So, now that I am getting out, I'm seeing people that I haven't seen in a while. Since before the "boob business". And now I am wondering: Are they all trying really hard NOT to stare at my boobs? I know that's what I've done (or tried NOT to do) in the past. Inquiring minds want to know! So now I'm going to be watching everyone. "Eyes up here!" (I should wear low cut shirts so I can yell, "Aha!" when eyes stray south. The old "boob and switch".)
But, to satisfy curiosity, it's not so exciting. Which is actually VERY exciting. We live in such a wonderful time, medically, that I don't look glaringly different than I did before. Admittedly, things are a bit wonky still but I look more normal than I had dared hope. (And I still have a lot of settling/ healing and a future "tweak" to do.) Dressed, it's a non-event. I look the same. Probably better since my muffin top was relocated to higher ground. I never really expected that thing to come in so handy. I guess I can stop blaming the children for ruining my body. If they hadn't, I wouldn't have had the extra dough to work with...
Today, I am 6 weeks out and for about a week I've been feeling much more like a normal version of me. Things aren't back to normal but, if I were a computer, it's more like a program running in the background. Minimized while my normally scheduled programs resume. Nice! I have the holidays ahead to but there is something else I am looking forward to. Not having to see the plastic surgeon again until spring!
In the hospital, every single doctor or nurse that saw me looked at and touched my girls. But it was the hospital and seemed normal. (?!) But now, I'm still going to be groped every other week or so. Now, the girls have been monitored for years. But mostly by women doctors and techs. Now, my plastic surgeon is completely professional and you can tell it's all just work for him. But he's a boy and he's my age. (Possibly a bit younger.) He sits on a stool while I stand in front of him. With my shirt open. Again, he's completely professional. But it's still a bit weird for me.
I sort of don't know what to do or where to look. (I'm always tempted to start whistling.) After man-handling the girls, I usually pull my gown shut because I'm modest. But then I have a question. So I open up to point to something. Then close up while he answers. Then have to open up again while he points something out. I stand there flapping my gown open and closed like some weird flasher or pink gowned bat. Trying not to whistle. Or babble. Awkward... It's my natural state. I'm still waiting to outgrow it. But at this point I think I should give up. Or give in.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to keeping my shirt closed for the winter. (Good thing- it's nippy out. <-- Didja see what I did there? Hee-hee.) I'm looking forward to not getting groped. (By men I did not marry.) And, for the first time in years, I'm not dreading my birthday and the spring. Every year since I turned 40, my birthday had brought me closer to my mother's diagnosis age. It signaled the time to schedule my annual MRI. And twice to biopsies of suspicious areas. (Though I am grateful for the last biopsy, it pushed me to go ahead with this all despite my many, many fears.) This spring, can just. be. spring. And boobs will have nothing to do with it! Ahhhh.....
P.S. Suddenly got a flash in my head of Tina Turner singing, "What's boobs got to do with it..."
In the hospital, every single doctor or nurse that saw me looked at and touched my girls. But it was the hospital and seemed normal. (?!) But now, I'm still going to be groped every other week or so. Now, the girls have been monitored for years. But mostly by women doctors and techs. Now, my plastic surgeon is completely professional and you can tell it's all just work for him. But he's a boy and he's my age. (Possibly a bit younger.) He sits on a stool while I stand in front of him. With my shirt open. Again, he's completely professional. But it's still a bit weird for me.
I sort of don't know what to do or where to look. (I'm always tempted to start whistling.) After man-handling the girls, I usually pull my gown shut because I'm modest. But then I have a question. So I open up to point to something. Then close up while he answers. Then have to open up again while he points something out. I stand there flapping my gown open and closed like some weird flasher or pink gowned bat. Trying not to whistle. Or babble. Awkward... It's my natural state. I'm still waiting to outgrow it. But at this point I think I should give up. Or give in.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to keeping my shirt closed for the winter. (Good thing- it's nippy out. <-- Didja see what I did there? Hee-hee.) I'm looking forward to not getting groped. (By men I did not marry.) And, for the first time in years, I'm not dreading my birthday and the spring. Every year since I turned 40, my birthday had brought me closer to my mother's diagnosis age. It signaled the time to schedule my annual MRI. And twice to biopsies of suspicious areas. (Though I am grateful for the last biopsy, it pushed me to go ahead with this all despite my many, many fears.) This spring, can just. be. spring. And boobs will have nothing to do with it! Ahhhh.....
P.S. Suddenly got a flash in my head of Tina Turner singing, "What's boobs got to do with it..."
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