There was no getting around it, ducking the issue, or hiding from my plastic surgeon.
The tape must come off.
Feeling like that was literally the only thing holding my breasts on my body I was understandably reluctant to have the surgical tape removed. I had grown to rely on it and had learned to avoid washing it in the shower so as not to hasten it's ultimate demise. My skin was also quite attached to it as well.
Clearly this was a bond I was in no particular rush to break.
And yet Dr D's insistence that I part ways with my comfort tape made it clear that I had to give it up.
Prepared with more ginger ale and crackers in case I passed out from the anxiety of it all, I tried to relax into the competent hands of his kind assistant. She applied a liquid to help dissolve the adhesive and commenced to plucking and picking and ultimately pulling at the persistent tape, apparently it had grown quite fond of my breasts as well.
One side done she was observant enough to give me a break before starting in on the second candidate. 10 minutes of bonding with my new found soul sister gave me enough courage to give up the bond between my left breast and it's tape. 2 minutes later and there was nothing between me and my new surgical incisions. Sweat palms and woozy head, I give them a good long .25 second stare, popped my cami back on and was ready to roll.
A million surgies, a brazillian waxes, and tattoos to infinity and beyond would have been preferable to that experience.
Alas it is but an increasingly distant and Most Unpleasant memory.
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