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!