Plastic Surgeon 3

It's a momentous day today in more ways than one.

Today Al and I celebrate 20 years of marriage.  It's nothing short of a  miracle that we have weathered two decades without murdering each other.  Or at least needing a rolling pin.

They say that it takes just two words - 'I Do' - to create the world's longest sentence.

Sentence or not, the occasion has me pondering the basis of a basically successful marriage - with all its highs and lows.

Al and I have certainly been through thick and thin:   richer, poorer, sickness, health.

Before I married, my mum - an inveterate matchmaker - used to tell my sisters and I  that the secret to a good relationship could be nutted down to one thing: a commonality of interests.

I hope she is right because to this extent, Al and I have ticked a few boxes. We met about 23 years ago when, after returning to Brisbane after a sojourn in London, a mutual friend, Jeff, told me about the need for a flatmate in the house he shared with Al.

Very soon after moving in, I discovered Al and I had a record collection that was almost identical.  I discovered we both loved throwing parties.  We both enjoyed what was, back then, an occasional hit of golf.   We also discovered a mutual love of art (creating it, admiring it).  And of course, we are from a similar profession:  I work with graphic designers, and he works with PR Consultants.

Philosophically too, Al and I seem, in the main, to connect. We both agree that birds should not be caged; spiders and snakes should not be killed;  animals should not be hunted.  We agree that U2 is overrated; that the best hotel in the world is in Sri Lanka (the Kandalama designed by Geoffrey Bawa); that Malcolm Turnbull should be Prime Minister;  that the Coen Brothers rock; and that 'Black Comedy' actually translates to 'Not Funny'.

But we have our differences - and plenty of them.

For starters, I think being 'hot in bed' is a menopausal symptom and Al, well I don't think he would be too impressed to find George Clooney (in a G String) lying spreadeagled between us.  :-)

Al doesn't like coriander (heresy to an Asian) and I despise parsnips (that horrible root vegetable that looks like a pale, geriatric penis and which Englishmen like Al insist on roasting).

I believe in reincarnation, the hereafter and chiromancy while Al rolls his eyes seeing death as final and Evolution making a monkey of religion.

He likes fishing while I would rather watch Clive Palmer playing strip poker.  (Fishing is sooooo cruel!)   He likes buying everything second hand (except maybe for undies) while I do actually like a new thing or two (especially undies!).

His idea of relaxation is soft music, a massage, and candles.  Mine is abseiling down a cliff.  With a dagger in my mouth.

But in the main, I think Al and I make a relatively good match.  20 years since we walked down the aisle, we are relatively comfortable with each other.

And that's a really good thing because today is momentous in another way.

Today I pay another visit to my plastic surgeon, Dr Lily V.

Following my SatNav on my way to Sunnybank, I am pleased when I remember which way to turn on Beenleigh Road to reach her office.   Not so long ago I would have driven aimlessly the wrong way and got half way to Ipswich before realising...

When I arrive it is all very familiar - the waiting room, the receptionist.   I flick through a copy of 'The Breast is History' while I wait.  (It's part of a sales pitch I will  deliver to her in the hope that she'll BUY A BOOK).

I have to wait about 15 minutes before Lily can see me.  She hasn't changed at all.  She is still trim, beautiful, professional.

When she asks me how I am, I slyly tell her I have WRITTEN A BOOK, she makes an appearance in it.

But it really is important to explain why I am really here.

Today I explain to her that I have decided that I don't really want to go through any major operations for the sake of two lumps.  I tell her about how my sister Fiona had breast cancer (it's all IN MY BOOK) and had a 'oncer' and I was wondering if I could have the same thing.

I am only interested in an 'instant' reconstruction if possible and, if not, I want her to just tidy things up around my scar and I'll call it a day.

Lily asks me to remove my top and expertly feels around my chest.

There is an unsightly piece of skin hanging under my arm that I would like removed if I am unable to have a reconstruction.

Lily says this is called a 'Dog Ear' and is quite common.

After I put my top on, she says that it is unlikely I will be able to have an implant on the radiated skin.

She says she can cut away the dog eared bit under General Anaesthetic.  She said the scar will extend further under my arm.

I will need two weeks to recover as she says radiated skin does not heal very quickly.

In the mean time she notices the way I am scratching the cheloid scar on the other side.  She says that, if I like, she can inject that with cortisone while I am 'under' as this can settle the itching.

She says it cortisone injections have to be given under anaesthetic because they are very painful.  That is, in my view they most likely hurt like both fuck and buggery combined.  Two or three injections will be needed to completely stop the itching and apparently, my scar will go purple!

I ask her if there is anything she can do to help get rid of the cheloid scarring.

'Do you know why there is no cheloid scarring on the other side?'  Lily asks.  When I shake my head she explains that apparently, the way to get rid of cheloid scarring is actually radiation.

The problem is that, while the radiated scar looks nice and pale,  radiation has otherwise fucked my skin.  In fact, the radiated side seems to sag much more than the other side.    It is much too loose (if not Lautrec) to be able to hold up a silicon implant.  The only way I can have an implant is with the help of a created or introduced 'muscle'.

In other words, the chance of an instant implant are pretty much zilch.

As I have been expecting this news, I am neither upset nor surprised.

We agree that I will have my 'Dog Ear' tidied up.

Lily writes out a few instructions and tells me she will leave it up to me as to when I will have the operation.

As I rise to leave, I decided to forget all that subliminal crap.  I overtly pat the cover of my book.  'So are you going to BUY MY BOOK?  YOU CAN BUY this on my website.  The Breast is History.Com' I tell her, staring into her eyes hypnotically.

Lily blinks.  "Yes" she says, zombie like.  "I plan to buy 1000 copies.  In fact, I plan to buy 10,000'.

Unfortunately, I made that up.   What she really says is:  'Sure'.  Meaning, 'as soon as you have left my office I will forget about you completely, you pathetic and desperate dog-eared bastard.'

At the front desk, the receptionist tells me Lily has only charged me for a follow-up visit ($90) as opposed to the $220 that is a new consultation.  Yes, that is very sweet of her... But I take this opportunity to tell the receptionist that I have WRITTEN A BOOK and how difficult it is these days to SELL A BOOK.

I hope this means the receptionist too will BUY MY BOOK but she appears to be obstinately disinterested and wants, instead to tell me about her friend who wrote a film script in French.  Who fucking  cares?  I want her to BUY MY BOOK!

In the car on the way home, while I wonder why no bastard wants to BUY MY BOOK, I think about the fact that in possibly a few months, the whole saga of Nicky and Paris will be well and truly over.

Making this decision has taken me months and months.   Al  has said that he is going to leave it all up to me.  It is all about how I feel about it, he has said.

So how do I feel?  How will I feel knowing that I am never to have breasts again?

I think I feel OKAY (especially if more people, you know, BUY MY BOOK).

It is true that sometimes I do feel a bit sad about the memory (Mammary?) of breasts and what they represented - that whole idea of being still healthy, carefree, unaffected by cancer, unaffected by much at all.

It would be a total lie to tell you that I am completely and totally fine with everything that has happened.

It is true that, just the other day, I shut my eyes and rubbed my chest, trying to remember what it felt like to actually have a breast.

It is true that I am sometimes startled by the lack of sensation on my chest - the fact that it feels basically numb.

But it is equally true that I don't sit around pining for what I was before all of this.

It is true that I have come to acceptance.  Of my ruined ice creams.  Of it all.

My Buddhist forebears would be proud.  Especially if Dr Lily, her receptionist and everyone reading this blog BUYS MY BOOK!

....


Yes you can BUY MY BOOK at www.thebreastishistory.com.  It is also available on Amazon so if you live in Outer Timbuktu, you too can BUY MY BOOK.    And, after you have READ MY BOOK, I would appreciate it if you would leave a review.

Happiness Day!

Today is an important day.

Today I have an author talk at the Loganholme Library where, based on my ill-conceived first author talk at Logan Library last week, I am expecting exactly no-one to turn up.

I am also expecting a frustratingly nonchalant librarian to make some lame excuses for  the illiteracy of her usual clientele, and perhaps purchase one book as compensation.

Either way I'm happy. I'm happy that I'm actually getting out there and giving this a go.  And I'm happy to be able to meet another librarian and maybe sell one book.

Which brings me to the other reason  why today is important.

Today is International Happiness Day, a day when we can all take a moment to think about what makes us happy, to do something that makes us happy, and to perhaps ponder what happiness might mean to each of us.

Philosophers and poets through the ages, of course, have oft pondered this thing that is "happiness'.

Mahatma Gandhi reckoned:  “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” 

Tom Bodet said;  “A person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.” 

However you define it, more than anything, we all want and need to be happy.

However, the clutch of recent celebrity suicides of late - namely Charlotte Dawson and Mick Jagger's girlfriend, L'Wren Scott - do have me pondering the inability it seems of those of us who should be happy, to be so unhappy that we contemplate the otherwise unthinkable.

We all have our theories but here is mine.

Deep Unhappiness I believe springs from a lack of self-awareness,  leading to a lack of knowing what is important to and for your well-being and, as a consequence, a focus on what I'll call the 'wrong" things - that is, wrong for you.

The great conundrum is that in these days of 'selfies' and blogs and Facebook and constant contemplation of the self, despite Dr Google and all manner of charlatans and gurus spruiking an encyclopaedia of quick fixes for the soul,  most people it seems hardly know themselves.

Every day, as I participate in online blogs and observe the meanderings on social media, I am constantly struck by this phenomenon we professional communicators call 'dissonant thinking'.

That is, that many people can hold ambiguous and competing ideas simultaneously - and not even be aware.

Never mind that, these days it seems many of us struggle to be authentic. We are botoxed and siliconed and photoshopped.

We are afraid of originality and instead cut and paste and plagiarise.  It is so chronic in fact that human resources executives these days must also be professional lie detectors.

We work hard to Tweet and Facebook an often perfected version of ourselves.  It's all about 'personal brand management' isn't it?

Amid all of this, it is not difficult to see how some of us at least will struggle with self awareness.

We will lose touch with who we really are.

And the day comes when well, we are unable to be happy because the person we are trying to make happy is not really ourselves, but a contrived version of ourselves.

The thing is that to be a happy you, you must firstly know, well, you.

And importantly, you must be happy being you.  That is, you must accept yourself cankerous growths and all.  In this way, you will communicate to the world that,  you know what?  Rich, poor, thin, fat, ugly, beautiful it doesn't matter.  You love you and they can too!

Secondly, to be happy, you must  know what helps you to continue to be happy being you.  Is it a place?  A person?  Something you do?  Perhaps striving for a goal?  Does it involve changing or not changing?

Finally, to be happy, you must then actively pursue and create the environment where you can effect the above.  Be You, and Be Happy Being You.

In other words, finding, creating and maintaining your happiness takes commitment.   If you want to smell the roses, go out and find them. Work for them, buy them, borrow them, grow them.  (But don't steal them as I believe a prison sentence may stem from the thorny situation of being caught filching flowers).

So what what makes me happy?   Post Cancer there is something surprising I've discovered.

The things that make me happy are not actually the big things you might imagine - such  as LIFE SUCCESS, or POTS OF MONEY.  Or even finding George Clooney in my bed (in a G-String).

Instead I see that a sense of happiness is derived from the small routine things that comprise a life such as:  doing something you enjoy (such as marching with a bunch of old bats while beating a drum); finding something to laugh at (such as my sister in her Cottontails:  we are a sexy family okay?); coffee with a friend; a good discussion with your husband or partner (or in my case, any stranger I meet); a hug from a child (I'd even settle for a pimply teenager);  and even a lick from my dog, beside himself as I have just walked in through the door after leaving him for approximately one minute.

In short I have come to believe that true happiness comes from finding everyday joy from the small things that validate the fact of our existence: that establish a connection between us and the thing that is actually being here (as opposed to Mars or Manus Island).

I feel that as long as you feel here, sensate and engaged in some way with the world around you and the people in it, it is possible to really understand what it means to be happy.

It can be as simple as appreciating the act of breathing in, and breathing out.

Happiness, for me, in other words is ultimately about the relationships I actively nurture with people and places.

Yes you can actually nurture it.  All it takes is desire.  You must want it.

More than anything I am passionate about the belief that you only have one life to live.  It cannot be rewound and lived again.   Your life is forever lived in fast forward so guess what?  You don't get another chance.  (Elvis has left the building, and that's alright Momma, you old Hound Dog, he ain't comin' back in no Blue Suede Shooz).   This is your life and you deserve to be happy in it - not someone else's.

Whatever you need to be happy,  if you desire it enough, there is a way to find it or get to it.

So what are you waiting for?

Somewhere, someone has a rose with your name on it.

It's up to you to go fetch.