Well, it seems as if my period did start. TMI? Obviously, you're reading a blog about someone who had a fucking breast removed. A little uterine lining ain't NOTHING compared to that!
It started yesterday as a joke, and I figured it would go away as it had, but now it's acting like I'm not on tamoxihormonalscrewpills. Which is an ironic relief. I am happy that my body is acting it's age! We'll see how long it lasts, but those hormones... wow! STARVING!!! I was ok until tonight. We roasted fresh beets with sea salt, prepared the greens with black beans and zero calorie noodles (yes, the soy free ones!), and I felt like I hadn't eaten in a month when I finished. Had a piece of Ezekiel bread with almond butter and jam. Nothing. A bowl of cereal, AKA Kryptonite. Nothing. I just had a little Godiva liquor, and while I'm still empty feeling, at least it was chocolatey and creamy. If I can hold off the rest of the night, I will be proud of myself and amazed at my amazeballs willpower.
Ah, hormones.
It's hot as hell, but I kind of enjoy it in small spurts. The heat travels straight to my bones, which makes my aching joints happy. Much like the Japanese in their practically boiling bathtubs. It's all healing.
Tomorrow, meeting again with the plastic surgeon.
I got 3 out of 5 new bras. Holy Moses! It's nice to have proper fitting undergarments. Plus, I can't lie - the shit looks GOOD. I just need a pesky nipple. Oh, and for those rogue cells to vacate the premises immediately. Just told hubs that I'm definitely holding off on the making of a nipple until we know that I'm cool. Though - I am going to ask tomorrow if we can't at least tattoo the areola so that I don't look like a total alien. Forget the sticky-outy part for now.
I also want to know the following things. How soon can I:
Trapeze
Martial Art
Run
Get a proper massage
Perhaps not the average questions of a cancer patient after reconstruction, but damn, I need to hop on a trapeze and fly. This shit has been way too annoying. I need to freaking FLY.
And, interestingly, my former massage therapist - AKA - pummeling genius, has moved back to the area and will be working weekends downtown. He was amazing. An artist. Nobody ever got what I really needed except for him - his elbows like finely sharpened jackhammers. His thumbs like meat tenderizers. And his ability to find everything wrong with my scoliotic body and address it, magical.
So, I don't care that he's expensive. Because one massage from him is like 10 massages from these lame ass take-out walk in massage joints. But, I actually need real approval from my doc, since he goes in like crazy (I mean, hops on table and uses all of his body weight to dig out the childhood trauma that is buried deep within my back and neck). So this foobie has to be able to withstand his awesomeness.
I think it's time for more Godiva. It's not as good as Schmailey's, but I need chocolate. Because, despite my lack of mammary tissue, I am a woman. If you saw my new bras, you'd know. This shit is girly cute.
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