I can hear him now.

"Dear Self, er, I mean God. Oops, I keep getting us confused."

At my second post op check-up, my plastic surgeon proclaimed his work fabulous. He was quite pleased with his work. In fact he went on and on about why he didn't think "they" would ever look good at all. In the end, however, the mighty hand of the surgeon prevailed and I should be forever grateful for his determination to bestow me with fabulous results.

In the end, I am forever grateful to Dr. Fabulous. Granted, the girls are what they are and the term "fabulous" is relative. The best part is that I don't have to schlep out there for three months at which time we will fill in the "details." And after I asked him if he could show me one more time how to massage them just right, I realized how much of a journey we have shared. He was Dr. CrankyPants at first, constantly telling me what not to expect (which was everything I asked about). He never set me up to have high expectations or any expectations at all. Moments before my first surgery I had to remind him to think positively -- yes, just before I went under for the longest and most significant surgery of my life, I was telling my surgeon to think positively. Somewhere along the line, his genuine goodness won me over and my smart-ass humor warmed up Dr. CrankyPants, turned him into self-proclaimed Dr. Fabulous, and, in the end, my diligence and his skill, along with our mutual respect, produced a good result.

As my sister, Joyce says, there is a lesson in everything. So what is the moral of this story? I think there may be two. First, always establish a personal relationship with your doctor. When you are both at ease, it makes the process go more smoothly and comfortably for both of you. Who wants to be the person the doctor dreads seeing? Secondly, and perhaps most importantly for me, for the first time since my surgery last year, a man looked at my breasts and proclaimed them fabulous. Now that's a present I hadn't even thought of putting on my Christmas wish list.