Go Directly

Monday, the doctor took one look at the orange juice/ice cream combo that was oozing from my six-week old incision and turned into the Monopoly Mayor. "Go to the hospital. Go directly to the hospital. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200!" I was relieved that he had learned to give a clear, completely understandable communication sometime during his medical education. I had been trying to do that for quite some time, but without success. "Um...are you sure this expander is supposed to slosh?" "Can I just have the surgeon look at this progress and reassure me that it is normal for my breast to look like the Rocky Balboa version of a distorted grapefruit after only three weeks?" "Am I getting STRETCH MARKS with two months left in this project?" And the last straw..."Could there be a problem if I can see my breast bone through this quarter-sized hole? And how much fluid is too much? Is a quart too much?" Last night, THEY finally let me come home again, the offending expander abandoned to some toxic waste container back at IMC, a nifty little shop-vac attached to the surface of my living volcano/former breast, complete with its own petite carrying case and handy recharger. We have six more glorious weeks of wedded bliss in which to become BFF for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live...