So I dodged a needle aspiration at yesterday’s plastic surgeon appointment. During the exam, I kept my big trap shut, eyes wandering the room, while the doc assessed the amount of swelling. No sense volunteering, right? Cheryl was in on it too, knowing how freaked I was at getting a needle inserted into an already painful area. Still, I’d prepared for the appointment with a percoset and ativan and was pretty much in love with the world, so it probably wouldn’t have fazed me.
Dr. Deangelis thought it all looked normal. We discussed how I was feeling about my new chest rather than the specifics of pain. Because you can cancel most of the pain with a prescription. He said I need to be able to feel my new breasts, literally embracing them. And I have to admit, I just wanted them numb until they were miraculously healed. Like somehow, one day, I’d just wake up to normality and move on.
No, the doc said, what you really need to do is massage them.
Yeah, apparently I need to get in touch with them. And the “ickiest” areas need to be touched first. No masseuse, or partner, or man-on-the-street can do it for me. He said women recover faster when they accept and embrace this new part of themselves.
Sounded a little hippy-dippy at first. But here I am, padding around the house, cupping these incredibly firm lumps on my chest. I’m already so conspicuous about it that someday you might see me in the mall or on the sidewalk, clasping my chest and mumbling affirmations.
I also asked the doc for a less powerful drug. Something better than OTC but less numbing than percoset. So he sent me home with some vicodin.
And then I got the mail today, opened up the latest New York magazine to this article.
Jeez! I need to get this chest-palpation show on the road before I become some drug-addled, liver-shriveled nutter.