Went to see the plastic surgeon, Dr Grasee. That’s pronounced Grah-zay. The Foob really likes it, because it sounds so French. He never has cared for Dr Birhiray-pronounced Beer-Hurray—instead, wanting me to find a doctor named Dr Chardonnay-Hurray. “We are going to zee Dr Grah-zay, no?” he asked with a smile. Little does he know that Dr Grah-zay is going to eliminate his job. You might think he’d catch on once he heard our conversation, but he was way too busy trying to sweet talk the implant samples to pay any attention. So, for now, he’s very excited about having a doctor with such a French-sounding name.
When I made my appointment with the plastic surgeon, I imagined how I thought the place would be. I figured, you know, they’re in the business of making people look better—bigger in some ways, smaller in others—so everyone who worked there would look like Barbie. Prior to my appointment, I imagined myself sitting in a waiting room full of people uber-plump lips, tattooed make-up, and gigantic boobs, sticking out alike a sore thumb (me—not the gigantic boobs) because I still have my cellulite intact.
I’m happy to report that I was wrong.
Dr Grasee and company are down-to-earth, regular people. No barbies or fem-bots in the bunch. As for the waiting room, well, I didn’t see any other patients there. I hope that’s not because I’m the first customer. Although, when I went to write a check for my co-pay they did ask me if I had cash so they could hang their first dollar on the wall… hmmm. No, seriously, Dr Grasee is about my age. Or at least she *looks* my age, but really she could be 112 years old and just keeps having her partner give her a face lift every year. So, at any rate she’s been doing this for a little while.
Right off the bat, I told her that I wasn’t really interested in any of the reconstruction methods that would use muscle, and that Dr Schmidt had said I was a good candidate for an expander & implant, in spite of the fact that I’ve had radiation. She said, “Okay, we’ll see when I examine you if I think that’s a good idea.” So, she went ahead and explained the other reconstruction options, and showed us the various implants. Then she opened up a binder full of before and after pictures. It was all I could do to keep from busting out laughing as she showed us photos of 70 year old women’s boobs—I knew that Hubster, while appearing calm on the outside, was mentally trying to chew his eyes off to get away. That alone was worth the price of admission. Heh heh.
Finally, she looked at and felt my skin, and agreed that it does indeed look really good. “Okay,” she said, “I’m thinking we shoot for the initial surgery in August, and then plan to do the exchange in December. What do you think?”
I thought that sounded just jim dandy.