Drained

Yesterday, my boys went to a baseball game (spring training and all) so Dad took me to my first post-op appointment with a name tag: No, I'm Not Her "Sugar" Daddy.

I know. A riot. He sat in the waiting room and guessed each person's procedure until I was finally called back.

Medical Assistant Extraordinaire unwrapped my top as I mumbled, "She's alive. Alive!" Kept my eyes on the ceiling because I didn't want to see a bruised and battered boobie and cry. Then she told me to take a deep breath and count to ten while pulling what felt like ten yards of tubing from my abdomen.

Hurt. Just a bit.

Took a few sutures out and then Berger King came in for a look-see.

"Perfect!" he exclaimed.

"If you do say so yourself," I said.

Then I looked down.

Oh. The. Horror.

I looked like one of those Uganda victims from the 70s except my legs and arms weren't sewn on backwards. Sutures. Bruises. Dried blood.

But my breasts were perky. Nice and small and perky. I just stared. I could see past how disgusting they looked and actually see the floor. Perfect!

"Now eventually, you know, gravity will take hold," Dr. Berger said. "We didn't do implants so..."

"I know," I said.

Still. They're great. And my tummy is a bit numb and swollen but flat.

A few days ago, I suffered from serious buyer's remorse. Now, I felt much better. Not a hundred percent. Not ready for prime time. But better.

Berger told me how to treat the dressing and care for my bruises over the next four weeks.

"No bras, no girdles," he said.

I haven't been out without a bra since the late 1980s (eyesuphereboys) so that's gonna take some getting used to.

Cannot wait.