Frankenboobs

I feel like I've reverted to life as a 13 year old boy:  all I talk about and/or think about are BOOBS.  Not that there's anything WRONG with that (if you are IN FACT a 13 year old boy, I however am not). 

Ever since the surgery I've been calling my new/temporary girls Frankenboobs, because, well, that's what they look like, and one of them really still does which might pose a problem, though I don't know what just yet.

I was scheduled for my first post-op appointment with the plastic surgeon this week and starting on Sunday I was getting increasingly nervous about the condition of Frankenboob Right. 

Every day Frankenboob Left looked more and more normal (save for the Frankenstein-like stitches) and the right one looked more and more, well Frankenstein like in color WITH the stitches.  Seriously.

So Tuesday night I called the Dr.'s answering service, I was thinking maybe they wouldn't be able to "inflate" me this week.  If you know me, you KNOW that would not have gone over well.  I would have probably lost my shit IN THE OFFICE, plus the potential delay in my ability to run again about sent me over the edge in anticipation alone. 

Plus, it was just weird that one side looked good, the other side, not so much and so I totally panicked.  THE NIGHT BEFORE MY APPOINTMENT.  Really Amy?!

Here's where shit gets real, folks.  OMG.  The doctor called me back and I tell you what, I seriously felt about as big as the ants crawling around my kitchen.  He was literally grilling me about what I could have done to mess it up. 

It's hard to explain what a bruised and discolored boob looks like so you know what we had to do?!  I had to borrow Mark's iPhone, take pictures of my boobs and text them, yes TEXT THEM, to the doctor.  Thank GOD for HIPAA, that's all I'm saying. 

So yeah, I kind of sexted pics of my Frankenboob to the surgeon.  Soooo creepy and even Mark had to admit it wasn't even in the ballpark of a turn on.  This whole experience may have ruined boobs for him forever.

In defense of the doctor, I think he takes and ENORMOUS amount of pride in his work, so while these babies are attached to my body, he's got virtual ownership of them and I don't think he was too happy that I might have done something to mess with his masterpiece.  He called back after checking out my sexted pics and seemed to calm down. 

He wasn't sure what was going on, thought it might be a bruise, so no worries, but he asked me not to eat anything after 9am the next day in case I had to go back in to surgery. 

Panic much?  OMG and I was unable to even self medicate with booze, Tylenol PM or those Vicodin pills I stashed away (or any combination of the three).  What a night.

But I went to the plastic surgeon's office the next day and it seems like there was a plausible explanation for the bruising.  Leave it to me to have something happen that's never happened to ANY ONE OF HIS PATIENT,S EVER.  I didn't need surgery and I got my inflation.

So, the best way to describe inflation is this: remember that giant needle/syringe combo in Pulp Fiction?  That's about the size of what they put the saline in, and inject into the self sealing port on top of your boob.  And you FEEL NOTHING.  I swear.  NOTHING.  AT.  ALL.  So so so so so so so creepy!!!!!

And your boobs just sort of grow a little bit.  It wasn't too bad pain wise at first, as the day wore on I increased the amount of pain meds, but I never did take a Vicodin.  That's for wimps.  Or stubborn ass people like me that refuse to admit they probably need to take one. 

I woke up the next day feeling like I'd been bench pressing semi-trucks all night long so I did double up on Tylenol and Ibuprofen.  Super duper not fun.

I've already got more boobs than what I went in to surgery with, so I am kind of having the "beggars can't be choosers" mentality about the whole thing.  Because I had no breast tissue before, I seriously feel like Dolly Parton now, but to be fair, they aren't that big. YET.  Mark, and apparently the rest of the world, is thinking I should go big or go home.  He told me "play the hand you were dealt.  Why go for a pair when you can get four aces?"  I just love poker analogies.

So I have three to four more inflations scheduled, two more before I can go on my first VERY ginger and easy/soft run.  I'll be testing those B-cups out to see how they ride.  Then we'll go to Hawaii and after that I'll have these old things swapped out for the implants.  That is, assuming Frankenboob Right starts to look, well, right. 

Once we get closer to the official SWAP I'll put my naming poll up, I have SO MANY good suggestions for naming the Frankenboob Twins.  I.  Can't.  Wait. 

Love always,

Frankenboobs