Like buses, I have waited 18 months for one operation and then two come along at once. Hot on the heels of last month's hystericalectomy (as it's known in our house, given hilarity around some of the after effects in particular a severe effect on my short term memory - hopefully just temporary) comes my - also hopefully - final bit of nip and tuck.
Tomorrow, 21 months after a breast reconstruction that at least gave me some kind of lady lumps back, I am getting the cherries on the cakes. Yes dear reader, I'm talking nipples. (The list of things I once thought I would never talk about with strangers but now do quite merrily really is as long as a piece of string).
It's four years to the day since my original mastectomy, and a time I get quite reflective but also look forward. And this for me will be a step forward - not back to normality as I will never be 'normal' in the same way again - though as the wonderful Whoopi Goldberg once said, 'Normal is nothing more than a cycle on a washing machine.'
As I now recognise I suffer from POT (pre-op tension) I've not worried about the fact I've felt too tired and distracted today to do much work and been instead glued to the Leveson inquiry and Twitter all day. Hey, noone can tell me what the right thing to do is the day before you're due to get nipples so I have to make it up.
My POT tends to come from having to relinquish my usual control freakery (in MY plan I will be in, I will have the op early, I will be out and home by tea time...) and from the frustration of being asked the same question several times, sit around for hours in a not very comfortable environment and pass the time by playing my favourite game of 'how I'd improve this particular bit of the NHS'.
But there are things i actually like, in fact LOVE - oh yes... The anaesthetic bit - ooh I love that. The gentle slipping off into a deep sleep, totally oblivious, which is usually welcome as I won't have slept the night before. I'm sure I'm usually mid-sentence when I conk out too - which would usually be considered the height of bad manners.
And then there's my plastic surgeon - I don't just love him, I have to 'fess up, I am totally IN love with him. Before he became my knight in a pinstripe suit I always thought that those women who wanted to marry their plastic surgeon only did it to make sure they could get cheap face lifts - but no, now I am one of those women. He's not film star material and would not normally attract my attention - although always dapper and smartly dressed, with twinkly eyes and a twinkly Irish accent, I think it's probably one of those hero fantasy attractions that psychologists would have a field day with. No matter, I will look forward to the four minutes I have of his undivided attention pre op when he may draw on me with a pen, and then the couple of minutes post op when he will reassure me all went well, bursting with obvious pride at his handiwork. And then he will ask him to marry me... (erm no, I made that bit up!!)
So off I go to do my usual pre op all night tidying/ ironing/ doing random things to keep busy - and I will see you on the other side - with cherries on top!