Just a few more hours and I can get these offending staples out of my chest. I can't stand them another second, but yet I have to find a way to sleep with them in one more time. I swear they are getting tighter, like I am wrapped in barbed wire, and someone keeps twisting a sardine can key in it, one revolution a day.
I see the cancer surgeon first thing in the morning, so she can peek at her work, and then I high-tail it to the plastic surgeon for staple removal and bandage reset. I was setting out clothes for tomorrow, and I fought the impulse to grab a bra. I'm sure he will wrap me up in a fresh one, and if by chance he doesn't, no big deal. I'll go home free and easy, without feeling even a little bit weird.
I did nothing today. I mean nothing. I sat and stared and felt each intake of breath against my bandages. I had no painkillers other than my regular NSAID. I didn't take a benadryl either, even though I still have hives. I can't say that just watching seconds tick on the clock was wise, but it took a whole day to decide that.
At least most of the evening, I've been entertained by the Squeaky Toy Symphony, as performed by my best good girl. Find someone who looks at you like Saoirse does a squeaky toy.
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