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Thursday, January 28, 2010

Back to the boobages



Unfortunately, Corner Bakery does NOT serve cocktails, which I don’t quite get. They’re right next to a hospital – who among us doesn’t need a drink under such circumstances? So we make our way upstairs, and while we’re waiting, Cori shows up also with her mom in tow, and we start yakking away, basically turning the waiting room into one big coffee klatsch. A woman who’s waiting hears us talking and starts asking us questions – she was just diagnosed recently and is waiting to see Dr. Fine for her first appointment, since she’s getting a mastectomy and immediate recon, and is understandably nervous about it all. So of course Cori pulls up her shirt to show her how good the new foobage can look, and I’m about to do the same when I’m called in. Where my legend precedes me.

Nurse: So you two made your appointments to come in at about the same time?
Me: Yep, we scheduled our surgeries for the same day, so we figured we might as well keep it up.
Nurse: But she got out of the hospital before you did, I hear.
Me: Umm, yeah, I had that whole peeing problem.
Nurse, sympathetically: I heard.

Damn, I guess it’s true what BFF Noreen said, that nurses are all about the peeing and such. I swear, I’ll do better next time!

Then it’s time to see Dr. Fine.

Dr. F.: And how are things going?
Me: Great! I’m still taking the drugs, so I feel pretty good. Drugs are good!

(Dr. Fine must think I’m the biggest idiot on the planet, though he does a good job of hiding it.)

Dr. F.: Well, that’s good – just keep doing whatever you have to.
Me: And Cori and I were just comparing our boobages in your waiting room, showing them off. And I’ve been writing about your brilliance on my blog.
Dr. F.: Ah, then I had better make sure this doesn’t hurt, right? Otherwise that would be the first thing on the blog. This is why my strategy is to make sure if anything’s going to hurt, it goes last. You never want the first things to be painful.
Me: Exactly! Lull them into a false sense of security – pain at the end is a fleeting thing. Say, not to jump the gun here, but we can make adjustments, do more lifting on the left one, and so on, right? I just want to make sure I have perky boobs. Not that there’s pressure on you or anything, but I’m already planning a New Boobages party in June.
Dr. F.: Oh, of course. You probably can’t tell, but you actually have a port in the implants, so we can add saline to make them bigger or smaller.
Me: You’re telling me I have……adjustable boobages?
Dr. F.: Exactly.

Well. Well! This certainly makes things look even better, from where I sit. So after annoying Dr. Fine with a few more questions, telling him that I’ll have pics of his fine work plastered all over the blog and anywhere else I can get them, and explaining my bitter hatred of asshat doctors who have the idiocy to tell potential patients that “of course even with reconstruction your breasts will never look like normal breasts” (ahem, Dr. Kobleigh), Dr. Fine takes out Slacker Drain #3 (which doesn’t hurt at all), and we’re done.

And I feel pretty pleased with my prowess in getting rid of Slacker Drain, until Cori finishes up her appointment and walks out…..drainless! What the hell? Sigh, first the peeing, now the drains – she’s totally kicking my ass. But I think it’s a sign of how “special” I am that I actually saw Dr. Fine, and she only saw Michelle, his nursing assistant. Special in what way I’m not sure, but definitely special.

After lunch with Cori and her mom, we head home. To my place, that is, not my mom’s. Because the thought of being in the car all the way back to my mom’s, and then next week driving back into the city….I just can’t take it. Even the drive home is one hazard after another. Starting with the parking garage issues – again, can’t get to the ticket, driving 2 MPH, randomly hitting the brakes at the possibility of phantom cars darting in front of her, of waiting until she’s driving to start putting her seatbelt on – and then once we emerge, with my mom starting to drive across a street, then slamming on the brakes.

Me: Mom! What are you doing?!
Mom: That woman looked like she was maybe thinking about possibly starting to cross the street.
Me: Who cares?! Once the car is already crossing, the driver has the right of way. Pedestrians need to pay attention – it’s survival of the fittest out here! Besides, we’re right by a hospital anyway…..

Then I’m pretty sure without my repeating “Straight! Straight! NOW left!” we would have wound up going the wrong way on Lake Shore Drive. And I thought I had cleverly preempted any problems by not telling my mom beforehand which exit we were getting off at, because I knew what would happen – she’d immediately get all the way over to the right, and then keep hitting the brakes because of cars merging. But as soon as I do tell her which exit is ours, she gets over and then goes from the aforementioned 38 to about 20. A mile before the exit. I close my eyes. Again.

We finally make it to our exit, Irving Park Road, and once we get off, I find it’s safer to keep my eyes closed, and mumble “Just go straight, straight, keep going straight.” It’s just too scary otherwise.

Finally, home sweet home. Terra firma. I have alcohol in the house, don’t I? Please?

2 comments:

the infertile breeder said...

Too bad Cori's kicking your ass at recovery. Must be all that kale juice.

C'mon.. fight harder!

RP said...

So, I have to ask GF. Is that a shot of your new cleavage?