, or grey roots, or a fleshy compression sleeve.

Back in my trekking days I could rides elephants without having to worry about finding a washroom. Now things are different. Beside the lack of bladder control (hello adult diaper!), there is sun that I can’t sit under because of radiation, and the stress I can’t put on my arm lest the lymphedema swells up like a fleshy pork sausage, and the heat, and risk of infection. I take all the necessary precautions yet there is a constant concern that something could go awry. To me these feel like ‘old people’ problems, yet I am not old and the problems are mine.

The whole thought that my carefree days are behind me is depressing. Especially since all the trekkers in the picture were so young. I thought about all the older people at home with their inhalers, and walkers, and oxygen tanks, who didn’t have the chance to get blistering sunburns, or sleep on hard cold floors in a village hut surrounded by potbelly pigs.

Then it hit me. Older people don’t stay home from adventures because of their pill containers and swollen fingers – they just don’t want to waste any more time have crummy sleeps. They aren’t staying home because hiking is too gruelling – they are staying home because they want to!

I think of another picture of me on the mountain. This time I’m with my friend Katie and we’re lagging behind the rest of the group. That was the day we’d both reached the decision that the trek was too long. Also, we’d both slept badly in the hut and were tired of carrying stuff on our sweaty backs. Even back in those days I was probably dreaming about a Best Western and crisp clean sheets.

So, in fact, I am still the girl in the picture! The only thing different was how much I’d romanticised about those long steep walks through the hill. I was hot and tired then, and I’m hot and tired today. Different decade, different problems. Still smiling, but still slightly uncomfortable.