The Experience

In tears, I drove home that day. At times, I was practically blinded. But I swiped them away and kept on going. Dropping my prescription off at the drug store, I then pointed myself in the direction of the nearest W@l- Hell to find the front closing sports bra that would be the very first to support my new investment.

I have only bought bras outside the pink place where Victoria keeps her secrets a handful of times. Cheap bras were against my undergarment religion… I needed support, beautiful, expensive support. So initially I was shocked by the prices. Who knew you could get a bra for less than 10 bucks? I mean I knew you could, but I couldn’t! I could only buy bras once a year or when I got gift certificates, they were a complete luxury. So excitedly I browsed all the bras because guess what? Support be damned! I no longer have to mold them into a boob like shape. They do it on their own now. Fantastic plastic.

I guess you could argue that I bought the most expensive bra there is.

Pair that with the Almond Joy and the Diet Coke I wolfed down on my way home and my spirits were in considerably better shape.

Jason picked up my prescription for me on his way home and then talked to Crazyman’s sitter about taking him earlier in the morning so Jason could go with me to the hospital. He wanted to take me and be with me. Or it was a ploy to indulge in sweet, hospital cafeteria breakfast.

Make-up-less, I helped load Crazyman into the car that morning. On the way to the sitter, before the sun even came up, I spotted a rabbit running through a yard. “Look, a rabbit!” Jason said, “Yeah, I know, I have a dead one sitting in my front seat.” Because, yes folks, that’s how awesome I look without eye make up on. Just like a dead, pink-eyed, rabbit.

We made our way to the hospital and I checked in at registration, where I was the youngest person, hands down, going into surgery that morning. I would declare that probably made me the vainest in that waiting room as well, but what the hell.

Into the tiny room with head crushing, fluorescent lighting I walked. I took off my comfiest of comfy clothes and put on the ass-bearing surgery uniform. I sat there with a raging headache just willing someone to come in and take this waiting away.

The extremely peppy nurse answered my prayers. She took my vitals to which she commented that I must have the blood pressure of a dead person when I’m not nervous. With her annoying, nervous laugh she stabbed me to hook up my IV and graciously gave me some meds to ease the tension.

She left the room then and Jason mocked her laugh, making me giggle. Then came the fast talking anesthesiologist who explained that I would hurt afterwards. It wouldn’t be glamorous, and it would be painful. Thanks for the newsflash there, doc.

Fantastic!

Finally, the surgeon with his magic marker of fun, came in to mark me all up. Then I was wheeled out of the room and into the operating room where the last thing I remember was telling them that I was centered on the bed.

Next thing I know, I’m blinking my dopey, heavy eyes open to bright light and the face of some strange woman, patting my hand. I woke up in the recovery room, wondering why I had a midget sitting on my chest and may I please have a Diet Coke.

Within a half hour, I was wheeled back to my room to my waiting husband who greeted me with a giddy, “Hey, Tits McGee”. Within the next half hour of that I was being wheeled out to my car and off to go home.

Coming out of it, I was a little nauseated, hot, clammy and my knees knocked like an old Chevy I had once. But all in all, not too terribly bad.

At home, I lay in bed, taking my pills like a good girl. For dinner? I had awesomely, delicious hot, salty French fries and peanut butter cups. I was going to be better in no time.

The next morning we went shopping for Crazyman clothes, went to check on our rental house, went to my doctor’s appointment and then grocery shopping. I came home, hung out with my parents for a bit and then finally crawled back into warm, sweet bed.

Things that have been difficult:

• Opening and Closing the house windows – I ended up using my feet.
• Getting up while laying flat in bed. No way! At least not without screaming out in pain.
• Being at all effective in disciplining my son.
• Closing the car door.
• Reaching into the back seat to get my purse.
• Putting on a shirt – any shirt.
• Buttoning my pants. I feel like the implants are going to spring forth from my chest in complete pants buttoning defiance.
• Washing my hair or anything else that requires arms over my head action.
• Shaving my armpits. My armpits are shaped differently now. They seem deeper, somehow.
• Opening a beer. Opening anything for that matter.
• Pretty much anything that requires use of my arms.

And with that? I would like to officially NEVER talk about my boobs ever again.

Ever.

THE END