Look, I've got something to get off my chest. No, seriously. Literally. I went to the plastic surgeon this morning, signed a bunch of consent stuff, had photos taken of my naked upper torso (and for the record, I declined the permission to use them on their social media), and then I went into a different room. There one nurse in training watched and asked questions while the other nurse held my skin taut, and the doctor drew on me with a purple marker. It was weird. Scary and outside of my experience, but exhilarating in a strange way. I am so ready for the reduction part of this surgery. I am telling the dog's-honest truth when I say I do not care at all what size my chest ends up, as long as the shape and orientation are pretty. All I want to accomplish out of this is the liberating feeling of going braless with confidence. I'm sick to death of the weight of the world pulling my shoulders down. Even after throwing away all my underwire bras, I am still miserable in the all-lycra contraptions.
The doc asked me whether they were planning on keeping me overnight. I explained that I would be bringing a small travel bag just in case, but I didn't know what to expect. He said he would rather I stayed, and when I concurred, citing my one year old Great Pyrenees puppy, he restated definitively that I would spend the night. I told the day surgery nurse who called to remind me tomorrow was the day (do people forget?) and she made a note to have him write the order.
I received instructions on drain care. I had one once six years ago, but that time was a haze of pain, so I didn't remember how to handle it. Much like the port was my least favorite part of the last cancer, I expect this to be the one thing I complain most about. Funny, I'm not fond of foreign objects under or through my skin. Maybe this is why belly button piercings gross me out so badly.
The baby came over this evening for one last cuddle before grandma is off-limits for a week or two. She was supposed to show off the new skill she picked up, of spinning in circles until she was dizzy, but she didn't want to repeat it in front of an audience. Instead, she let grandpa swing her around, especially upside down, and that made her plenty dizzy for now. She tired out quickly, and turned into a cranky-puss before I could get good photos. A little extra truth in tonight's Valerie gallery.
Also, I ran my laundry now, so I would come home to a clean bed. I took a water break in between fitted and flat sheets, and came back to find Athena reattaching her collection of soft, black fur in her particular spot... as if the last set had completely come off in the laundry. Tell me again why I bother? It's fine. I sleep in a fur covered bed when I'm healthy. Might as well do it when I'm in recovery.
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