Since January 27th I have been without the single anatomical feature that seems to define the female breast more than anything else. Most people get candy for Halloween. I get nips.
Of course my reconstructed breasts look nothing like Barbie’s perky, smooth perfection. When this next phase is complete, fewer of my Frankenstein scars will be visible, but the end result will never be gorgeous and that is perfectly okay with me. Why? I will look normal. That’s all I really want. Cancer-free and pity-free boobs.
I will be glad to rid myself of the sort of appearance that makes a professional bra fitter avert her eyes and offer platitudes. Yep. It happened last weekend in a swanky lingerie store. I’ve become accustomed to my under-construction self as has my spouse. Sometimes I forget the mangled Barbie look can be a big surprise to others.
Right now I’m focused on what has become a familiar pre-surgery routine. No booze, plenty of rest, exercise, no supplements of any kind, no pain medication (not that I need any) and having some fun. Compared to any of the previous 6 surgeries I’ve had this year, this one will be a cakewalk. It is still surgery though, and I hate the thought of going to the hospital.
The plastic surgeon drew lines with a purple Sharpie all over my chest and explained the nipple reconstruction technique she’d use, noting that afterward for about a week I would have “bolster dressings” to protect the new nips. I have this vision of spending a week looking precisely like the female robots from that old Austin Powers movie.
Move over Barbie, here comes my Fembot self.