Why I can't have nice things

It is a well-known fact that I am a klutz. And even though I haven't gotten around to posting about my most recent adventures in surgery land, it is also a well-known fact that I have a fairly useless left arm. I'm sure you can guess where this is going.

Two days ago I decided to make myself a nice cup of tea at work. I merrily skipped over to the microkitchen and stretched as far as I could to get down a paper hot cup. I squeezed in a generous dollop of honey from the bear-shaped dispenser, plopped in the tea bag, and centered the cup under the instant hot beverage machine. Hot water, large, and start! Hmmm, there seems to be distinct lack of fullness in my cup. Hot water, small, and start! One perfectly filled cup of searingly hot liquid. I'll just pick this up and SPLURSH EVERYWHERE!

Somehow my left had escaped unscathed, while my innocent right hand was delicately charred. A combination of cold water and ice saved me from years of skin grafts, but nothing could hide the sticky, hot mess covering everything. I manned up, found a janitor, and apologized profusely.

Well, that was thoroughly embarrassing. Not willing to let such a challenge go unanswered, I managed to one up myself today.

The first Friday of every month is brunch day. Some people complain about not having two distinct giant buffets from which to get their meals, but I love having waffles for lunch.

I very carefully used my right hand to hold a cup underneath the batter dispenser so as not to risk a second failure of strength. With my emaciated left hand, I started to push on the nozzle. WOOOOSSSHHHH! THE ENTIRE NOZZLE FELL OFF!

The batter instantly overwhelmed my tiny, one serving cup.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME! THE WAFFLES ARE ESCAPING!"

Well, that got everybody's attention. A nearby coworker grabbed two large bowls and sprinted to the rescue. In the five seconds it took to fill both bowls, two members of the kitchen staff arrived on the scene with the proper tools to curtail the flood. But first they had to finish laughing at me.

One of them knew the secrets of the batter dispenser and removed the tank, but, alas, it was already empty.

Ten minutes later I was mostly debattered and order had been restored to the waffle station. I gingerly tempted fate by daring to try again. If ever I earned a waffle, that was it. And it was delicious.

That is how creating an epic mess became known as pulling a <me>.

My most amusing doctor visit ever

After nearly a year with the horrible expander, I was actually looking forward to having it replaced with a nice, comfy silicone-gel implant. Just the thought of being able to sleep on my stomach made me giddy. Not giddy enough to merrily skip into the operating room, but enough to ward off most of my normal pre-surgery fears.*

As the operation date loomed near, I had the standard rounds of doctor appointments. What was not so standard was being handed a binder full of Playboy models and being told to pick out my ideal breast shape. I was even given post-its to note particularly good features. Having never been a teenage boy, I never realized that there are so many different considerations.

While I carefully compared 1959 boobs to 2006 boobs, Matt very carefully ignored me in favor of his phone. "What do you think of these?" "Umm..." "Do you think these are too big?" "Err..." "JUST GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME LOOK AT BOOBS!"

Ultimately, I gave Miss December 1963 best overall, though a few 1970s centerfolds made very good showings. Matt agreed.

With that out of the way, what size would I like? Honestly, I never had any real desire for bigger boobs. Alas, it would be impossible to make them reasonably symmetrical without increasing the right side at least a bit. Considering how highly I value symmetry, I decided that a slight increase was something I could live with.

A weighty matter hangs in the balance.

Dr. PlasticSurgeon explained that she wouldn't know exactly how much of an increase I would receive until she took out the expander. If I was lucky, the right side would only have a vertical scar extending downward from the areola. By pinching the skin underneath, the top would be perkier and a closer match to the entirely fake boob on the other side. If I wasn't lucky, I'd wake up with a lollipop scar, with the top part encircling the areola. Admittedly, when I stopped giggling, I was okay with either option.

I asked the doctor if I could have the expander after removal. I had grand plans involving a rifle and YouTube. She understood the sentiment, but deemed the lab techs to have a higher priority. I suppose being slowly dissected for biopsy is a crueler fate than instant destruction, so I acquiesced.

With all of the formalities taken care of, I managed to maintain my eager anticipation until the day prior to surgery. The real miracle, however, was that I didn't change my mind about my choice of new boobs.

*It's really not a good thing that I have a well-established baseline for "normal" surgery apprehension.

When phantom nipple syndrome is the least of my problems

I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, though apparently I forgot to tell the internet since there isn't an existing label for it. While I now freely admit that my functionality highly correlates to the number of milligrams of Paxil I took the night before, I used to be quite embarrassed about the whole situation. And with tidbit out of the way, we may now begin our story.

Normal people whose tumors with estrogen receptors have been thoroughly eradicated are prescribed five years of Tamoxifen. Assuming the patient doesn't ingest the entire supply at once, it prevents new tumors from growing. If things go as planned, the Tamoxifen gets to the receptors before any estrogen, making the cancerous cells too sad to multiply. It is the standard treatment for pre-menopausal women and slightly super important.

Why did I bother mentioning the OCD? Because combining Paxil and Tamoxifen is equivalent to combining matter and antimatter, so taking both is a laborious way of doing absolutely nothing useful. But wait! Oddly enough, it's common for cancer patients to be on anti-depressants such as Paxil, so there is a standard solution: Effexor for everybody!

The faster I switched to Effexor, the faster I could start preventing future tumors. Doctor Oncologist and Doctor Psychiatrist talked about me behind my back, and Doctor Psychiatrist prescribed an agressive titration from Paxil to Effexor.

To say that the Effexor didn't work would be an understatement. It anti-worked. It was such a fail boat that I missed work. Doctor Psychiatrist made the executive decision that not having me committed to a mental hospital was a higher priority then preventing theoretical future problems. An even more agressive titration back to Paxil was prescribed.

My brain had enough and went on sabbatical. Massive headaches prevailed. It ended up taking nearly three weeks to fully switch back to Paxil, and I ended up on a higher dose than when this mess started. But I was functional human being again! Hooray for the little things!

Doctor Psychiatrist declared her job done and sent me back to Doctor Oncologist. She clearly couldn't give me newfangled Tamoxifen, but she could use good old-fashioned estrogen prevention drugs. A monthly shot of Lupron makes my butt sad and prevents estrogen production in my ovaries. A daily Letrozole pill prevents estrogen production in my brain. While usually reserved for post-menopausal women, this regimen has a slightly better long-term outcome. If there's absolutely no estrogen production, none can elude the Tamoxifen and bind to a receptor.

Of course, Doctor Oncologist wants to do this for ten years. Only 120 shots in the butt with a three inch needle. But on the bright side, I get an equal number of skipped periods. I can think I can live with that.

The Venice expansion line

I just noticed a superfluous post in my draft folder. In a fit of awesomeness, I seem to have taken a bunch of pictures, uploaded them, added captions, and then left the finished product to simmer for seven months. Oops.

While Los Angeles takes its sweet time with the Wilshire expansion, Reese and Zero have completed the Venice line.

Reese digging while Zero supervises.

 Reese testing the hole.

Digging.

More digging.

A strategic pause for admiration.

Zero surveying the progress.

A non-union laborer.

If I fits, I done.

Reese conducting herding the first train into the station.

It's not entirely clear from the pictures, but the final hole averaged 1' deep, 1' wide, and 2.5' long.

The monetization of Frankenboob

Late Sunday night, I received an email pleading for speakers at a wine-tasting breast cancer fund raiser in three days. As "desperately" was bold, italicized, underlined, and fully capitalized, I knew the situation must be grim. Being the nice person that I am, I replied that I would "happily blab publicly about frankenboob", assuming I could spend the day up north and they could cover the flights.

No response came on Monday, so I went to bed confident that I had successfully avoided a public speaking engagement. Alas, it was not meant to be, as Tuesday morning brought not one but three emails. The first thanked me profusely for volunteering. The second said that they weren't sure if they could cover the cost and they'd let me know by Wednesday morning. The third implied that someone thought this through a little further and realized that booking flights the day of was a bad idea.

Well, crap. It was time to exert effort, starting with asking my manager if I could spend the day at headquarters. He readily agreed, and even pointed out that I could easily come up with a business reason for the trip, eliminating all remaining obstacles.

It is now Wednesday, I have less than four hours before my adoring public shuns me, and I have no idea what to say. I thought reading through past posts might inspire me, but clearly that just turned into an exciting new way to procrastinate. Bad me!

I tried to work. I really did. But unless "work" is the new hipster word for "fretting," I was not a bastion of productivity. With about forty minutes before my shameful public debut, I decided to head over. Due to my awe-inspiring ability to get magnificently lost in the process of finding my way to a building across the street, I made it with a mere twenty-seven seconds to spare. A personal best!

The person I had been conversing with via email was nowhere to be found, but the other organizers were happy to provide me with two pink ribbon stickers and an empty glass for wine tasting. The extra sticker informed the masses that I was a victim of cancerous masses. The empty glass informed the wine pourers that I was out of wine.

I sampled the wine over and over, right up until it was time to talk. The other speaker went first, at my insistence, and told the crowd how important mammograms are. Her precancerous lump was found during a routine screening, and since it was found so early, she merely needed some surgery and radiation. I refrained from calling her a lucky bastard as she continued stressing regular checkups, a mild feat considering my earlier wine tasting regiment.

Since I was already out of people to speak before me, it was my turn. I started from the beginning, with my mom getting diagnosed while I was in college and her suggesting that the doctor examine my boob eight years later, as she was slightly less qualified. I followed with a brief description of all the things that went wrong, right up to my current state. I made sure to mention that silicone implants are amazingly fun to play with, and anyone with the opportunity to examine an unimplanted pair should not pass it up.

The previous speaker had a message. I needed a message to close with. Perhaps I should have thought about that earlier? Luckily, the wine told me what to say. "The past two years have really sucked. A lot. But you know what would have sucked worse? Being dead." Speaking done.

Afterwards, people kept thanking me for my speech. I received all sorts of compliments on bravery, inspiration, triumph, and other embarrassing things, not to mention countless hugs. The wine rush wore off and I reverted to my normal awkward self, leaving me to wriggle around under their good intentions.

I quickly discovered that once my audience was reduced to one or two individuals, I had no trouble recounting tales of boobular heroism. Of course, soon after that realization it was time for carriage to whisk me away to the aeroport.