Twenty-three days to go.
They’re called “noobs.” New boobs. They won’t really be boobs, of course. Just fat, skin, and a blood supply, harvested from my abdomen, shaped into boob-like pieces, and stitched into place where the real boobs used to live.
Processed Katy-breast. But hey…the last time I needed these babies to truly function was around thirty years ago, when the boys were hungry and liked mamma-milk. Now they’re just decorative. But after living almost a year with one side flat, one swinging, I’m ready for a change.
This whole concept is amazing. It’s called a DIEP flap–deep inferior epigastric perforator flap. The plastic surgeon will make an incision from hip to hip on my abdomen and harvest two thick pancakes of fat and skin, along with their itty-bitty blood supplies, and relocate them to my chest, where the arteries and veins are connected with microsurgery. Yes, I get a tummy-tuck in the process, along with a new belly-button and abdominal skin pulled so tight I’m hoping my lady bits won’t show above my granny panties.
And speaking of thirty years ago, let us recall that I carried a twin pregnancy to term. Do you know what that does to a girl’s midsection? Not to be too graphic, but mine you could roll up and secure with a clothespin. Stretch marks like a topo map. Oh, well. My days of earning my living as an exotic dancer are over anyway.
So for the next twenty-three days, I will squeeze my abdominal skin and fat into boob-shaped blobs and imagine their change of address. April 15th, baby.
“You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” Isaiah 55:12