Updates from my perch on the couch

Well, I made it out alive. Can't say the same for my boobs.

Five hours and two surgeons later, the mastectomy was successfully completed.  In the spirit of over-sharing, I had to get expanders put in -- my wish for same-day reconstruction was thwarted by uncooperative skin -- and I'll have to have a second surgery sometime in September.  So if you see me a few weeks apart and think to yourself, "Holy smokes, her chest seems to magically double in cup-size every time I see her," you'll basically be right.  Except it won't be magic; it will be 60 CC's of injected saline every Monday morning around 10:00.

The day-to-day recovery has been made possible by a doting husband, a mom who relocated to Boston for a month, and a healthy ingestion of painkillers.  As expected, the hardest part of it all has been not being able to lift Owen.  As I lay low in my pajamas, hair in a messy side ponytail, wearing in a butt-sized indentation on the couch, he must think Mama turned into a huge slacker.  He looks at me expectantly when he wants to be held, and doesn't understand why mealtimes/baths/diaper changes/getting dressed/being rocked to sleep have all been outsourced to Daddy and Grandma.  But hopefully in another 2.5 weeks, I'll be given the okay by the plastic surgeon to resume my beloved mommy duties and life will look a little more normal.

Eight months vs. nine months

On the Friday before my surgery, Julette (Owen's nanny/my "co-mom") and her awesome daughter, Rheanna (right), threw me a little surprise party.  Nanny friends and Owen's playmates came along, too.  Too, too sweet.