Time for the rusty spoon
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cancer
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Today is Frankenboob Day, the national holiday in celebration of the stupid boob being replaced with a medical-grade balloon. Having been scarred for life by before and after pictures of the procedure, I can state with reasonable certainty that the result will be a frankenboob.
First, Dr. Surgeon will remove the offending boob. To show it that he really means business, he'll also chop off the nipple. Then, Dr. PlasticSurgeon will put an inflatable implant under the chest muscle (that keeps it in place so the boob doesn't end up around my belly button) and sew everything back up. The highly anticipated result will be a disturbingly flat left side with a horizontal scar instead of the normal protrusion. Luckily, I won't have to see this disaster for at least a week or two as it will be covered with layers of gauze and wrapped in a post-surgery bra that is most certainly not sold at Victoria's Secret.
In six to eight weeks, when the whole mess has sufficiently healed, the frankenboob will be shot up with Lidocaine and a long, scary needle will be used to inflate the balloon with saline. Repeat every two weeks until I can't stand it anymore, and the frankenboob will be declared the correct size.
At that point, the inflat-o-boob will be replaced with a permanent silicone gel implant. The right one will get a 50mL implant to achieve symmetrical perkiness, and all will be done. Well, at least for 10 to 20 years, the expected lifespan of the implants.
Right now I'm sitting in the waiting room, wondering why they told me to show up at nine when apparently the surgery isn't scheduled to start until one. I can only assume it's so they can watch me go into sugar withdrawal and start flailing on the ground like a fish out of water. Just to make things worse, I got a good whiff of pancakes and syrup from the cafe. For someone who was specifically told not to eat or drink anything after midnight, this is just plain cruel. And if the ladies behind me discussing Starbucks don't shut up soon, I can't be held responsible for their injuries due to defenestration.
I really wish Zero was a certified therapy dog. He always knows when something is wrong, and he tries to make it better. His abilities are limited to cuddling and refusing to leave my side, but it helps.
I'll try to post tomorrow with an update on how much fun surgery was. Just don't expect it to be the most coherent thing you've ever read.
