...Survey says...

How many hours do you think a consultation with the plastic surgeon would take? 1? 2?

Try 3.

Yup. 3.  That's 1.5 hours per breast.

But we felt good about the visit. Once I got over the cramp in my hand from filling out so much paperwork, we talked to the nurse. All vitals showed that I am alive. And my pesky 5 lb. weight gain turned to 4. Though we had Chinese food for dinner, so who knows what tomorrow will bring.

I learned a lot. About expanders (did you know that they have a magnet? We're definitely going to test it out with refrigerator magnets post op!). It'll be months of "Fill 'er up" until the exchange happens. They inject saline into the bugger until it's the right size, and my pec isn't too mad about it (and yes, I'll have to lay off the bench press for a long time). But I'll have a brand new breast. And they will exchange the expander for a shiny new silicone jellyfish, minus tentacles.

After learning the process, I don't want to exchange for porn star size. I may even end up a little smaller. I think when I reach 90, I'll be glad. Though if I have a hard time eating, my cookie crumbs will end up on the floor instead of my chest. Sigh. But the whole lack of tissue, the thinness of skin without actual breast tissue, well, I don't want my DD's to rip through my chest wall one day and, say, land on the sidewalk, squirming little bloody tentacle-less jellyfish quivering on the ground, fearful of the busy NYers stomping down the sidewalk, not looking up from their smartphones, and slipping and popping my gorgeous faux mammary blobs. Though, it would teach them to not text so much... but still, I'd be bummed about the girls. So, let them text, and let me have a normal sized chest.

And the doc addressed my concerns about being even. Which I've never been. So we'd most likely add a baby'plant to the other side. Unless the genetic test comes back bad. I mean positive. Which is negative. Meaning, my other breast will meet a similar fate.

Things like "nipple reconstruction" make me want to puke. And we only looked at illustrations of how it's done. Yikes. Also, cadaver tissue to help anchor the new stuff I'll be wearing on the inside. No disrespect for the dead, but wow.

But the good, or bad, news is that I don't have enough chubosity for them to suck out my gut or love handles to use. I guess I should take that as a compliment, but I was kind of hoping they could give me an actual waist. I even asked if he could take a little from my chin, which literally would be half an ounce. A girl's gotta try, though. I guess I'll have to take care of that when I'm older and more wobbly. And pay out of pocket. Though, after this whole ordeal, I'm thinking that I won't want any elective surgery.

The bad news about the implants, nothing is forever. Except love. Unless it's crap love. Lucky for me I have the real thing. Unlucky for me, implants are not true love - so every few years I have to get checked to see if I have silicone coursing through my veins. Of course, the best course of research will be MRI, and I'm not too keen on that whole scene. Maybe I'll just see if I start to deflate. Hopefully they'll have a better system by then. Or maybe I can get them to use something less realistic but hard to pop. Like play-doh. Or Fart Putty!!!  I once bought this on the road and it had me in tears. How fun, to have my breasts fart with every hug. I'd just blush a little and say, "Oh, so sorry. I've had a mastectomy and reconstruction. I thought Fart Putty would keep it funny, and now - breast cancer is no longer the somber discussion it once was". But something tells me that the surgeon will not agree to give me a farting breast.

That's all for now. I guesstimate this to be a 9 month process. I will have to lay off of my craft in it's fullest form - but will be doing the bare bones of my art within a couple of months after I go under the knife initially. A lot of rehab, a lot of massages from hubby (I've already suggested that I should be getting daily back massages to prepare me for this experience. A foot rub will certainly help as well, don'tcha think?) and a lot of positive thinking and laughing (see: farting breast).

And now, I'm watching my daughter play a video game that I have yet to figure out. But I'll bet that I will be one badass video gamestress during recovery.

I do believe I've made up quite a few words in this entry. I think it's the MSG talking. I know, folks really don't use it anymore, but I'm trying to find an excuse for my insanity. Work with me, people.