If you wanna feel better about your family, just read about ours...

Starring: a dad, a mom, a son & daughter-in-law, a daughter & son-in-law, a teen, a tween, a grandson, a granddaughter, 3 dogs, 2 rabbits, 2 dwarf frogs, an unfortunate number of tadpoles, and a whole lot of love.

Family Story Pic

Family Story Pic


Wednesday, October 12, 2016

The End Of Our Rope

Hilton Head, South Carolina is kind of our place. We've been vacationing there for roughly 19 years, and 4 years ago, we finally took the plunge and invested in a few Time Shares, and we now go there twice a year. In May we go as an entire family for 1 week. And in September, Ron and I go alone for 2 weeks.

It's a relatively upscale island with a lot of focus on golf and tennis. Just so we're clear, we don't play golf or tennis and "upscale" is not a word that would accurately describe our family. (Or at least I hope not.) So inevitably, whenever we mention our trips to Hilton Head, the first question people ask is, "What do you guys do there?" The simple answer to that would be, nothing. We do nothing.

We lay on the beach. And then we lay by the pool. On our trips with the kids, we rent bikes and go on long rides in single file resembling the Von Trapp's in The Sound Of Music, except we're not wearing curtains...or singing. And when we're not laying by a body of water somewhere, or Von Trapping it along the bike paths, we can be found having our own kind of not upscale fun, like feeding cheeseballs to the turtles via water balloon launcher from our 4th story balcony, and there used to be times when Zac would dress up like a clown and juggle for the kids at the resort. But that was back before clowns became Satan. Now we live in a world where dressing up and running around like a clown willy nilly will get you shot.
And it should.

When Ron and I go alone, there's slightly less tom foolery. Slightly. Launching and shooting snacks from our balcony isn't nearly as fun without kids, and bike riding takes on more of a racing situation with 2 people side-by-side as opposed to 10 of us in a single file, and Ron and I racing on serene upscale bike trails beside serene upscale golf courses is ugly, golfers get pissssed, and people hate us everywhere. So we lay. On the beach and by the pool and occasionally I surprise him and pull out a tennis ball and we'll throw it back and forth to each other in the ocean until he nails me really hard with it and then I go back to my beach chair where I wanted to be in the first place, because fighting in Hilton Head is a no-no.
It's like our only rule.

I think you get the general idea. Besides my beach run and trip to the gym every morning, we're basically the island sloths.

But last September, 2015, something very exciting and out of the ordinary happened that changed our trip forever. We found a rope. We were taking a walk about a mile down the beach from our condo at low tide, I saw it floating, waded into the water, and grabbed it. Yeah, it was a pretty big deal.

The end of a rope, connected to something deep beneath the sand. So we pulled and we dug and we pulled with no success, so we did what any other normal person would've done in that situation. We used our phones to ping the location of the rope, returned the following day at low tide, and went to work with the only tool we had at our disposal...a tiny plastic purple beach shovel. And we pulled and we dug and we pulled with no success. Day after day, at low tide, every day of our stay. Nothing.

So, 7 months later, when we returned with our family, we tracked the low tide, followed the ping, and came armed with kids and tools. Power in numbers, yo. And we dug and we pulled and we dug and no luck. Nothin.

If you're wondering why we weren't willing to give up on this seemingly useless endeavor, maybe we shouldn't be friends. I mean, obviously, there's something on the other end of that rope. Ron's convinced it's a treasure chest from a pirate ship, but he also believes in Big Foot, so there's that. But I know what it is. It's an anchor. And anchors are my super cool thing right now, which makes that way better than a pretend treasure chest.

Soooo, we returned again last month to continue our quest. This time, there was talk of investing in a double gear cable puller called a Come-Along, or making sandbags and building a dam of sorts...at least until a lifeguard or someone from the "town council" stopped us. *eye roll*
They hate us there.

But when we followed our ping to where our rope should've been, we searched for over an hour with no luck. We looked for 3 days and finally concluded that someone obviously stole my freakin' anchor. (Ron: "Or treasure chest.") Stop it.

Having nothing to do now, we booked a shark fishing trip, where the captain asked us, "So, have they rejuvenated the beach where you stay yet?" Um, what'chya talkin' about, Captain Joe?
"Yeah, they're redoing all the beaches with fresh layers of sand."

Son of a ....

WELL. That explains a lot. Like, why my knees hurt when I run on the "fluffier than usual" sand. And why we can't see the tips of little rocks near our resort anymore. Or why we can't find our damn rope!

I told you town council hated us.

But we'll check again in May when we return, because on the bright side, Hurricane Matthew hit the island last week and might've washed away their stupid new layers of sand.

Okay, maybe we shouldn't call that "the bright side." But in my defense, they sabotaged my rope. So if ever there was a place for sarcasm, disapproval, sass, and side-eye, I'd say it's here.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Saving The Breast For Last- Part 8

Wednesday Aug 3rd - Thursday Aug 11th (Week 3 Recovery)

Guess who figured out a way for me to sit in the hot tub with him at night. On one of our grandson's tiny plastic stools. Not sure if this is exactly what he had in mind, but hey, I'm in the hot tub. How...romantic...

Okay, so I maybe understand now why the doctor mentioned not picking the glue off my incision. I've entered the my-boobs-itch-like-a-mother phase of recovery, and while I wouldn't necessarily label myself a scab picker, per say, the more the edges of the glue begin breaking loose, the more I need to remind myself that I wouldn't wanna have to label myself a scab picker.
I've got enough titles, thanks.

I decided last week that it wouldn't hurt to do some light pressure massages, and on Friday the 5th, I resumed seeing clients again. I was wrong. It hurt. Turns out that pushing on people uses your pec muscles. You might be as surprised as I was to find out some of the random activities that require pec muscles: sneezing, opening a bag of chips, unscrewing the lid on a jar of peanut butter, opening a pill bottle, cutting pretty much anything with a knife, pushing myself up out of the bathtub... So it's not uncommon for Caymen to ask, "Are your boobs ready for that?" anytime she sees me attempting something on my own.

Yeah, we don't hide anything from our kids and our daughters who still live at home have had a front row seat to these shenanigans from the beginning. Which reminds me, I should have a chat with Caymen before school starts, heaven forbid her teacher ask the class if anything exciting happened over the summer and I get a bunch of angry phone calls the first week of school.
Been there, done that, the year Kearstin was in Kindergarten, tried to sign me up for Career Day, and told her class that people come to our house and pay me to rub them.
Not everything needs to be shared with the class, kids.
(Said the mom who shares everything with the world.)

But back to the healing process. Everything about that has gone so smoothly. My swelling is down, they're looking and feeling more natural, and I'm thrilled to report that no nipples were harmed or lost in the making of this blog series.

I returned to the doctor yesterday where he asked me, for future patient reference, how long I took my prescription pain meds following the surgery. Um, that'd be 1 day. Then he clarified. "You mean you toughed out this recovery on ibuprofen?" I kept my answer a simple yes, thus avoiding the Mrs.Grass's can of soup worms. Then he looked at my incisions and while I waited for him to give me the all-clear, he asked the nurse to hand him a tool, and before I could ask a question, he yanked out an internal stitch that was protruding from under one of my breasts, used a long match-looking thingy to burn the hole closed, and slapped a band aide on me. Son of a mother, how 'bout some warning or something???
So that's what I get for lookin' like a pain-tolerant badass. Lesson learned.

So am I all clear now? No. It'll be 2 more weeks of no sports bras or upper body workouts, and thanks to that extra little yank 'n' burn procedure, it'll be 4 more days of no hot tub. BUT, and here's the awesome news, I've been cleared for all cardio, legs, and abs, so Zumba officially resumes next week! I'll be the instructor trying not to bounce out of a regular bra while dancing with my arms straight down by my sides. Just go with it.

I don't go back for another visit until October and he asked if I had any concerns until then. Again, I opted for simple and said no. I'll just continue standing a full arm lengths away from the grill and stove, because my 2am fears have now shifted to wondering if it's possible to melt my implants over an open flame. Best to play it safe, I say.

Thanks to all who have read this series and gone on this journey with me. Hopefully I found the balance between informative and humorous, without boring or offending anyone. I've received a lot of messages inquiring about price and I'll willingly share the breakdown of that with everyone who's seriously interested. I'm not posting that publicly, because it's not information that needs to be shared with everyone, and the prices for this procedure will vary greatly depending on a lot of variables. I will say that getting implants alone is significantly less expensive than getting a lift along with it. But no question is off limits, so please feel free to continue messaging me if you have any.

For anyone thinking they're too old to even consider such a procedure, I'll remind you that I have 2 grandchildren, one of which accompanied me to my boob doctor appointment yesterday and nobody stared, laughed, or pointed. At least to my face. This surgery has been nothing but a blessing and it was worth every bit of the craziness that preceded it. I'm not only thankful that I had the opportunity to have this done, but that God intervened along the way and steered me to the right doctor in the right timing.

As for the before and after pictures, posting boob pics is a tad more complicated than the tummy tuck was, because, ya know, they're boobs. But I also realize that to leave pictures out of this series would be to leave it incomplete. I'm hoping that I was able to strike a tasteful balance and at least give you a general idea. I do have a private collection of pictures that detail the actual incisions and week-by-week healing process that I'm more than happy to share with any women who are seriously contemplating this procedure.

As if you didn't scroll straight to the end without reading a word.


Monday, August 8, 2016

Breast Rest- Part 7

The pic represents what I felt like yesterday in church when, 6 days into my boob job series, the sermon was about things that are real vs. fake and made reference to McDonald's chicken nuggets not actually being chicken, but rather a processed something, formed to look like chicken.

And on that note, behold, week 2's recovery update starring me and my McJuggets...

Wednesday July 27th - Tuesday August 2nd (Week 2 Recovery)
My progress really took off this week. On Wednesday, I got the best night's sleep I'd had yet. Probably because I turned a corner in my healing process, or maybe because I broke down and took a leftover Vicodin of Ron's I found in the back of the medicine cabinet from 2010. (Oh, like you've never taken expired pain meds prescribed to somebody else...ok, yeah, don't do that.)

On the 28th I went to the doctor all by myself, feeling wonderful, wearing an actual bra, no chest vest, and minus the extra 7 lbs of puff. Normal is the name of the game today, folks. Normal.

The doctor walked into the room and very first thing said, "Still no hot tub."
It's okay, doc, he's not here.

While we're at it, still no baths, no sports bras, no golf, no stomach sleeping, no upper body anything, and still no picking up my 25 lb grandson, but am cleared to pick up my 13 lb granddaughter.
So now my heart is only half broken.

I could tell he's very satisfied with his work and happy with my recovery and I decided that he thinks I'm now his best un-medicated, un-vested, un-puffy, un-crazy, un-pain-in-his-ass, and most low-maintenance patient he's ever worked on, and I'm totally rockin' the normal vibe today...and then he said, "Now don't start picking the glue off your incisions, okay?"
Alright, so maybe not.

Then he upgraded me from 'do nothing' to permitting me to 'take walks'.
Take walks? Take walks?! I feel great, I'm starving, and I desperately need to run, dance, lift, plank, and squat 6 days a week so that I can eat enough junk 1 day a week to break even...and you tell me I'm allowed to take walks?!?

But then I decided that taking walks is awesome, because the look on his face indicated that my crazy might be showing.

Two days later, we went to Zoombezi Bay, the Columbus Zoo & Waterpark, with Ron's work. And, no, I did not ask the doctor if that was okay, because he'd already pegged me as a glue picking maniac, and the word waterpark sounds way worse than it actually was.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that all the stores have their back-to-school crap out, I wasn't able to find a new bathing suit top and my previous bikini top, that once housed my Saggy D's, was borderline unfit to manage the new Double D's. So avoiding eye contact, wearing a baggy tank top, hiding in our cabana draped with beach towels, and occasionally walking the lazy river while my 9 year old repeatedly asked, "How's the boobs holding up, mommy?" pretty much sums up my day at Boob-ezi-Bay...come on, it's like Jack Hanna handed me that one on a silver platter.

Unless something crazy(ier) happens, Friday should conclude my Tale Of 2 Titties, as I'll fill you in on Week 3 recovery and hold high hopes that the doctor will release me back to life as normal usual when he sees me this Thursday. I feel like he's as ready for that as I am.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Booby Trapped- Part 6

Wednesday July 20th - Tuesday July 26th (Week 1 recovery)
Much to my pleasant surprise, this first week of recovery has been pretty low-key. I stopped taking the Percocet the day after my surgery, thanks to that soup video, and I switched over to plain old Ibuprofen. It's painful, but not unbearable. My throat is very sore from the breathing tube that ran down it during surgery, which thankfully, I remained blissfully unaware of until after the surgery. Notice the anesthesiologist didn't mention that was gonna happen in our little pre-op meet 'n' greet, probably because within 2 minutes of meeting me, he realized the less I know the better.

I'm continuing to wear my chest vest 24/7, per doctor's orders, and because it's become my new security blanket, and I may or may not have attachment disorders. Considering I lived in my 'tummy huggie' for almost a year after my tuck, my kids don't even question my Velcro apparel anymore.

Thursday the 21st was my first follow-up appointment with the doctor. My biggest concern that day was how puffy I was. Seriously, it felt and looked like I'd put on 10 lbs overnight, so of course I weighed myself to make sure I didn't, and discovered that I didn't. I'd gained 7, which you'd think would've made the downward spiral that followed at least 3 lbs less dramatic, but you'd be wrong. It was a full 10 lb plummet to an all out emotional brouhaha in the bathroom, where Ron attempted to comfort me by explaining that each boob probably weighs 3 1/2 pounds now so this is probably just my new weight, which might've sounded good in his head, but when said out loud, made things notably worse, and had me rethinking my stance against Percocet.

So I squeezed myself into my 'fat' shorts, pulled a big t-shirt over my chest vest, and waddled into the doctor's office, where he raved about how good I looked. Lies help no one, sir.

He looked me over, checked my incisions, and confirmed that everything looked exactly like it was supposed to at that stage of recovery. Then he asked me if I'd pooped yet. File that one under C for curve-ball. "Poop? Not ringin' a bell, but I was high for 2 days, so there's that."

He explained that while I was on the surgery table, he decided that the implants would look better behind my pec muscles, rather than in front of them, as originally planned. That's a big deal to me, because that's what I really wanted in the first place, but was told by my original doc that it was a more extensive and invasive procedure and that it was unnecessary. But in my mind, by putting them behind my pec muscles, I had an extra layer of body tissue trapping them in, thus preventing any unfortunate implant disasters during Zumba. I'm not saying it makes medical sense, I'm telling you how my mind works. Regardless, Dr. O'Neil did me yet another huge favor, by going above and beyond what he would've had to do, because he wanted to do his very best job for me. Again.
Have I mentioned how much I love this doctor? Well, it's worth repeating.

But that definitely explains the pain I was feeling in my chest muscles at night...not like a good kind of oh-I'm-so-sore-from-that-workout pain, but more like a son-of-a-b*tch-somebody-sliced-through-my-pecs-with-a-knife kind of pain. See, that's different.

I'm still under his orders not to do anything, which is fine by me, because I can't lift my arms above my head and whenever I go from lying down to sitting up, I feel the throbbing sensation of an engorged woman capable of breastfeeding a small country of starving infants. As for feeling like I have 2 construction cones protruding off the front of my chest, the doctor says those should relax...a little...over the next 3 months.

My goal now being that they're down to normal size by October, which should eliminate at least 3 of my husband's Halloween costume ideas he has in mind for me.

We came so close to leaving there without saying anything ridiculous. So. Close. But then the doctor shared some "good news." Thanks to not having any stitches or drainage tubes, he said I could shower whenever I want, which Ron took as a green light to ask if that means I'm now also allowed to get in the hot tub with him at night, because heaven forbid, we make it out of that appointment without sounding as creepy as humanly possible.
How bout'chya go ahead and tell him we've already had sex while you're at it?

Ron's "can I pretty please submerge her 48-hour boob incisions, held solely together by glue, into a 104 degree hot tub full of chlorine" question was met with a resounding "no" and then a "NOOO!" from the nice normal doctor who still thinks we're lunatics. Shocker.

In other news, I haven't experienced any bruising at all, by Saturday I was able to (sort of) sleep on my side rather than my back, and I took my last Ibuprofen on Sunday afternoon, because I'm not a fan of being dependent on medication, despite the excuse of having had surgery 5 days ago.

I go back to see the doctor July 28th, and I think he's going to be as pleased with my progress as I am, because all in all, this recovery has been uneventful for my standards....well, except for Thursday night when I started to have a full out panic attack whenever I thought of having foreign objects embedded in my chest and thoughts of rippin' your new implants out with your bare hands makes nothin' but sense, am I right?

But no need to tell the good doctor everything, because as much of a pain in his ass that we were before the surgery, I'm trying to make up for now.

We'll resume this series on Monday where you can learn what to expect during your 2nd week of recovery after your boob job...assuming your husband takes you to a waterpark 11 days after your boob job, of course.

Friday, August 5, 2016

It Was The Breast Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times- Part 5

Tuesday, July 19th, p.m.
I awoke in recovery a few hours later, and by "awoke" I mean I vaguely recall being force fed sips of apple juice and bites of cracker from an assorted variety piled on my tray, by a nurse wearing what looked like a paper boat on top of her head, and whose bedside manner kinda sucked.

And seriously, let's take a moment to discuss that pile of crackers. Did I keep changing my mind on which type of cracker I wanted? Did they think I was starving? Or was Ron possibly swiping crackers off my tray behind the nurse's back, so she kept giving me more...hmmm. Come on, lady, I couldn't look more dead there. Stop with the snacks.

As far as the surgery itself went, it took a total of 3 hours and he opted for the 400 cc implants as opposed to the 350's. (And Ron rejoiced.) It all went so smoothly, that I didn't require any stiches, but rather he glued my incisions closed, and the predicted drainage tubes were unnecessary, too.

There goes the 'Boob Tube' post title. *sigh* I'm as disappointed as you are.

After being released, the next thing I remember was sitting in our van by myself in the middle of a country road, while Ron stood outside the front of our van, staring at me through the windshield...while he peed...which I would've chalked up to an hallucination, except later, he told me that really happened.
"5 cups of coffee in 3 hours is gonna come out somewhere."
Dude. Just, maybe next time, feel free to not be facing me when it does, k?"

The rest of the evening is a complete blank for me, but my family has informed me that during that time, they dubbed me '10-second-Tom' because I asked the same questions over and over again, repeatedly told anyone within earshot that my legs were wobbly and I itched all over, burst into tears when I had to take an Ibuprofen, because it wasn't time for another Percocet, demanded the girls pull my hair into a messy bun, but cried because it would hurt my head to lay in bed with a messy bun, and from there, things escalated to a scene in the kitchen when Ron made me soup without following the directions, and I had an emotional breakdown that'll forever be known in our family's history as 'The Mrs. Grass's Soup Incident of 2016', which I wouldn't believe, but I've seen the 6 minute video Kearstin was kind enough to record for proof as it all played out. I'm not proud of what's on that video, but in my defense, he made the damn soup wrong, capiche?

I really need to start remembering to tell doctors that narcotics screw with me.

Follow-up care wise, I'm on 10 days of antibiotics, I'm wearing a Velcro support bra resembling a bullet-proof vest, and for the first 48 hours, Ron was required to unwrap me every 6 hours to look at my boobs...supposedly doctor's orders, although this seems rather fishy to me.

From what I could tell, everything looked good. I was still marked up with purple lines, and there's an incision running straight down the underside of each breast as well as around my newly formed and perfectly proportionate areolas that now face front instead of down. Well, hello ladies. Nice to see you again.

I'm holding out hope that my chest size right now is attributed to swelling and they'll go down significantly as the weeks progress. Ron's holding out hope that they won't. Apparently, he doesn't mind the whole, 2-large-construction-cones-protruding-from-the-front-of-my-chest look. Time will tell who gets their wish.

I was scheduled to see Dr. O'Neil 2 days later for my first follow-up visit, where I offered this deal up to my husband: "You don't tell him about my soup tantrum and I won't tell him I had to watch you pee in the middle of the road on our ride home."

That guy's gonna think we're normal by the end of this, so help me.

Tomorrow you can read how it went...and why that whole think we're normal thing hasn't happened quite yet.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Rack 'em Up- Part 4

Tuesday, July 19th, a.m.
For as much drama and hassle there was leading up to this surgery, I was actually thrilled when I found myself scrubbing my breasts for the required 2 minutes with the skin killer cleanser called Hibiclens, the night before surgery and the morning of, because boob germs ain't nothin' to mess around with.

Before I knew it, I was checking into the surgical center at 7am. As the nurse ran the obligatory pregnancy test and hooked me up for all the preliminary stats, she asked if I was nervous, and I answered honestly that yes, I was very nervous...the doctor might not show up, I'd seen pictures of boob jobs gone wrong, and a positive pregnancy test right now would be totally par for the course of how this process has gone thus far, and that'd kinda really suck. Then she looked down to see my blood pressure read 104/67 and said, "Good grief. I'd hate to see how low that is when you're not nervous."

See, I'm known more for causing high blood pressure, not so much having it.

The Anesthesiologist came in to talk to me. He explained that surgeries involving breasts increase the odds of post-surgical nausea. He asked if I had any concerns. Well, since you asked, I'm afraid of waking up in the middle of surgery, of everyone having to lift my dead weight to sit me up during surgery, and now you can add nausea after my surgery to my ever-growing list of fears.
Careful, my blood pressure may have just spiked to 105/68.
*deep breath*

He reassured me by explaining that my brain waves will be closely monitored, so they know exactly how much anesthesia I need to keep me safely under.

"So then you're telling me that I don't have to lie about being 10 lbs heavier than I really am to make sure you give me plenty?"

"Um...we'd rather you not do that."

Then he made me stand on a scale and gave me disappointed looks. Whatever.

As for the Weekend At Bernie's nightmare, turns out the table lifts me to an upright position, not the nurses. And they took several extra precautions against nausea including a pill before surgery and a patch behind my ear, both said to last up to 3 days, as well as anti-nausea meds in the anesthesia itself.

Well, then, I guess I no longer have any concerns.

Finally, the doctor came in, armed with a purple marker and began measuring and mapping me out, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase purple nurples. I'm past any embarrassment with this process by now. I just stood still and avoided eye contact with the doctor or my husband, but especially my husband, who tends to giggle like a 7th grade boy when it comes to anything awkward or boob related, heaven forbid he think to say the words purple or nurple. And quite frankly, I was just relieved that the doctor showed up, so he could draw on me all he wanted at that point.

Right on schedule, it was time for me to enter the operating room, but they didn't pump me full of happy juice before wheeling me away on a bed. I had to walk. Fully aware and un-medicated, I walked myself into the surgical room, had to tell the team of nurses and anesthesiologists my name and exactly what I was having done. Under immense nerves and pressure, I remembered the technical terms of 'bilateral breast augmentation' but couldn't for the life of me remember the word 'mastopexy' so I resorted to "and then he's gonna lift 'em up." Or you could just open my gown and follow the purple marker maps, just somebody please knock me out so I can stop making eye contact with people.

Then I climbed onto the table, was told they'd give me something to relax, I noted that I tasted something funny in my mouth, followed by someone saying, "Goodnight..."

If you think I'm a hot mess on a normal day, just wait till tomorrow when you see me on narcotics...

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

The Breast Is Yet To Come- Part 3

Friday, July 15th:
We left off with this entire boob job hinging on one thing:  Will there be a difference in price for the implants the associate doctor plans to use vs. the implants my original doctor planned?

So I entered the appointment prepared for my rebuttal if they said there would be:
The new implants are smaller, therefore, the difference in price should be in my favor. And if you try to tell me it's some kind of service charge for having to order a whole new set of different implants, I'll simply drop that little bomb of info the office manager probably shouldn't have handed me 2 weeks ago:..."as it turns out, the wrong implants were ordered anyway, so see? Everything happens for a reason."
Please be careful. I remember everything.

Ron demanded he come with me to the appointment so he was under strict orders to remain silent. We were treading on unfamiliar territory. I'd been thrust into the role of Good Cop, he'd jumped ship into full-fledged Screw You Cop, and we were about to make our first personal appearance together. We were playing a dangerous game here.

I signed all the consent forms and then the doctor came in. I can't stress to you enough how amazing he is. He examined and measured me again and when I reminded him that my goal is not to have bigger boobs, he showed me on the chart how the implant sizes he'll use are perfectly proportionate to my body. Then he turned to bad cop sitting silently in the corner and assured him that they won't be small, by any means, either. (He reads my husband very well.) He took before pics from every angle and I didn't smile or say cheese, because to appear any crazier at this point, is to jeopardize the particularly delicate ecosystem of unfamiliar social behavior we'd been boxed into...aaaand, I was the only one allowed to talk, so it all hinged on me.

At the end of my appointment, I asked about a price difference of the implants and then prepared to plead my case, but was surprised when he said, "Oh there shouldn't be any difference at all." Then he confirmed my surgery date for the 19th.

That night, I tossed and turned, and started googling breast augmentation surgeries gone wrong, as you do. By 2:30am, I'd spiraled into a complete panic and convinced myself they'd be too big, I'd pop one, spring a leak, lose both my nipples and come out looking like an old porn star. Surely God didn't want this to happen, so he'd close the door on this entire debacle.

I waited all the following day for the phone call from the office manager explaining the "unavoidable difference in implant prices" probably totaling the amount of, oh, I don't know, $326.00?!?! (Hey, I'm a bit of a cynic these days.) But the call never came. It didn't come Wednesday or Thursday, either. Finally, on Friday, I called the office. So, is there a price difference in implants? Nope, none. Wait a minute...Dr. O'Neil doesn't have a pregnant daughter due any day, does he?!? Nope. She's only 3.  Are you telling me this surgery is actually going to happen? Yep.

So one way or another, for better or for worse, every hoop has been jumped through, and every door has remained open for me to have this surgery. I can't believe I have 3 entries in this series and not one incision has even been made. If you've hung in with me this far, you're a real trooper.

Tune in tomorrow, when I actually get to use the over-the-counter surgical soap that smells like turpentine and burns like hell.
Be excited.