Sunday, 7 September 2014

The breast of me






Right now, your BMI is 35, said Dr. Ben. After the breast reduction, you'll be 30.1.
So, I'm not obese?
No, you're just overweight.

I stood in front of Scott the other day, in my underwear, and showed him my rapidly shrinking middle. He couldn't believe it.
I had to show him in my underwear because, to the outside world, I don't look a hell of a lot different.
And that's because of my boobs, cup size G.
They are all you can see when I'm coming at you. They hide the middle, giving off so much shade that it really doesn't matter what the rest of me looks like.
Nothing can live under there.
To repeat a hurtful joke once told to me, I haven't seen my feet in years.
And so it was, at my last physical, I asked Dr. Ben to book me a breast reduction, something I've been fighting for years. I always thought that breast reductions were selfish things in a world when women were losing their lobes to cancer. My superstitious mind kept saying: be careful of what you wish for young lady.
Be grateful that your breasts haven't become the enemy.
But the truth is, they have.
They are crippling me up top, dragging me down like a Quasimodo freak show.
I can't move my neck to the right. The top of my spine has a distinctive curvature, and I've invested thousands of dollars at the local chiropractic clinic.
Walking around with a size G cup is the equivalent of carrying around a couple of musk melons on your chest. Add to that the distinction of having dense breasts, it means that if I get a breast reduction, I'll lose about 15 pounds.
And so the time has come give them back to God.
Thanks for the mammaries, dude, but have them back.
Give them to some deserving girl who is bullied for being a carpenter's delight.

I've come to realize that having a breast reduction is not selfish, it's a medical necessity.
I am now disabled, limited in the scope of my activities, arthritic in the joints.
If I can't exercise, I lose mobility.
So the boobies have to go.

I don't want to be one of those women I see at the mall, whipping around in a wheelchair, simply giving up on life's possibilities.
I want to run, I want to jump, I want to buy a friggin' bathing suit that wasn't made at Ottawa Tent and Awning.
Sure, there are risks. Remember Kanye West's mom who went in for a breast reduction and a tummy tuck and came out dead? Those things happen, right Joan Rivers? But I'm taking precautions.
I've asked for a doctor who works out of the hospital instead of a clinic.
I'm only having one procedure done because the risk of surgery increases the longer you're down under.
Still, it's major surgery.
Major elective surgery covered by the nice folks who pay taxes in Ontario.
God, I'm lucky to live in Ontario.
So thank you all in advance for supporting me in my quest to go from obese, to overweight, to chubby.
Oh, but don't get too excited. The wait time is over a year.
My doctor has a lineup that goes around the province, a wait time of more than two and a half years.
I don't have that kind of time.
So Dr. Ben put me on the urgent list, God bless his little Belgian soul.
A year's not too long when you consider that I need to lose 30 more pounds before the doctor will operate.
So it's back to the gymnasty this morning.
The circle of life, and hope.
I have a new goal.
And new hope for the first time in decades.
Let's get 'er done.
 

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