Today rocks. I get to sit on my ass and let someone else do the writing. Remember the ODNT Expert Panel? Well, I’m asking these women to share their stories here from time to time. I’ve heard so many already and each is better than the last. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pour a glass of wine and catch up on Modern Family. Night.
* * * * * * * * * *
A Sense of Humor can get You Through Almost Anything (by Red)
When we talk about boobs, it is almost always in the plural sense. Which stands to reason because God gave us all two of them. He was not very fair in the way he distributed the boobs to us but we all got a pair nonetheless. That is a story for another day. Mine were just small. Simply put. No amount of weightlifting or boob-building exercises would ever change that. There was no breastfeeding involved. No “misuse.” They were just … small.
That being said, I decided to make a few doctor appointments and investigate. Sound familiar? I was searching for the right size, something I could be comfortable with. I was not looking for my boobs to enter a room two minutes before the rest of me. I just wanted to feel more comfortable and confident.
You learn sooo much in your quest. The medical information and terminology can be overwhelming. And you need a finance degree to figure out the costs. I fortunately did find a good fit for myself … the right doctor offering the right size that my pocketbook could handle. And for years I fully enjoyed both of them.
It was three years to the day that I became suspicious of the one on the right and knew something was up. I tried to dismiss the fact that Mrs. Right was not fulfilling her job potential and she was …how might I say…shrinking. Keeping my concerns and still some denial to myself, I made what seemed to me to be a most embarrassing phone call to the doctor’s office. “Hi, this is blah blah blah and I am a patient of blah blah blah and I think I may have sprung a leak.” Of course, it was a Friday morning and he was in surgery and probably wouldn’t be able to call me back until early the next week. So, I made an appointment for the following Wednesday.
But how would I hold this news in … much less physically conceal it … for five days?!!?
The office assured me that I was in no danger since I had saline implants. Easy for them to say. I knew for sure that my weekend activities, through Wednesday, would definitely be altered. Swimming, jogging and, well, just about everything was off limits! Wednesday finally rolled around, which seemed like three weeks, and I anxiously went to my appointment. The office was so comforting and gave me assurance that it was all going to be fine. The doctor confirmed my suspicions and, with a very straight face, told me the bad news.
The only way to fix it was another surgery.
And, as he was reviewing my chart, he then added that there was also some good news.
You bought the insurance!
Of course, my mouth then dropped lower than my poor saggy boob and I asked what that exactly meant. And, all the while, I was having flashbacks and remembering the speech about how rarely an implant bursts or is defective. And there was talk of insurance to protect me if, by some slim chance, anything happened within the next ten years … yada, yada, yada … and it was $100 for both.
Not a bad deal. It’s really only $50 a boob. I’ve spent more for insurance on a TV. And when you are already spending a few thousand dollars, what’s another hundred, right?
So now, having been the savvy boob buyer, I was told that my options were wide open. I could get just the droopy one fixed … or I could get both re-done. I could change the size and go bigger on both … or go smaller on both … or have both removed altogether. And it would be a completely free do-over!!!!
That night, I had a lot to think about and, of course, talk about with my husband … who still had no idea at this point. (Just for the record, there is no perfect time for this conversation.) So I waited until we were in bed, about to go to sleep, and I said in a very quiet voice, “I went to the doctor today.” Extreme concern came from my husband with his “Everything OK?” reply. And breaking with nervous laugher, I blurted out “It will be but my boob busted and I need to get it fixed.”
Then, there were some humorous comments like “Did I do it?” And I assured him it wasn’t his fault but that it would require surgery to be fixed. And … before he could say anything else … I informed him (quite proud of myself) that he didn’t need to worry because I bought the insurance! He answered, “What do you mean? Is it like when you buy insurance on tires? They pop and you get a new one?” And I said, “Actually yes!!! You get a new one … or maybe even two.”
The insurance gives you options. I successfully went to the “repair shop” and chose to fix just the one flat. At my post-surgical visit, I bought a new insurance policy. So now my right is good to go for another ten years and my left still has seven years left on her policy.
The moral of this story? The only right thing to do for peace of mind and pocketbook is to get the insurance and know you will not be left flat if you hit a pothole.