Life, death and nipple-olios

I ordered nipples from Amazon. 3d, self-sticking , rubbery nipple-olios. When they arrived, in their little white case I asked my dad to guess what was inside. Holding the circular white case in front of me I asked my dad, “What’s in this box?” He paused, gave me a “Good god what now?” look and said, “Makeup? A piece to a game? I have no idea Danielle and I’m nervous to find out.” “NIPPLES!” I exclaimed. He stared blankly for a few seconds, shook his head and said, “Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

I recently stopped in at my local supermarket. It’s a pint-sized place located inside my petite hometown. A quaint market to mirror a picturesque seaside town. The type of place where everyone greets you with a hello and where you can’t help but overhear people’s conversations of familiarity, love, respect and regard. It’s usually the older people who have stopped in the bread aisle or in front of the produce section to talk about what’s new in their lives or to speak fondly of a friend who has recently passed. Standing closely and connecting with one another. Taking the time to catch up. On this particular day I shopped to gather forgotten fixings for that night’s dinner. While selecting my spinach I overheard a conversation between an older man, a woman and her husband. They were seniors and seemed to be of equal age. They were speaking candidly with each other. I could tell they were friends. Close confidants who typically don’t have the opportunity to reconnect.

The woman asked the man, “How are you?” He replied, “Lousy. I recently went to the doctor and he told me that I should go home to die.” Almost dropping my tomatoes my eavesdropping ears perked up. The elder couple gasped simultaneously in disbelief. Their mouths were slightly agape as they put a hand on their chest. The man continued speaking about his ailment. Explaining that he has several stents in his heart and how, “There was nothing they could do for him.” The woman suggested that he go to a prayer circle. The man smiled softly and said, “I have.” Then he said, “I mean, I’m 85. It’s been a great life. What else could I ask for?” The man and the woman paused. Their aura softened. They seemed resolved with his response. The man made a joke about how he wants to be brought to the golf course after he dies. The woman laughed and said, “I love that idea.” I was intrigued by this conversation. I checked in on the emotions I was having. I felt grateful to listen in from a distance on an intimate yet open minded conversation about the end of someone’s life being held in front of the apples in the produce section as strangers rushed in-between us to buy ingredients to feed their families, haphazardly complaining about today’s humidity and grunting about how glad they are that it was Friday. 

The trio laughed and smiled with each other. They reminisced about high school and ended their conversation by saying, “See you at church.” It was fine. They were fine. There was total resolve regarding the next chapter of their lives. An acceptance and appreciation. It was beautiful. It was refreshing. It was life. Undiluted lifeeeeee. 

As humans we focus primarily on “living.” But what about “dying?”  We all live. And we all die. Chapters begin, chapters end. Previous timelines close, new ones commence. But do we appreciate and accept? Do we take the time to observe dog’s ears freely flapping in the wind. Or watch seagulls tuck their little feet up into their bellies so they can become more aerodynamic.  Being able to revel in the happy times of our past, accepting their conclusion while looking forward to creating happy times of our future. Losing our nipples and then buying new ones on the internet. It’s the acceptance of it ALL which makes it not only copacetic, but gratifying. To revel in the totality of life is what it means to “live.” To accept and appreciate what your life has been is what it means to “die.” And I’m grateful to have it all. 

The wonderful Wizard of OZ

As I continue down this road of enlightenment, I frequently stop to reflect. It feels like I’m Dorothy walking down the yellow brick road, observing my surroundings as I pass by. The sky reflects light between sunset and night. That brief stint of bedtime anticipation when you reflect upon your day, what went wrong, what went right while preparing for tomorrow. What you wish to accomplish and what responsibilities lie ahead. 

I walk the yellow brick road alone. No one is on the road with me. I glance at the surrounding landscape of trees and foliage contemplating grabbing an apple from the tree. Should I pick one to eat now or place it in my bag so I have it for later? Life feels like a delicate balance of acting now while ensuring that I’m prepared for the future. 

I’m aware of my spiritual well being. It’s a precious treasure hidden within which I keep under lock and key. I marinate it in self love, awareness and care. But it’s alive and like any living thing, requires a medley of treatment to sustain vivacity. It requires watering from outside sources, nourishment. But not too much or else it will drown. Not too much or else it becomes depleted within its own structure. Too much outside influence and the spirit becomes drained of its own resources. 

It’s a delicate balance. A yin and yang of giving and receiving. To be mindful regarding giving your spirit while ensuring that you place yourself in a scenario to receive is a challenging skill to master. It’s not one that we, as women, have been educated upon. Women specifically, throughout society, have not received training on this subject. We have been taught to give. We have been told that our role is to give, then give some more and then give jusssssssst a smidgearoosky more until we are shriveled up little shells of ourselves. We’re not taught the importance of filling our own bucket. To listen to our souls. To exist quietly within ourselves and hear what our spirit requires. We are taught to evade our inner desires. That outside influences are more important than our own. Collectively we seek to solve the problems of others. Men need our help! C’mon ladies look at them suffering! Get on the job! We “fix” while our light dims. Our inner flame fades until we can’t remember a time when it burned brightly. It has become a skill to be able to look inward. It’s become an art to hear the stipulations of our own souls.

Because I was in a relationship for more than half of my life, learning to listen to my spirit was like learning a new language. For the last 3 years I protected my essence by blocking off all entry. CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS FUCKERS. I needed to cease access in order to rebuild, restructure and REEVALUATE my balance. Very slowly, very carefully, I have begun to allow outside energy into my realm. I’m weary. I’m hesitant. I’m “standoffish.”  I’m slow to warm. And you know what? That’s. Fucking. Ok. Because. That. Is. What. My. Soul. Requires. AndIdon’tgiveafuckifyoudon’tunderstandthat. And also, I’ve learned that I don’t havetooooo give anyone an explanation. My soul isn’t required to give you a why.

Realizing why women have been suppressed for all of time is fascinating. Because if we hadn’t been suppressed, if we hadn’t been told that we are required to GIVE all of our energy away, without it being returned, then we would have learned that the entire universe resides within us. We have all of the power inside our beings. We have the ability to give, to help, to love and heal. We are magic. We don’t require outside forces to regenerate. We can in fact feed our own souls but we never give ourselves the chance to do so. We never take the time to walk down the yellow brick road and converse with our inner spirit. Contemplate how our soul feels. We yang without the yin. Realizing that it doesn’t take a 2 week vacation escape to a deserted island (although that would help) to connect with our spirit, it merely takes a quiet mind, a designated space within your timeline of minutes in the hours of your day to stop. Reflect. Listen. Converse with yourself and feel what it is that your self requires. We’re taught that even if we listen to ourselves, we don’t know any better. Ourselves don’t know what we’re talking about so whateverrrrr carry on. Oh sure honey you want me to go food shopping, pick up the kids, make dinner, WORK AT MY JOB and listen to you while you unpack years of emotional childhood trauma? That sounds perfect thankssssss. NO. NO NO NOPE NO THANK YOU. 

It’s my turn. It’s time for me to make decisions based on refilling my bucket. And if I chose to dole out snippets of my coveted and protected spirit then I will do so with discretion. I will follow that yellow brick road with OZ in the foreground, listening to what my soul requires. And if a flying monkey interjects his hairy balls into my space I will chose whether or not to flick them or give them a wave and carry on. Regardless I’m learning that my spirit and I are on a fantastic journey together. We’re off to see the wizard. 

Dinner time Nips

Dating. Daaaaaaating. The relationship between connecting with your divine feminine and the social constructs of being told that women are supposed to be the ideal for men. Get that fairy tail prince ima climb up a tower, fight a dwarf, eat some mushroom shit and rescue you bullshit which for whatever reason we have all been force fed outta your head. Because here’s the thing…I done already rescued myself. So if a “prince” TRESPASSED into my home and told me to come with him I would roundhouse kick him in the neck and tell him I will call him when I am good and ready motherfucker.

I recently embarked into the treacherous undergrowth of what some call “the nightlife” (shiver). Since my life consists of talking to dogs there is minimal opportunity to meet someone organically. Thus, I created an online dating profile and threw that rod into the pond. I “matched” with a man, we communicated via the wide web, seemingly connected enough to decide that we should meet in person. Now, might I remind you, I have dated one man for the 40 years I have been alive. That was my husband whom I met when I was 16. We remained together until our divorce 2 years ago. So to say I am a virgin dater is an understatement. Also, it wasn’t a spectacular seperation/divorce so I have been aboard an “if you are a man you can take a long walk off a short pier hate train” for quite some time.

My life, my motto, my desire is to love myself. And in that vein, choose what I want. Say yes to those and that which I find acceptable/capable of serving the life I have created. No compromising. And being a woman, in this here lil ole’ patriarchal society with which we have all been indoctrinated into and also breaking the mold of which I have lived stuck inside of for the last 20 plus years, figuring out what it is that best serves ME is challenging son. 

Isn’t that a mind fuck in it’s pretty little self? Like, what in the ever loving hell are you talking about?? You live your life, YOUR life not considering what might best serve YOU? You live/have lived this glorious realm with which you have been bequeathed conceding to others because it will make THEIR life easier/more enjoyable? And not only thattttt but you don’t put yourself before the feelings/emotions of MeNNNN? You ask them what they want before asking YoUrSelF? Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. Beep beep toot toot stop this train rightthefucknow, I’m out. 

So…with that being said, let’s try this dating shmating thing all the non dog entities also known as humans talk about. And let’s go into it thinking of ourselves. Let’s check in with ourselves and ask “Heyyyy…knock knock you in there…is this ok? Is this situation ok with YOU?” I quickly realized not only was I rusty in this concept but the door was sealed shut and had a 2x4 blocking the exit. 

AS we know, the universe is always giving you what you want. And usually in the form of lessons. So pay the fuck attention, learn and grow from those lessons or the universe will give you a big fat F and you will need to repeat the grade until you pass.

Ok. Match with the man. His pics are cute, we seemingly connect and decide to meet in person for dinner. We both expressed our excitement and nerves prior to meeting which at the time I thought was endearing. AwWwWW we LiKeee each other that’s why we’re nervoussss. NO you silly little bitch! BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH ARE A TRAUMA RESPONSE MANIFESTING WITHIN YOUR BODY. Thank you therapist Laura for explaining that one. 

I get to the restaurant first. He calls and says, “Oh my god I’ve hit so much traffic. I’m so sorry. I thought I left in plenty of time. Blah. Blah. Blah.” I respond, “That’s ok, no worries. I’m getting a little work done while I wait.” Mistake #1. NO. It is NOT ok that you are over 30 minutes late for our first date. But alas we are women…we give passes even when they are not warranted.

He arrives, 40 minutes late, walks over to the table in which I am seated, stops short, opens his arms, puts one leg out in a sort of tad da pose and says, “I look good right?” Not hello, not I’m so sorry, not you look even more beautiful in person. His first thought to say to me, the woman who was waiting for his late ass, was something pertaining to himself. 

Now let it be known that over the course of the last 2 years I have dove head first down several narcissistic behavior rabbit holes and although I didn’t realize the importance of my research at the time, I now have a doctorate in narcissistic behavior and traits. So I knew, after that lil display of self inflated behavior that I better buckle up because we about to go on a ride baybee.

He sits, asks if I want to eat, crickets. “Yes,” I reply. He states, “That’s fine I’m not going to eat.” Cool cool. He orders a drink, I order my meal. He finishes his drink and orders another. In fact, he was sipping the last sip while summoning the waiter for another. The conversation continues and YOU GUESSED IT it was mainly about himself. Where he’s from, what he has overcome, how he is humble but also knows what he brings to the table (barf). At one point, and for whatever reason (I am still to this day unsure of and it haunts my dreams because I think back trying to piece together strings of conversation to uncover why this action occurred but I am met with a dead end every time), he pulls up his shirt and flashes his left nipple. You heard me. While at dinner he pulled up his shirt and boop flashed his naked nipple to me and the rest of the restaurant. 

I had been to the bathroom 3 times pep talking myself with, “Ok just have a good time. Hey, you’re out just try and enjoy.” Mistake #2. NO. This is a madman. If YOU are not enjoying yourself, if you are conceding to behavior that you find unacceptable because you don’t want to make the madman feel bad, sad, mad etc then EHHHHH you have failed the test. I should have went back to the table, stated I am leaving (because we don’t give explanations when they are not deserved thank you very much) and went home. But I hadn’t learned my lesson yet so alas I returned to the table of the dinner time nip show.

Within seconds of my bottom hitting my seat the madman suddenly calls out to the 4 person double date seated at the table next to us. “HEY you guys want shots?” My face was a mixture of confusion, should I be laughing at this joke and more confusion. Did he just ask the strangers whom we had not been conversing with, whom I didn’t even realize were next to us until he rudely interrupted their evening by yelling at them to see if they wanted to shoot alcohol while at dinner? The couples coyly reply “Sure.” The madman looks at me and says, “ALRIGHT YEAH let’s join them” and scoots his chair over to their table. THAT’LL DO IT. I stood up, apologized to the fellow guests for my FIRST date’s rude and interjecting behavior, looked at the madman, said “don’t text me” and I left. 

My brain was silent as I scurried down the stairs to my exit. I wanted to move quickly in case he got up to follow me but I was pretty sure his giant ego wouldn’t fit through the door. 

I went to call an Uber but none were available for over an hour so I decided to jump on the train. I texted my mom the details of the date and she stated that my dad was arriving home from a gig so he would pick me up at the train station. The perks of having musician parents. You can always count on them being up late. So, here I am. 40 years old, having my father pick me up after a date gone wrong. Just the medicine I needed. 

Ok folks let’s recap on things done wrong and things done right. Behavior that you find unacceptable should not be expressed as “ok.” If you don’t want to say “HEY ASSHOLE you suck,” don’t say anything. You shouldn’t just say words that you think might make THEM feel more at ease while you’re suffering. Although I did well by leaving the date prematurely I didn’t leave soon enough. I continued to sit through the torture because women have been conditioned to believe that “torture” is acceptable and should even be tolerated or given leniency. Leave, change, haul ass out of whatever situation you’re in if you feel it does not serve you. Period. And lastly, keep those nips hidden. At least until dessert. 

Friction rubs

You wanna hear something uproariously entertaining whilst absurdly ludicrous? Of course you do why else would you be here? My new bewb squeaks. I’m saying rubber dog ball squeaks coming from inside my body. I’m 4 weeks post op from my most recent implant placement and recently, as I bent down to pick up my 134458^th lone little person sock I felt a balloon type twinge accrue from inside my chestal cavity. It stopped me in my tracks I stood in my living room frozen. Griffin, the black and white Frenchie stared back at me as if to say “did someone say play fetch?” 

“The fuck? What was THAT?” I thought half sure that I must be imagining things. This must happen to everyone once they turn 40. I must have missed the “your ligaments start resembling birthday party decorations” memo. I shrugged it off, said okidoki and carried on.

Later that day I was reaching down to repair a fur friend’s collar that rudely became twisted in another friend’s paw when I felt it again. The feeling of a raw, high pitched rub of a rubber glove. You know when you don’t necessarily hear the plastic but you feel it inside your soul? THE FUCK WAS THAT?! I exclaimed out loud as an audience of 13 furry friends stared back at me. Ok, either the surgeons left a rubber ducky behind or something is up. I resorted to my trusty electronic encyclopedia and searched “squeaky boob.” The results were a bit scandalous and although intriguing not what I was seeking. FOCUS AND DELETE HISTORY. I searched again “my implant seems to be squeaking am I losing my mind.” Low and behold: “If you’re hearing a squeaking sound coming from new breast implants, don’t be alarmed. No one left a squeaky toy in there (I’m not making that up). You are experiencing a normal phenomenon called bourdonnement. It happens when new implants slide against stretched out tissue and cause a friction rub. It will go away.” Well ladifuckingda. I really am the quintessential dog lady

With the solution of my squeaky toy conundrum resolved I was able to continue delving into my emotionally alleviating healing journey. When processing pain we seem to go through a series of healing rungs. We place blame, wonder what went wrong, wished it had happened differently and so on. People will often give their opinion, adding to the pile of liability. “After everything you did for him, he did that to you?” 

Buttttt and here me out now, what if we took ownership. What if we took back our power and instead say, “After everything you did for him, you did that to yourself?” I’m not saying let them off the hook. No, no, no that mofo best burn in every fiery pit in hell for all time. And I’m not saying to chastise ourselves thinking we are to blame for the pain caused. I’m saying what if we let ourselves feel the sorrow and acknowledge the pain while apologizing to ourselves for allowing the poor behavior. What if we apologize to ourselves for accepting the abhorrent demeanor into our lives. What if we take blame for not loving ourselves enough and tell ourselves “I’m sorry for not being there for you. It won’t happen again. I’ll have your back from now on out boo.”

In the end it’s OUR journey. Everything that happens to us is allowed by us. We are only “working” for ourselves. We put societal pressure and blame on things that happen to us but it is a result of what we have allowed into our lives. For whatever reason one might have, whether it be an insecurity, a feeling of needing to punish ourselves due to never experiencing love as a child or never feeling good enough in adulthood we seem to find people capable of giving us an ample penance which our unhealed self craves. A “punishment” which we find comfort in. We place blame on others for what they have done to us but in the end we have allowed the behavior to impact us and dare I say often times we entangle ourselves people who, deep down, we know will bring us our self prescribed pain. The pain will bring suffering but as we work THROUGH the pain we realize that it is in fact a blessing. Sometimes the blessing comes in the form of children, sometimes it’s the gift of healing and most time it’s the realization of how strong you really are. It’s all meant to be. All channels lead to the ocean. And even friction rubs turn into lovely lady lumps. 

Your wish is my command

July 11, 2023

It’s the morning of my divorce trial. I open my back door as the sun is beginning to rise. The air is warm with a slight breeze. I close my eyes and smile as I feel the sun on my face. When I open my eyes I notice a small grey and white feather floating downward directly in front of me. I watch it gently meander down. The left side, then the right. Left, right. Gracefully falling to the ground. I say out loud, “Please universe grant me a divorce today. Help me to be free.” As the feather reaches the ground my phone chimes. A brief and angelic dingggg as if to say, “Your wish is my command.’

Trauma leaves it’s mark. X’s and O’s across your spirit. The wounds never leave. Attempting to erase them is like trying to block out the sun. You can wear sunglasses, a hat, it can be cloudy but the sun ain’t going nowhere. Trauma can exist in physical scars or mental blocks that rear their ugly head like when you’re sneakily attempting to eat the last ice cream sandwich at 1 am which you hid in the back of the freezer so your kids don’t eat it and one of those 19037 legged insect creatures scurry by your feet like it’s trying to catch the last inbound train home so you scream and your kids wake up asking where you got that ice cream.

Trauma is leaving clean dishes in the dishwasher for days. Just leaving them there…for days. Never putting them away. Why? Why do I do this? Why is there a feeling of fear associated with putting them away? Why is there an underlying anxiety tied to the task. My brain feels blocked. I avoid. I know they are there yet I walk away from them repeatedly. And when I remember the abandoned task a pit in my stomach is produced. I dig deep into the trauma in search of an answer. I realize it’s the noise of the clanging plates and banging bowls that I am straying away from. I leave clean dishes in the dishwasher because I don’t want to make noise when putting them away. Why? I think about what might happen if I make a noise. I realize that in my previous life I would be reamed for creating noise which might disrupt the rest of a forever resting spouse. It’s not like I was attempting to recreate Mozart’s 5^th concerto with a variable assortment of bowls and plates I was simply completing a naturally noisy task. Upon solving my trauma puzzle I immediately feel lighter. A mystery had been solved. I can finally relinquish the tension I once held and face the clean dishes with gratitude.

Thank you for allowing me to live this life. Thank you for allowing me to be healthy while healing physically, mentally and emotionally. Thank you for allowing me to live instead of survive. And thank you for granting me my divorce. 😊

 

Defeat is the secret ingredient to success

Let’s talk drains. Drains are tubes that are inserted on either (or both) sides of your abdomen during surgery and are used to remove excess fluid from inside your body. At the end of the tubes are football shaped containers used to collect the fluid. They fill throughout the day and must be emptied. It’s crucial to record the output of liquid so to monitor that the fluid is indeed dispersing. Drains usually stay inserted into your abdomen for upwards of 3 weeks. I’ve had 12 tubes total in the 2 years I have been battling the big C.

I used to conceal and smuggle my drains uncomfortably into the waist of my pants when I left the house. An attempt to hide what the rest of the world seemingly didn’t have. But I knew they were there. I felt the twang and tinge of the tubes pulling as I reached for the mangoes. I created misery within myself in order to carry out the societal constructs of the supposed image. Not no more doe. After my last surgery I went home with 4 drains. 2 tubes on either side, stuck inside my rib cage, hanging out from inside of my body with plastic grenades on the ends. When I am forced outside of my home to live my life I securely safety pin the tubes to the inside of my shirt so the tubes don’t pull on the already irritated skin and I let those juice filled bombs hang out the bottom of my shirt. I don’t owe anyone an explanation nor am I responsible to act as a shield from their discomfort. You wanna look? That’s fine. You wanna glance and discuss with your mate in the car? I’m sure it will make for some excellent conversation. You wanna ask me about them as I’m waiting in the check out line at Target? Let’s go!

Whilst standing in line awaiting my turn and mentally contemplating if I was really that good at hoola hooping as a child or if my parents were just really that bad an older woman standing behind me outwardly asked, “How are those suspended like that?” I didn’t think she was talking about me or my suspending fluid chambers dangling out the bottom of my tank but rather the ceiling suspended dogs hanging above our heads. I looked up and said, “I don’t know. Probably  string. Or magic. I’m going with magic.” She looked up and nodded in agreement then said, “No. Those,” pointing to my half full ovals. “Oh these old things?” I asked begrudgingly not because she was inquiring but because they are horrid pains and recognizing their presence feeds their egos. I lifted up my tank on my right side showing two semi clear tubes inserted into the skin under my rib cage and a safety pin holding them to the fabric of my shirt, “Like this,” I replied. By the wide eyed look she reciprocated as she glanced at the reddened skin surrounding the entry of the tubes I knew she had bitten off more than she could chew. “Holy shit!” She exclaimed. “Sorry. But that looks rough.” I laughed and said, “Yeah it isn’t great that’s for sure.” She told me she had never seen a drain before and actually never knew they existed. I congratulated her for sidestepping this part of the sick journey and got her up to speed on the nature of drains, their purpose, what liquid fills them, how long I am required to keep them, how many I’ve had since being sick and my decision to no longer conceal them in public. She thanked me for the lesson. I thanked her for her bravery to learn. 

I left target smiling. I looked down to see my 7 year old smiling back. I used to smile all the time. I would smile when it was ok. I would smile when it wasn’t ok. Now my smiles are congratulatory. A reward from the universe. 

What is comfort? How comfortable is it? How have we decided that trauma is comfortable? Let’s get out of our comfort zone. Let’s look at old pictures and marvel at how far we’ve come. Let’s ask strangers uncomfortable questions for the sake of curiosity. Let’s wear those drains like the grenade chic accessories that they are. I used to think of my drains as a defeat. But in the end “defeat is the secret ingredient to success.”

Bewb goes to school

So I did it. I had my 5^th surgery. Got my 8^th drain. And am 1 step closer to operation new bewb. On the menu was the Latissimus Dorsi procedure. My surgeon cut muscle, fat and tissue from my back, SLIDDDD the entire goodness underneath my skin to my chest and recreated the chestical pocket, if you will. Because of my thinly radiated skin history he placed an expander where the implant will eventually land. I will inflate the expander gradually with saline over a 6 month period so my skin has a chance to adapt accordingly and at it’s own pace. Like a widdle, biddle, cocooned caterpillar. The final step will be implant placement in September. New bewb goes to school!

Patience is a virtue. Gracefully and attentively waiting without complaining. Patience: calm acceptance that events might happen in an alternative order than one has in their mind. I’ve learned to appreciate it all. ALLLLL. No implant yet? That’s cool. Gives me more time to eat avocados and get those omegas into my system. Did I wake up from surgery? Sure fucking did. Can I call my kids, tell them I made it and that I love them? Yes. Yes I can.

My business originated as a dog walking service. I walked 28 dogs each day. Whilst my abs were a lot more defined, my knees were starting to complain. I have since transitioned to doggy daycare and in home boarding as an alternative to kennel boarding. I continue to walk 2 dogs every day. Their owners are health compromised. While walking one client I see a man nearly every day. I’ve never actually spoken to him besides the common civility. A wave and a nod here and there. I don’t know his name, he doesn’t know mine, I don’t “know” him but I’ve seen him every day for over 2 years so we’re basically best friends at this point. On this particular day I was thinking of my upcoming surgery when my middle aged, chip on his shoulder type from Boston, somewhat approachable faced bestie said, “Hey. How you doing?” Cue my verbal diarrhea. “Oh I’m good,” I extolled. “I’m having surgery next week and it’s a pretty invasive procedure. They’re taking skin and shit from my back and putting it on my chest so I’ll have a boob again.” He just looked at me. No real expression to speak of. No shock at my wordage. No obvious concern. Just listened. Realizing that I just told this seemingly stranger that I did in fact lack a breast I blurted out, “Oh yeah. I should probably tell you that I had breast cancer. Hence the lack of breast I was previously speaking of.” He calmly responded, “Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” And then without skipping a beat single-handedly offered the best retort of conversation I have ever received. “Yeah. I think breast implants should squeak,” he said, “Imagine how much the dogs would like you then.”

This beautiful bastard of a stranger took my mind from a worry state of serious contemplation to me picturing my surgeon practice squeaking my breast implants before closing me up. 

I responded, “Thank you! I’m going to request that. It’s probably a tax write off for my business!”

Mannnnn I love Boston. Squeak, squeak!