The Rack is Back!

Yep....The Rack is Back: I'm rocking the Victoria Secret with two, count them, two, fully-equipped factory-built mammo's with all the accessories!

Monday's surgery was a tremendous success, involving a creative bit of belly-fat-lipo, to fill in the hollows of the planned silicone boob, by a true artist of a surgeon. Without too much gory detail, I now have the tits and the belly of a 19 year-old. A true-two-fer! The only downside is feeling like I've done 999 sit-up's, but with each twinge, I consider the sheer luck at my vain gloriousness outcome of this whole cancer adventure. I know so well, that others have not had such a merry chase!

I have learned that I don't really care for the poisonous gases of general anesthetic, and any disruption in my precious bodily fluids (Dr. Strangelove reference) sends me reeling. But my anesthesiologist, was most accommodating in recognizing that I was a cheap date in sleeping with him. I got the basic package, but  was still largely unconscious for another 4 hours after surgery, as well. Luckily I finally awoke, albeit bruised, mostly naked, wearing the same open-backed hospital gown, in which I had started.....it looked like a crime scene, but the results are so good, I'm keeping my mouth shut.

I'm planning on laying low until Valentine's Day, or so, but am certainly endeavoring to maintain my cyber presence. When I told my husband that this blog was entitled "The Rack is Back," he turned to me and said "Half-Rack." Touché.

 

BTW, That's not my picture above............but the one below is (if you kind of squint and close one eye, and think very kind thoughts)!

 

Dumber Than I Look....

I'm not sure I should come clean with this, but I'm really not that bright. This is probably not news to a lot of you. When in doubt, I fake it: I tend to nod and smile, and somehow, it comes off as confident intelligence to the masses.

I do have skills: I'm reasonably competent with saving lives and fighting disease in the ED, I make an awesome cheesecake, and I can certainly turn a phrase, but I'm a little out of my depth with the whole cancer thing. 

Right after the first surgery, I noticed the boob was a tad yellowish, and thought, "Hmmm...a little residual Betadine. I'll just scrub that off." After some painful and completely ineffective towel-work, I realized it was just big-time bruising that was some days old! Dumb!

When speaking the Doctor about future preventative care, I said, "And I shouldn't get this boob mammogramed, as it could rupture the silicone, right?" She looked at me rather puzzled and said, "No, you shouldn't get that one mammogramed because there's no tissue left in it." Dumber!

I completely lost all credibility with her then, when I followed it by saying, "Your instructions said that I'm not supposed to be driving for up to 2 weeks. That's to make sure everything stays in place?" To which the doctor replied, "No, you can drive as soon as you want, nothing is going to slip out of place. It's just that you'll probably still be taking narcotics, and because of that, you shouldn't be driving." Dumber too!

An Uncertain Future

I'm anxiously awaiting the final act of this "potentially-deadly-illness" nonsense: the switch-out of my water balloon place-holder, with a custom gently-sloped silicone youth-evoking  handful...just 2 weeks away on January 30 (stay tuned). During my pre-op visit, the surgeon reminded me that this nip-and-tuck will be only a temporary state of perfection, and require replacement in 10 or 15 YEARS! Yeah...right....I'm 56 years-old, so that means when I'm freaking 70 years-old, or so, I may be going through this whole business again.

I'm already aware of the limitations of my age. I can't get a tortoise, or a macaw, or even a koi, as they will out-live me, and I'll have to account for their future well-being in my will. When Hubby and I talk about a new house, the thought of a 30-year mortgage makes me laugh. And even though I always wanted to go to medical school, dropping dead at graduation would certainly put a damper on the celebration.

I used to think that seeing the year 1984, was a milestone. Then, later, watching the calendar turn to 2000 seemed as far into the future as I could imagine. But now, (have you noticed?), it's 2017 and although the world is officially going to hell in a hand basket, I'm still kind of surprised to be here, watching it all play out.  Aren't you?

By Any Other Name....

In another world, I would have been a wise-cracking broad in a Damon Runyon story: the hard-boiled gimlet-eyed tomato who cuts through the bull and calls a spade a spade! I love  slang: I delight in speaking in a colorful vernacular...which brings to mind, just how many words do you know for boobs?

I confess I've pilfered this from another site (with thanks to The Urban Dictionary), but it surpasses any expanse of my imagination....and certainly, my vocabulary!

Tits, titties, tig ol' bitties, boobs, jugs, melons, cans, hooters, dirty pillows, gazongas, yabbos, tig bitties, knockers, mammaries, fun bags, honkers, headlights, baps, meat puppets, ta-tas, naturals, boobies, guns, bahama mammas, balloons, bawagos, big brown eyes, blinkers, bobambas, bodacious tatas, bombs, bosom, bosooms, boulders, Bristols, brown suckies, bubatoes, bups, bust, busts, Cadillac bumper bullets, casabas, chest, chuberteens, cones, gedoinkers, doorknobs, floppers, fried eggs, fugis, gams, gazangas, jungle tits, golden bazoos, golden winnebagoes, mounds, mountains, marshmallows, Maguffies, grenadoes, hogans, honkers, itty-bitty-titties, jalobes, bazongoes, bazookas, bazooms, bazoos, ninnies, nips, nupies, pair, nice pair, penis squeezers, beamers, starter buttons, tads, handles, tatas, tittyboppers, bee stings, jiggers, jobes, rolling hills, cup cakes, cushions, dairy section, highbeams, hinyackas, knobs, love apples, love monkeys, luscious scoops of flesh, twins, love warts, watermellons, wazoos, whoppers, winnebagos, yabos, mambas, mammas, mamms, massive mammaries, mazabas, mellons, milk factories, Mcguffies, mosquito bites,perkies, pillows, pimples, pink chewies, rack, set, smosabs, stacked, torpedoes, towel racks.

Beat that.

 

I Turned Right, Not Left.....

Turn left, or turn right, or don't move at all. Go in one direction, and your life becomes one thing; go in another, and, so too, your life changes again.

I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up, but for many reasons, the least of all, my inability to master organic chemistry, I hop-scotched majors until I graduated with the skills to read the newspaper and have a career in retail. I thought about being a lawyer, too, but didn't take any steps beyond imaging myself arguing some brilliant theory before a enthralled jury. That, plus a less than stellar score on the LSAT, made law school an impossible dream.

After college, I worked behind the cosmetic counter, and considered my options. One particular December evening, just a week before Christmas, being mugged at gunpoint in the employee parking lot, made a choice for me: a transfer to another store. And
because of that circumstance, I met my husband, Rich.

Later, I became a nurse, recognizing that a supporting role in medicine, for the moment, was good enough. After some years, some additional study, and more initials following my name, I became a nurse practitioner: now, I was able to play "Doctor," a role, that I had so long ago, abandoned.

Some time passed, and a chance overheard conversation from one of my nursing peers, gave me an entre into being a nursing "expert witness." Now, I got to play "Lawyer," from the back row, as well.

Along with our choices, timing is everything. Rich had a heart attack late last year. Although he seemed fine, he had another acute event, just days later. And because I decided to stay home with him that day, instead of going into my office as planned, he is alive.

For each choice we make, for each arbitrary decision, for each circumstance of random timing, a different outcome, a point of divergence, ensues.  These alternate histories, of what may have happened, are a point of fascination: both of great potential opportunity and success, and, conversely, the  potential for infinite sorrow and loss.  And only after the fact, only after the event, do we step back and attempt to appreciate what was set in motion, and what we could have done to alter our fate. In the end, we can only accept it.

Refine Your "Terroir"

 There's a concept in winemaking called "terroir" wherein all environmental factors (the heat of the sun, the cold of night, the morning dew, the rocky soil) are recognized as having a significant outcome on the final product. We humans are not so different: everything we choose, from where we live, to our life's work, to our emotions and reactions, to the food and drink we consume, create our own self....for better or worse.

 

The fact is, that cancer (those renegade cells going off the reservation) occurs all the time in everyone, but luckily your own cellular SWAT team (wonderfully named "natural killer cells") is smart enough to seek and destroy. And like any other police force, keeping them happy means that they will "serve & protect" that much more efficiently. That means keeping them properly fed, rested and respected, in a calm and peaceful environment. Happy cells means happy terroir....and no weeds taking over the farm.

 

The science is all out there: eating organic precludes getting dosed with pesticides; stay away from big fish as they are tainted with mercury; too much booze will kill you; red wine and dark chocolate are actually good for you; take the sun with protection; particular spices (chemicals) are good for you and others are not; smoking hurts you; sugar is bad but fat, not so much; your own fat is a toxic waste-dump, so lose it; learn how to say "no" and define what you stand for; and above all: remember sitting causes cancer, so keep moving!

 

But sometimes, in some people, for whatever reason, the system fails....and things go very wrong. Bad terroir? Bad farmer? Bad karma? All of the above? Quite possible. So perhaps simple maintenance is the best prevention...and for me, the best post-operative on-going lifetime cure. Green tea, anyone?

 

 

 

Younger

I've discovered the Fountain of Youth! And like all good things, it was there all along, I only had to look inward and see it. I now know that all I have to do....is LIE! I figure that 10-years off is a nice even number and the math won't be so hard to do.

See? I am NOW a member of the Class of 1988. I simply have to remember some new "facts" in order to maintain my cover.  In 1978, my Prom theme was "Nights in White Satin," and as astonishingly morose as that sounds in retrospect, none of us appreciated the irony as we lit up that Disco Inferno. 

In my new pretend 80's existence, I think the Prom's theme was "Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car," or maybe it was "Could've Been" by Tiffany, or was it "Shake Your Love" by Debbie Gibson? The sheer magic of that evening, back in 1988 (right?) makes my memory a little hazy...

And who could forget where they were for the defining moment of my new generation: when Milli Vanilli had to confess that they were lip-synching? The shock and pain are still so real...

The funny thing is, I still think I'm about 17, and am horrified, on a daily basis, when I look into a mirror and see my father in drag. And when I attempt to spring out of bed in the morning only to be foiled by a bad back and stiff knees, I think I must have cancer...oh wait, that was true....but you see where I'm going here?

I'm happy to fool the world with dyeing my hair, talking the hip jive with the kids, and wearing clothes that are far too young for me, because I know that my earthly form conceals an  immature soul that is still learning the rules of the game. I'm happy to keep playing.