Isn't it rich? Are we a pair?

When I told my dear friend Leigh I had breast cancer, and was considering mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, she said, "You get the booby prize!"

She'd gotten in touch about the flowers for my mom's memorial. And I had to be all, oh, hey, I love dahlias and also: I've got a wee touch of the cancer. 

We cried together and then she brought up the booby prize.

You can see why we're friends.

Let me not pretend that I haven't sobbed my guts out, because I've cried so hard I've hyperventilated and retched and nearly fainted.

But apart from that kind of sobbing, so often it's laugh or cry. Two sides of the same coin.

At least, that's what I think.

We did a meditation exercise in yoga teacher training where we had to stare into a partner's eyes and send them loving energy.

I was partnered with this kind, beautiful, truly luminescent young woman. We both started laughing. It started small, and built and built. We shook with laughter. We laughed, and laughed. 

Quietly, not in a disrespectful way.

We kept trying to stop, and then one of us would start laughing again, triggering the other. I had tears of grief streaming down my face at the same time.

It's one of the best, most cathartic experiences I've ever had.

So.

Maude went with me to the plastic surgery appointment.

My breast surgeon got me a last-minute appointment, and Maude and I decided to walk. Since it was a couple miles, I needed to wear sneakers.

It was a beautiful morning, and I put on a pair of bright turquoise capri pants. I think they might've been normal pants when purchased, but my mom lopped them off to capris. Which is a shame, because the color is fabulous, but the length is a little weird. I wear them anyway.

So I donned them, and decided to add new white running shoes with turquoise soles and orange details.

I looked in the mirror, and with these particular pants, they looked like clown shoes.

I turned to Nick. "Do I look like a clown?"

"Yes. Those pants are weird."

And I was all, I *have* to wear a good outfit. At least on the bottom.

Meeting a plastic surgeon is akin to meeting a new hairdresser, really.

I've known my lovely hairdresser so long it doesn't matter what I turn up in, although when I have time, I do try to dress cute, because she appreciates it.

But meeting a new one, I'd try to look like a person who fits the hair I want to have. You know?

So I was running around the house all, "I have to look normal! I can't look like a clown! What if I end up with clown boobs?"

And Maude was all, "Ooh, maybe they could honk when you squeeze them!" 

You might imagine that we went into the appointment in this mindset.

The nurse practitioner complimented Maude on her hair, which is currently blue and aqua. Very mermaidy.

She said though I thought I knew what I wanted, I could change my mind back and forth. She said, "You didn't choose to get cancer. But you get to choose what happens to your body."

This was so empowering.

We discussed implant sizes. I said I'd like to have what I had before two babies sucked the life out of my boobs. And I'd like them up where they used to be.

The plastic surgeon proffered an implant in my proposed size.

Maude put a hand on her breast and held the implant to compare sizing. It seemed totally reasonable.

It was very malleable. Nice and comfortable. It's the gummy kind. I thought it might feel like a gummy bear, but it's much softer.

Obviously, there was more to the appointment. These are the highlights.

When I asked the surgeon if I could take it home, he seemed surprised. "You want to take this with you?"

"Could I, please?"

"Well, you can't take this one, but I can get you another one..."

"That would be great!"

So he left and returned with a bigger, slightly less malleable one that I could take home. He said, "This is different, but you can have it. You really want to take it?"

I said, "Oh, yes! Thank you!" And popped it in my bag before he could change his mind.

Because who would take back an already-bagged boob?

It's nice to hold. Calming You can smoosh it, turn it over. Like a fidget thingy.

I had a house filled with guests last weekend for my mom's memorial service. 

We chatted and passed the implant around.

Sometimes I tuck it into my sweatshirt pocked and carry it around. Kind of like how men play with their whatevers when they're just sitting around.

Hashtag not all men? Because it's true that my sample size is not huge.

But realizing this made me think that if I were a guy, maybe I'd sit around with my hand in my pants while watching TV, too.

It's my emotional support boob.