Getting ink done

Once in a great while – not often, mind you – I like to step away from talking about my trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the face of extreme adversity. You know, that whole goddess thing I have going on. And I do so when it behooves me to write about things that my people might find useful, like the cancer shit and all. And then some people wind up thinking – “honey, TMI, okay? Love ya, but really, girlfriend.” To which I say: suck it.

All of which brings me to today’s topic: tattoos. Or more specifically, nipple tattoos. (See, I warned you guys.) Which as you can imagine, is one of those things fraught with apprehension for the nipple-challenged among us, as we think – WTF? Really? Isn’t that going to be, you know, PAINFUL?

An appointment was made, and off I went to the office of Dr. Fine, where I was actually going to meet with Michelle, aka PA to the Stars. Things start off as usual, with Michelle explaining the procedure.

Michelle:……..so after we pick out the right color, I’ll trace the shape that….

Me: Can we do it in any shape? Like, a flower or something fun?

Michelle: I only do circles. Dr. Fine once did a star, but only agreed to it if it could later be made into a circle if need be.

Hmm. Okay, never mind that idea then.

So we’re chit-chatting as Michelle is getting all the stuff ready.

Me: So does Grey’s Anatomy drive you crazy, with all the stuff they get wrong or take liberties with? You know, all the things that us mere mortals would have no idea about?

Michelle: Oh, I can’t even watch that show anymore, it’s so bad.

Me: Ha, so you mean everyone isn’t always getting it on in a broom closet?

Michelle: Well, actually….

Me: No!

Michelle: I guess there is a certain contingent like that, though it’s not common.

Me: Okay then. So, umm (changing the topic)…..do you read any nurses’ blogs?

Michelle is silent for a moment. As soon as I’ve spoken, I’m kicking myself. Shit, now she thinks I think she’s a nurse, which I know she’s not. But now I sound like a dumbass. Geez, why don’t I just pitch everyone into the same category, call them all “technicians” or something?

Michelle: No, can’t say I do. Though I wonder if there are any Physician’s Assistant blogs out there.

Me, scrambling to cover my tracks: Oh, I’m sure there are. Especially since there are doctors’ blogs, ER blogs, you name it.

Me, continuing, hopefully: So do I at least get any good drugs after this? Dilaudid? Whatever that is, it's big in the nursing blogs. Oxycontin? There's bound to be a LOT of pain after this, and I'm kind of a wimp.

Michelle, not moved: Tylenol.

Shit. Let’s face it, I’m still screwed – I’ve just inadvertently pissed off the person about to do my tattoo. Great.

After we get the color matched, Michelle starts injecting a local anesthetic under the fipple, which leads to this kind of dialogue when it hits a nerve or something:

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry. I know I’m the problem patient as always.

Michelle, deadpan: Oh, absolutely. Such a problem.

Me: AHHHHHHHhhhhhh! Sorry…..

And so on. But finally that torturous part is over, and the tattooing begins! Except….

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry….

Michelle: That shouldn’t hurt. Are you sure it’s pain and not pressure?

Me: It’s definitely pain. AHHhhhh! Sorry….

This continues. The part where the lat flap skin is has no feeling, so that doesn’t hurt. But as soon as it gets to the rest, yep, pain. Definitely pain.

Michelle: Really, pain? Not pressure?

See, I’m thinking this is where I’m paying for my “nurse” remark. I’m obviously an idiot, so everything I say is suspect.

Me: Sigh, it’s pain. But maybe I can just grit my teeth and suck it up?

Michelle: Well, generally with all the surgeries, there are nerves left only on the top, which is where we apply the anesthetic. The ones that run underneath have been cut.

Me: I guess I’m a special case. A freak of nature. It’s a gift.

Michelle, pondering: “Special,” hmm…….oh, where was I? So in any case, sometimes the nerves are still there, so I’ll do the anesthesia deeper.

The needle again, then more tattooing, but this time we’re in business. Pressure, no pain. Whew.

Finally we’re done, and we bandage that puppy up, and I get instructions for the care and feeding of tattoos. Then off to the hallway, where I’m greeted by the other Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, Dr. Schierle.

Me: Hey, your office is a frontrunner in the Pinkapalooza contest! We here at thethighmasterroutetokona really like free stuff.

Dr. Schierle: Outstanding!

Me, adding: And we’re going to wear our glowsticks to the Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night game!

Barb: The….what?

Dr. Schierle: The…..how’s that again?

Me: Really, that’s what they call it. Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness. I know….but we have to remember, they’re hockey players.

Barb: Ah, good point.

Dr. Schierle: Well here, let me heap more of these glowsticks on you to take to the game!

These people clearly understand me. Clearly.

Dr. Schierle: That’ll keep us in first place, right?

Me: Well, it should. The problem is that there’s some truly scary Pinkishness stuff out there.

Dr. S.: How about having different categories? Like say…..a Hall of Fame? And a Hall of Shame!

Me, gaping at Dr. S.: Why…..that’s brilliant! I love it! I’m going to steal that idea and call it my own. But you guys will still be in the running for a hat.

Dr. S.: Excellent!

And so it has been spoken, and so it shall be done. Though in addition to the above categories, I’m also adding one called the Hall of WTF – for those entries that are neither way cool, nor way offensive, but just…..puzzling. To the extreme. In a “Huh? What the hell were they thinking” kind of way.

Oh yes, there are plenty of those out there too, trust me…..

Oh, and as for that tattoo? Yeah, it hurts like a sonofabitch, even now, days later. Still oozing, bleeding, makes it hard to drive because of the damn seat belt going over my chest. But you know, in the grand scheme of things as far as SurgeryLand and TreatmentWorld are concerned, it’s not that big a deal. My recommendation: drink early, drink often. I suggest shots of the Bloody Fipple (credit to Kim, who thought this one up, or at least something very similar):: pomegranate juice, flavored vodka, splash of amaretto. Bottoms up!

The bar is being set pretty high, my friends

I had no idea. I mean, I know it sounds incredibly naïve to say that, but really, I didn’t. Oh sure, I knew things had gotten a bit crazy and out of control, had degenerated a bit as it were, but I also figured that some semblance of reason would remain. We’re all rational people after all, right? Able to resist a free-for-all orgy of excess, able to hew to a more civilized society?

Apparently not.

Because I have seen the Pinkishness, and it is us. And I don’t mean this in a good way.

* * * * * *

So it started yesterday, when I met BCCF Cori downtown for her appointment at Dr. Fine’s office. Our Plastic Surgeon to the Stars was off sculpting the perfect boobages for someone else, so we met with Dr. Schierle as a follow-up to Cori’s last surgery. And not only was Dr. Schierle funny and warm, laughing at jokes I’m sure he’s heard a million times about adjustable boobages and the need for an iPhone app so that the girls can be automatically adjusted, but……well…….let’s just say this. How often do YOU go to the doctor and get awesome parting gifts?

So our first contender for the Pinkapalooza Contest is……the Pink Glowstick For The Cure, from the plastic surgeon’s office! Yes, perhaps not the most outrageous thing out there, but I like it, and it’s my contest, so sue me.

* * * * * *

Now this is where things start to get tricky. Because after announcing my little contest, suddenly I was inundated with all sorts of items For The Cure. Not only was I astounded by the sheer variety of foods that I could add to my All Things Pink diet, the one that’s sure to cure me before the month is out, but it soon became clear that I could buy nothing but pink in all aspects of my life and still live a pretty normal existence.

To wit: pink ribbon bagels For The Cure (Panera), toilet paper For The Cure, cake and cupcakes For The Cure, Edy’s ice cream For The Cure. Tic Tacs! Batteries! Playing cards! Tortilla chips! Mushrooms in pink Styrofoam packaging! Perfume! Purses! Dansko clogs! Boob lube!

And against that background, I hear from Cori, who’s out shopping and letting me know about pink stuff left and right, when suddenly she spies…..gum For The Cure. Not just any old gum either – white gum with pink ribbons on each piece, and best of all, the package proudly proclaims “your purchase can save lives!”

Cori: I’m buying a lot of gum – that means I’m saving lives!

Me, sulking: How come *I* don’t see this gum around? I’m not saving anyone!

Cori: Nope, not like me. Here we go, another life saved. They should make a Lifetime movie about me.

Me: Yeah, like the one about the guy who discovered Herceptin!

Cori: Exactly! I’m pretty much just like him. Okay, off to save more lives!

I feel so inadequate in comparison.

Next up: The frontrunners thus far. Suffice it to say, I may need to give out more than one hat. Alert Readers with entries, please check back……

Adventures in Boobages

Today I went to see Dr. Fine, aka Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, for some Boobage adjustment. It’s been a while. I had been under the impression that for this appointment they’d remove the marvel known as ports from the girls (sob!), so I changed my original appointment which was right before the Great Alpian Adventure, thinking stitches, vicodin and the like. Turns out, Dr. Fine, genius that he is, was in no hurry to remove them.

Dr. Fine: So, how are they doing?

Me: Good, but you see how this one is a little bigger? Well, maybe not bigger in terms of volume, but it projects more so it seems bigger.

Dr. Fine: Well, you know, most natural breasts aren’t the same size…

I just look at him, with a face fraught with skepticism.

Dr. Fine: Or we could remove some saline from the left one to make it smaller…

Now I look at him in horror.

Me: NO! No! We’re not making the Boobages any smaller!

Dr. Fine: Okay, so we’ll add some to the right and see how that looks.

Me: Yes!

Then the fun starts. Because you may recall, dear reader(s), that when we tried a Boobage adjustment back in June, on the left side, the port had flipped around and was thus inaccessible. The port being attached to the saline implant, hence making the Boobages wonderfully adjustable. As it turns out, it’s a good thing we couldn’t adjust then, because the right one wound up being smaller, thanks to the radiation which continues to fuck with your skin and tighten everything up. Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.

So there we are, Dr. Fine with a needle poking around for the port, which has somehow drifted down to my ribcage. Poke poke poke.

Dr. Fine: Hmm, it seems to have flipped…..

I start chuckling. He keeps poking around.

Dr. Fine: You know what, I’ll anesthetize the area, and then try again…

At which point I start giggling, rather uncontrollably.

Me: Don’t you remember? This is exactly what happened with the left one!

Dr. Fine: Really? Because this really doesn’t happen often at all.

Me: Well, I do have the worst luck of anyone I know, so……

Luckily this time he gets the port flipped around, and Boobage Adjustment commences. For those curious or not in the know, this procedure is probably exactly what you’d imagine it to be. Insert a needle attached to a big-ass syringe, this one with 50ccs of saline. Push saline into Boobage. Watch Boobage get insta-bigger. Yes, it’s kind of like blow-up doll technology for CancerChicks. Instaboobs!

Then we’re chatting, and I mention to Dr. Fine the GAA…

Me:….and you know what? You were right – the lat flap didn’t affect my cycling at all!

Dr. Fine: Glad to hear it – I didn’t think it would. That muscle really is just used for pushing down.

Me: Oh, well, I haven’t tried swimming yet, so I’ll have to see how that goes…

Dr. Fine: Well, for most people and their typical splashing around, this won’t affect them either.

Wait. Splashing around? This was like déjà vu all over again! Of course, the difference being that the last time we had this conversation, I was in a state of deep cancer angst, still trying to find doctors and figure out treatment, hence less able to see the humor in the situation. Now? Now I just agree that the few seconds difference in swim times won’t make much of a difference for a Triathlon Alpian Goddess such as myself, and note that it’s the bike that really matters anyway. And we smile, understanding each other perfectly. And we leave the ports in – so yes, these babies? Still. Adjustable.

Rock$tar.

Next month on the Boobage front: tattoos!

The Par-Tay!

Mary Ellen and I head back to the house, and of course now my schedule is totally off, so right away, I yank ME’s luggage out of her hand and whisk her over to the counter to get to work. “Slice those limes!” I bark – though when I notice that she’s staring at said limes with a glazed look in her eyes due to lack of sleep and jet lag, I command her to take a nap instead. But now I’m down a helper. What to do??

Luckily, salvation comes just then in the form of…..Supermom! Yes, my mom, one of the esteemed guests at the Par-tay, has come early to help out. Whew! Of course I immediately assign her to the most heinous, miserable task known to man, namely attempting to peel hard-boiled eggs that have been made from too-fresh eggs. Meaning that in spite of my patented egg-boiling method (put eggs in pan of water, bring to boil, turn off stove, cover eggs, let sit for 15 minutes. They’re always perfect.) – it’s absolutely true that fresh eggs will NOT peel well. Or at all. I had tried to peel one and gave up. I will be doing penance years for this one, for foisting this on my mom. Thanks mom.

In the meantime, I set to the critical task, that of smoking the fish. My secret method consists of taking a b^&*(@(*^&0897)*#$@)$^*&^@)*&&($#$)*(!$)*(&.....oops, sorry, keyboard got stuck there for a moment. Anyway, once the fish is done to perfection (and it’s so perfect that we debate telling guests that it turned out horrible so that we can have it all to ourselves – my dad would be proud), I need to leave to pick up the barbecue and that damn cake. Again. I head out, bellowing instructions to my mom and Kathleen, friend and SuperTenant to the Stars:

Me: Tote that bale! Dig that hole! PEEL THOSE EGGS!

I head back to Dinkel’s, and luckily the cake is ready this time. Before they hand it over, the older woman comes over for an inspection:

Woman: Wait! Let me see that cake first.

She gazes at it solemnly, this way and that, while we all wait, silently. Finally……the nod of approval!

Woman, sagely: Yes. That’s absolutely perfect.

And indeed it is, well worth the wait.



I then battle traffic to pick up the brisket from Smoque BBQ – I’m always worried I won’t have enough food at my parties, so it seemed good to supplement with some barbecue – and head home. Where I find that my guests will NOT be eating any spinach dip, because Kona has stolen and eaten an entire loaf of Hawaiian bread. Not just a corner of it, such that I could salvage it and still serve it to my guests. Nope, the whole damn thing. Clearly he should be used in marketing and ads for the Hawaiian bread people.

* * * * * *

My guests start arriving around 3:30, and luckily it’s stopped pouring so I send some people outside, while I stop to chat with other people in the dining room. Suddenly, without warning, we have our first dire situation at the party:

Tessie, with a wail of anguish: MY BLANKIE!!!!

Time stands still. The room goes silent. I look down, and there’s The Kone, calmly holding onto Tess’s precious blankie – and I know from babysitting her that this blankie is like the holy grail to this child.

Tess, again: Blankie! Blankie!

Everyone is frozen in a tableau of fear, as to what might happen if Kona decides to start shaking the blankie in order to break its neck, as he tends to do with things. I know better, that he’s just playing his “I have something you want so I’ll stand here until you give me a treat for it” game. So I grab a hunk of cheese from the table, and Kona of course drops the blankie immediately, which Tessie clutches to her bosom, such as it is for a 2-year old. Whew, disaster averted.

* * * * * * * *

One constant throughout the day is that my friends are all telling me how cool all my other friends are, those they haven’t met before but have been happily chatting away with. We have a number of different contingents here: hockey, triathlon, gardening, Accenture, Kiev, Dobe rescue. And they’re all enjoying each other’s company. Even though the first words to me out of Alise’s (from IDR) mouth were about Kona – “He’s fat!”

Me: He just looks that way – he ate an entire loaf of Hawaiian bread today – the whole thing! – so that’s why he’s a bit barrel-shaped. Plus people are taking pictures of him, and you know how they say the camera adds ten pounds.

I grin, charmingly. Alise still looks a bit skeptical. Damn. *I* thought that sounded good….

* * * * * * * *


In the end, it was a glorious party and celebration. Some other highlights:

• Dr. Fine receiving many compliments on his excellent work, and rightfully so.

• Jennifer G. getting the most accolades for the impressive boobage display, apparently thanks to a stellar push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret.

• And Jennifer and Bo were also the proud winners of the Grand Door Prize, the Jingle Jugs! Which were actually won first by Stacy, who oddly guessed the exact number of medical bills/notices I’ve received in the last year and a half (762), but opted for the Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure bumper sticker instead. So off they went with Jennifer and Bo – who pointed out something that I hadn’t even noticed. Which is that before the Jugs start with their little song and dance routine, there is apparently a “breast cancer awareness message” first that one gets to listen to. I kid you not. Hey, and who said those Jingle Jugs people weren’t responsible??

• Happily, I did NOT have to man the grill, as Alton very generously offered to take care of grilling duties. Men who love to grill are the best.

• In spite of my fear of there not being enough food, there was enough left over to feed a small Himalayan country, in spite of the 70 or so people who showed up. And I think it’s safe to say the smoked fish was the hit of the par-tay.

Now, it’s a toss-up as to which gift I received was the best. Not that people needed to bring anything, but it was very sweet of them to do so. The VS gift cards were awesome, and will be used well, and the Knockers sweatshirt, well, I can’t say enough good things about that. The ironic pink stuff, also brilliant, and the Tassled Tomatoes? Basically the hit of the par-tay.

But there was one gift that we were speculating about all evening, as to what it could be, and I should have opened it that night but then my shriek of delight would have woken up or startled everyone in the neighborhood. Because this was simply the Best. Gift. Ever. But take a look for yourself. Behold:



Yes, my very own pink bat, engraved with my name on it. Sniffle. Many many thanks to Ron and Shirley, you guys are the best!! And thanks to all who came, and to those who wished they could make it but were there with us in spirit and hoisted mojitos. Many hoisted mojitos. It really didn’t surprise me that all my friends thought my other friends were so awesome and cool and fun – I already knew how lucky I was to have such amazing people in my life…..

Miss Tasha’s Coming Out Par-tay!

For those who know me only through my blog, it might come as a surprise to know that I’m actually a rather modest person. Really. Not modest regarding my obvious superiority – hell, I have so many gifts I could pass them out like party favors! – but rather in the Victorian sense. I grew up with parents from the “old country,” meaning nothing related to sex was ever brought up in the house. Never got “The Talk.” Chicken had white meat, not breasts. You get the idea.

So it was a particularly cruel joke played by fate when The Cancer came along, in the form of a large lump in the worst place imaginable, at least in terms of removing it. But being my shy self, I’d spare people the details, which prompted questions and comments like “Oh, a lump, so they can remove just that and then that’ll be it, right? Why would you need recon? You don’t need recon, do you? For just a lump? Blah blah blah, yes?”

Until one day I snapped. Right here on this little blog, I believe it was. Where after the six millionth puzzled look and inquiry as to why I’d be so vain as to go through reconstruction for just a little ol’ lump I finally responded with:

“It wasn’t just a lump! It was a huge honking lump that was RIGHT UNDERNEATH my fucking NIPPLE, okay? So the whole thing had to go, leaving me with the Appalachian Mountain Boob problem, okay? You know, with the whole top sheared off! THAT’S why I need recon!”

So here we are. Where I still don’t like to talk about things like nipples or fipples, but sometimes, it’s for the greater good, and so I’m okay with it. But when it comes to the Boobages, and the new lovely cleavage, I figure, all bets are off. I earned these puppies, and the right to flaunt them any way I damn well please. Which I plan to do, in spectacular fashion. Not just because they’re fake, but especially because they’re fake, and pretty. Because as we say around these parts – the real ones tried to kill me.

All this is a prelude to announce the big celebration of Miss Tasha’s New Boobages, in the form of a Coming Out Par-tay on June 5^th! The Boobages party of the decade! And not coincidentally, it’s also my birthday weekend. There’ll be the usual fun, food and festivities, with Kona stealing guests’ food at every opportunity, and in the “special events” category we’ll have:

- The giveaway of the Jingle Jugs to the person who comes closest to guessing just HOW many insurance bills/notices/threatening letters Miss Tasha has received in the last 2 years!

- A piñata as a stand-in for BCBS execs!

- Whatever other crazy stuff we can come up with!

And YOU are invited! Yes, you! Well, okay, those of you in the Chicagoland area, which I think narrows things down considerably. I’m also inviting my doctors, so they can admire their handiwork in a social setting, and guests (the female ones) are encouraged to flaunt their own girls in a show of solidarity with my own Boobages. Man boobs are not encouraged. And given that some of my dear CancerChick friends are planning on coming, this could be the finest assemblage of Boobages, fake and otherwise, that my little burg has ever seen.

I do think it’s telling that my female friends who’ve responded to the Evite are all giddy about buying new push-up bras, picking out the most boobalicious clothing, etc.

The guys just seem frightened, and most of them have gone to ground. Nary a peep from many of the menfolk. Sad.

But speaking of the Boobages, it’s almost startling to discover that hey, I now gots cleavage! And not because the girls are pushed up and wonderbra-ed within an inch of their lives, but because they’re now naturally busty, thanks to the superior work of Dr. Fine and his people – well, and the fact that he had a good base to work with, naturally. Modern medicine can do just so much.

On the road to Boobalicious

….or, a PSA for the fipple-inclined

So once in a while among the serious triathlon tips, the suggestions on how to follow my own strict Paleo-based diet, the gentle discourses on politics, etc., I like to impart some useful information to my sisters in breast cancerhood who might stumble upon this blog somehow. This is information that in many cases is totally useless to the rest of you, or may even be TMI for some, and I get that. If this isn't something that's become part of your life, like it or not, then reading about it is probably a bit disturbing. So stop reading now please, if you’re not in that “sisters looking for info” category.

Okay, where were we….oh yes, the fipple. There’s a reason we call them FrankenFipples. That’s because no matter what method they use to recreate the nipple - twist-and-stitch, a graft, etc. – when you first see it, you might totally and completely freak out and wonder what the hell your plastic surgeon has done. In fact, you might think that there was a mishap as the doctors were snacking in the OR and passing around the Dots, and oops! One fell to your breast and got stuck there! And they figured heck, that’s good enough, no one will notice.

You will notice.

Now me, I’ve read enough threads on YSC that all started the same way – “oh my god, I’m a freak, I’ll never look normal, what have they done!” – to know that this whole gumdrop-nipple appearance is totally normal, and to be expected. I know that and yet I’m still a bit skeptical, though trying to keep the faith. Motya was asking how they know how much the fipp will shrink, and she suggested that there was some kind of “fipple algorithm” they use to determine just how big you need to start out with, which I’m sure is the case. These are surgeons after all – they have this shit figured out.

So that’s my PSA for today – if you’re having the fipple surgery, or thinking about it, do NOT freak out when you see the little Mount Vesuviuses stuck on your chest. All will be well, eventually, after you go through what Kim described as the three stages of fipple recovery: meat grinder, nursing incident with teeth, and prickly fipple. Kim rocks because she came up with a shot that she christened the Prickly Fipple (pear vodka, pear liqueur, mint) – which definitely elevates her to Rock $tar status in my book.

Oh, and one final thing – do NOT get your hopes up that you’ll get the spongy nipple bundt cake thingies to protect the fipple! I was totally looking forward to that, based on someone else’s pictures/website, and what do *I* get? Plain old bandages. Hmph. I think this calls for a letter – or at least a visit to the craft store, to ask if they carry spongy nipple bundt cake thingies. I’ll report back.

All hail the Boobages!

Yesterday started out much like any other surgery day – I went with my mom downtown to NMH, with me driving her car of course, so as to avoid the huge spike in blood pressure that ensues whenever I’m in a car with my mom as driver. Then we get to the waiting room there, and yet again, I note that their computer’s homepages are set to some hospital webpage rather than my own informative blog. Sigh. Must I fix everything around here?

I’m then taken to the pre-op room – same one as before the last surgery – and lo and behold, who should soon come walking in but my old friend, Dr. Marcus the anesthesiologist! The nice one, not the other guy who rolled his eyes at me when I didn’t answer his silly questions fast enough. Hey pal, brain injury, okay??

Me: Well, fancy meeting you here!

Dr. M.: You again? I mean…..you again!

Me: So you remember that I don’t like the forgetting drug beforehand, right?

Dr. M.: You mean the one we give you here before you get wheeled to the operating room?

Me: Exactly! I hate that!

Dr. M.: We could just forego putting you under altogether and….

Me, aghast: God no, that’s crazy talk! I don’t want to know what’s going on during surgery. I just don’t like the part where I’m putting the little cap on my head before I get wheeled down and then poof, next thing you know I’m waking up from surgery, even though I know I was awake for some of that but I don’t remember a damn thing. Umm, that makes sense, right?

For some reason Dr. M. is looking at me a little strangely.

Me: I mean, that’s probably pretty common, that people want to remember being awake and engaging in witty banter and all that, right?

Dr. M.: Actually, no. Most people are a bit tense so they want to forget as much of things as they can, and for that to happen as soon as possible.

Me: Oh.

In the meantime, I have one nurse working on putting in the IV, and she’s the one surly nurse I encounter all day. I really don’t understand these people who are immune to my considerable charms, but nope, she doesn’t even crack a smile. Hmm. Odd. Perhaps she’s jealous of my stature as a Triathlon Goddess – it’s been known to happen. Okay, not really, but there’s a first time for everything.

But then there’s Michelle, PA to the Stars (me), who has the best news of all:

Michelle: So we’re doing nipple recon on the right, a lift on the left…..and you know, we can leave the ports in, just in case we want to do some future adjustments.

Me: Seriously?? I get to keep my adjustable Boobages? Sweet!! That way I can keep the dream of a Pamela Anderson look alive!

Dr. M.: But she got deflated, didn’t she?

Me: Yes, but then she got re-inflated! She went big again! A girl needs her Boobages, you know….

Resident: I’ve never heard the term Boobages….

Me, modestly: I tend to make up brilliant new words. Feel free to use it! Oh, before I forget, how long before I can go back to my regular activities, for which “the little people” look to me for inspiration? I *am* a finely honed triathlete, you know. And cyclist.

Resident: Well, easy biking you can do – just don’t go racing those guys on the lakefront who are hunched over their triathlon bikes zooming along.

Clearly, my reputation precedes me.

And you see, this is the kind of charm and wit I’m known for, which is clearly why all my doctors adore me. Though they never seem to take my calls, but I’m sure that’s because they’re really super busy and all.

But it’s not all laughs and idle chit-chat. Dr. M. is asking the important questions, so I try to pay attention.

Dr. M.: Any allergies to anything?

Me: Nope.

Dr. M.: And you’re 5’6?

Me: Yep.

Dr. M.: Weight?

Me: &*(#&*(RY^@^)*&^R*&).....

(We interrupt this blog posting due to unforeseen transmission problems. Please stay tuned.)

Oh, sorry, I’m not sure what happened there, must have been a glitch in the subwarf integrated circuits or something. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. The questions.

Dr. M.: And what are you taking the Celexa for?

Me: Umm, so I don’t go into a frothing rage and kill people on a regular basis? Any more so than usual, that is. Oh, and so I don’t break into uncontrollable weeping at those Pedigree commercials with the shelter dogs.

Dr. M.: And the Prevacid for heartburn, does that work?

Me: Kind of sort of.

Dr. M.: ?

Me: Well, sometimes I still take a Tums or something.

Dr. M.: Does that coincide with anything, eating something in particular?

Me: No, not really, though it does happen more often when I don’t eat anything. You know, fasting all day in a futile attempt to lose the weight that FatSurly makes it impossible to lose, and is the reason I want to shoot myself on a daily basis.

The room is silent, but I think that’s because everyone is just industriously working away at their respective tasks. At the same time, something does occur to me, and that’s this: anyone who ever puts forth the notion that one can ever strike up a patient-doctor relationship of some kind of is, quite simply, on crack. Because here we have Dr. M., a perfectly lovely fellow who likes hockey, and he knows me as a fat and surly psychopath. Dr. Fine will see me as I’m in all likelihood drooling on his operating table. And let’s not even talk about Dr. Merkhottie, treating me in the days of the broken collarbone AND brain injury. Those were some stellar moments there, let me tell you.

Finally, the man of the hour, Dr. Fine, comes in, and I greet him in my usual manner.

Me: So Dr. Fine, Cori is really happy with her foobs, and I’ve seen Jen’s and they’re spectacular, so I’m expecting nothing less than complete and total perfection here with my own. Oh, and I write about you on my blog, so the whole blogosphere is also expecting perfection. Just so you know. No pressure or anything.

Finally, I’m wheeled down to the OR, yammering the whole way, about my theories on doctors and how they engage in googly eyes and flirting and such over the patient during surgery, etc.

Resident: Where do you get your ideas on how doctors operate? Grey’s Anatomy?

Me: Exactly! I mean, what could be more accurate then a hospital where the residents are constantly getting it on in supply closets, and the operating rooms are all so darkly lit that the docs can’t actually see what the hell they’re doing, and oh yeah, the person with advanced brain cancer is miraculously cured, because she’s a hot blonde? Right?

For some reason, they now put the little mask over my mouth even as they’re still prepping, but I think that’s because they recognize that someone of my highly honed athletic physique will take longer to knock out.

Next thing you know, I’m done with surgery, sent home, and lo, there it is 8PM and we’re doing Shots Across America, drinking to: Kim’s birthday, my spectacular Boobages, my great doctors, PamB and her awesomeness, Kim’s awesome running abilities, Kona at the Day Spa, the Hooters to Hooters half-marathon, our hooters in general, and I forget what else. It was a long and glorious night, and I am fortunate indeed to have such great friends.

One final thought – is it wrong that I keep peeking down the front of my shirt to admire the new girls? Because admittedly, the Frankenfipple is a bit scary at this point, but the lift and symmetry? Truly a wonder. Dr. Fine is a genius. And as I always say – what’s the point of getting cancer if you don’t get anything out of it?