First, I have to say, it’s only 9 days after my last chemo. I’m so not ready to get out of the house, but I scheduled this consultation with a highly recommended plastic surgeon over 5 weeks ago. What was I thinking? I didn’t realize chemo #6 was going to hit me so hard. I need to pick my plastic surgeon asap so I dress myself anyway, and my husband helps me into the car. In all honesty, I’m mostly worried about the “D” word. Please leave me alone today. Please. Pretty please.
We make the long drive to Beverly Hills which stinks by the way if you live in the valley, but I have told myself I cannot let geography dictate my breasts. Obviously, I don’t want to be lopsided or come out with three of anything. I want the best so we make the drive.
The office is beautiful. It’s very Beverly Hills in every way even down to the fact that it is in the penthouse suite. After filling out my information in the waiting room on an iPad, we are taken back to a room. I put on a robe and am told the doctor will be in shortly. Chris and I laugh at how ridiculous this is that I am here to discuss implants. Something that never interested me. After a few moments, in walks the doctor. Ummm. Wow. I was not prepared for this. He’s hot. Like really hot. I can feel my cheeks turn red. Wow. I am really ill-prepared. I feel like I should have had a little warning. Right? Perhaps just a whisper from the nurse. Nope. Nothing. So, we talk for a bit about my options, and he discusses what he can do for me. Then he says he just hired a new colleague and wants me to meet him too as they will both be doing their part of my surgery. So, he walks in and wouldn’t you know it? He’s hot too. Really? Now I’m sweating. It’s dripping off my face. I’m sure I look cute. Then, they ask to “take a look.” Great. With my husband sitting in the corner snickering, I open my robe so these two hot doctors can look at my breasts. I think I giggled. I’m not sure. It’s kind of a blur. I don’t remember much except I tried to suck in my stomach and mentioned about five times that I have three kids. They are both just talking about what they could do, and the main doctor is poking, prodding, pushing, smushing, squeezing and measuring. He’s envisioning and already plotting what he is going to do during my surgery. I like him. Yep, I’m going to go with him. I promise it’s not because he’s hot. I mean a little handsome. I promise.
On our way home, we pick up our kids from my friend Belen’s house. I literally make it to her door when the “D” word gives me it’s 60 second warning. Thank goodness she answers her door, and thank goodness the “D” word has held off until after my appointment. I would have been mortified. And bless my Belen, she does what any good friend would do. She gives me a towel for the ride home, just in case. After all that’s what friends are for right? Don’t worry. I made it home “D” free. Thank goodness. And I got an amazing plastic surgeon out of it. It has turned out to be a good day.