An original piece

Posted: April 28, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, infection, Surgery | Tags: blog, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, Dr Seuss, infection, Jabba the Hutt, microsurgery, mycobacterium, new boobs, oral antibiotics, plastic surgeon, plastic surgery, reconstruction, TRAM flap | 24 Comments

Y’all are in for a treat today. Sit down, grab a beverage, put your phone on vibrate for this, because you’ll want to read this uninterrupted. My friend David has created a marvelous original piece just for Underbelly readers. He’s enormously talented with the prose and the pen, and as if the story itself isn’t enough, the illustrations are fabulous. I think it’s terrific, and it’s a perfect recap of my cancer-versary, which I feel compelled to continue celebrating. I favor the total birthday week, so likewise I may have a cancer-versary festival for as many days as my liver can stand. IMHO, now is always the right time to pop open some bubbly (I like later, too).

Those of you who have followed my story over the last year, with all its ups & downs, will know of my special relationship with my plastic surgeon. He and I have really gotten to know each other well during my “cancer journey,” and while I tease him sometimes (and drive him crazy all of the time), I have enormous respect for him and his amazing craft. We have a closer-than-normal bond because of the post-op care I’ve needed, and he’s been there for me every step of the way: entertaining me, enlightening me, engaging me, but in the end, taking phenomenal care of me. I trust him with my body and with my life. His work is simply stunning, and I’ve seen firsthand how he can transform a cancer-ravaged, wrecked body into not just a vessel for our souls but also a work of art.

So, in honour of my favorite doctor, I give you…

The Wubbulous Dr. S

 “My name’s Dr., madam, or just ‘Dr. S’

And of all plastic surgeons, I’m strictly the best.

I see your mastectomy’s left you flat-chested,

Well, my reconstructions have never been bested!

If it’s hooters you want, then it’s hooters I’ve got.

I’ll shape up your shape till you’re hotter than hot.

You want to be buxom, then buxom you’ll be—

and you’ll be the envy of all that you see!

How can I do this?  I’ll try to explain,

But it may be too much for your non-Doctor’s brain.

For, once I unveil this special contraption,

You’ll be quite amazed—it’s a natural reaction.

Behold!  I give you the Balloon-Boob-U-Latron,

Which will stack up your rack to the stars and beyond!

And with this little dial on the side, I can choose

Whether you will get Double-D’s or…W’s.

So step right on up and I’ll rev up the engine.

By week after next, you’ll get LOTS of attention.”

“It sounds,” I replied, “Just too good to be true,

And besides, I don’t want DD or W.

I’m happy with simply a B or a C.”

“Nonsense.”  He retorted, “Just listen to me.

As I said, I’m a DOCTOR.  I’m SMARTER than you.

I’ve got major degrees coming out the wazoo.

You just sit back and whistle, while I do my stuff.

I’m starting the engine.  You’ve said quite enough.”

Then he started it up.  It whined and it cried

And he chose Double-J on that knob on the side.

And I sat there and whistled.  That’s all I could do.

But then two hours later he said, “We are through.

Behold!  They’re magnificent!”  Then I looked down.

“I don’t see a difference.”  I said with a frown.

“Of course not.”  He said, “For your eyes are untrained,

But I am a DOCTOR.  I’m quite largely-brained.

They’re just getting started.  You’ll see.  They will GROW.

Trust me.  I’m the best—Dr. S—and I KNOW.”

I went home, kissed my kids, then I laid down to rest,

And when I woke up, I saw shape in my chest.

Not much, I admit, but the doctor was right.

They were growing.  And kept growing all through the night.

I woke up next morning, completely in shock.

I couldn’t believe it and, quick, called the doc.

“Dr. S,” I said, “Now for the shocker of shockers.

Something,” I shouted, “is wrong with my knockers.

The one on the left’s growing stronger than strong,

But the one on the RIGHT is decidedly WRONG.”

“Hmmm.  You’d better come in,” Dr. S said.  “I’m fairly

Sure something has happened that happens quite rarely.”

When he saw me, he flinched.  I was very lopsided.

“You have an infection,” the doctor confided.

“A mycobacterium.  That is my hunch,

And my LARGE doctor’s brain knows these things by the BUNCH.

I know just what to do.  There’s no need to debate it.

The one on the left…we’ll just have to deflate it.

And we have other options to give you new breasts,

But I am a DOCTOR, and doctors run TESTS.

I’ll get back to you shortly.  Just wait and you’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’ll send you to deflating room B.”

So my boob was deflated, and so was my mood,

And the next time I saw Dr. S, I was rude.

“Look here, Dr. S,” I said.  “I mean no trouble,

But I live inside of the SUGAR LAND Bubble.

I know you’re a DOCTOR, but I say, what of it?

You can take your Balloon-Boob-U-Latron and just shove it!”

“Tut, tut,” Dr. S said.  “I expected as much.

A Sugar Land patient needs a delicate touch.

I’ve run many tests on your bodice, you see,

And the answer’s so clear for a Doctor like me.

What you need is a TRAM FLAP procedure!  I know,

Because I am a DOCTOR, so on with the show!

Since you’re a non-Doctor, I’ll lend you a hand:

TRAM FLAP stands for ‘Tit Repositioning And

Moving Fat Like A Puzzle’, which quite simply means

That you’ll have to gain weight.  So, goodbye, skinny jeans!

You must grow a big belly to give me the fat

That I’ll move to your boobies, to make them un-flat.

So go forth and EAT!  Eat ice cream!  Drink shakes!

Gobble bon bons and beignets and beezlenut cakes!

Grow the fat for new hooters.  Get busy.  Get LARGE.

(The fat on your ass you can keep, at no charge.)

And because I’m a DOCTOR, I must prescribe PILLS!

Pills for THIS and for THAT and for medical bills.

The mycobacterium must go away,

So you must take these pills twenty-four hours a day.

AND because this procedure is tricky as treacle,

I’ll need an assistant.  Please, meet Dr. Spiegel.”

Then in walked a woman so lithe and so smart

That I almost felt jealousy deep in my heart.

So, now I had Drs. S1 and S2,

One doc for each boob.  What the sam hell to do?

And as soon as I met with S1 and S2,

It became quite apparent (as things often do)

That a struggle for power was starting to brew

About which doc was MY doc,

And who was the MAIN doc,

And who would I see when this process was through?

So for weeks I ate pastries, popped pills, and drank shakes

(And martinis and beers because that’s what it takes)

Till I had so much weight in my belly and butt

That I bore a resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

At my next appointment, they pinched, poked, and prodded,

And at last both my doctors stepped back and they nodded.

“You’re simply ENORMOUS,” said Dr. S1.

“As big as a WHALE!  What good work you have done.”

Then Dr. S2 added, “Yes, I agree.

There’s plenty of fat here.  Just leave it to me!”

“Excuse ME?” shot S1, “But I won’t stand for that.

YOU can assist ME, while I move her fat,

For I am a DOCTOR…”

“Oh yeah?  So am I.”

And in the stunned silence, they stood.  Eye to eye.

Yes, they stood and they stared, never budging a whistle,

But I finally spoke up and I said, “Ugh!  For shizzle!

Yes, I KNOW you’re both doctors.  I KNOW you’re both wise

But it’s MY reconstruction, so shut up, you guys.

Dr. S1, you have cosmetic vision,

So, you’ll do the OUTSIDE stuff.  That’s MY decision.

Dr. S2, you’re as detailed as hell,

So you’ll move my fat, and blood vessels as well.”

Then they stared at me—stunned—like the strangest of fish,

And then Dr. S1 said, “If that’s what you wish,

I will finish the outside.  But YOU, Dr. Spiegel

Must make room for ME and my extra-large ego.”

“All right,” said the slightly dejected S2,

“When I am all through, I’ll give over to you.”

“And she’ll be MY patient,” shot Dr. S1,

“She’ll be mine, mine, mine, MINE, from the moment we’re done.”

“WhatEVER,” I said, and I just rolled my eyes.

“Time’s a-wastin’.  Let’s do it.  Get going, you guys.”

So they wheeled me to surgery, both did their jobs,

And when we came out, I had spanking new yobs!

“Well, what do you think?” asked S1 and S2.

I replied, “I’m just glad that this whole thing is through.

I have boobs, and that’s fine, but I was fine before,

I just want my LIFE back.  There’s so much, MUCH more.

I want to be free, be a mom, be a wife,

Write an end to this chapter of my so-called life.”

And what happened next?  Well in Who-ville they say

That the doctors’ small hearts grew THREE sizes that day.

My story had touched them.  It lifted the fog

Of their arrogance—and gave me stuff for my blog.

So, thanks to the doctors—their wisdom and skills,

Their sense of perfection, and even their pills.

I’m alive.  I am whole.  Though my journey’s not finished,

My faith in my future remains undiminished.

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