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The well-moustached dog looks down upon us with un regard melangeé of amusement and surveillance with what I imagine was a tumbler of aged scotch on the table just behind him to the left. He looked as if he should have been named Albert Montgomery III, or some other stuffy, dusty name and that this weekend he planned to visit the Provence countryside with a crested navy jacket and several well-coiffed bitches (all poodles).

His face was fun way to end a day that was mostly comedy with une petite touche of the tragic.

Let's begin with la petite tragédie. Walking with my very tetu (stubborn) Charlie Epsilon, I was stopped by a 40ish man with dark unruly curly hair who said he ran across the street because he found me 'une très jolie femme' and did I want to have 'un café ou une verre?' I said, 'merci, mais je suis mariée'(thank you but I am married); to which he replied, moi aussi (me too!). WHAT? So then what the F&^%K are you doing asking random women for drinks???? Who does that???

Now the comedy. I met today with Dr. N who will do the reconstruction after the mastectomy. He is like the white rabbit in Alice, bespectacled and all. He entered the consultation room like a mistral - bold and in a flurry. After I gave him the note from my surgeon Dr. Q, he asked questions ...did I smoke, how old was I, did I have other surgeries before, was I allergic to anything?

Once in a while he would fly out of the room to do an injection (of what, to whom, we never did find out).

He then asked me to undress to my culottes so that he could see the options. No back fat, firm bubbly fesse (I kid you not, these were his words). He asked me how I felt about my breasts. I love them, I said. 'Very good', he replied. 'They are good breasts.' What is a bad breast? I thought.

The good news is this... my girls can be reconstructed out of my own fat. Better yet, from upper leg fat where all petites beurres biscuits like to go, hang out, Netflix and chill for years. He also thought my nipples can be saved since there was little risk of them not getting enough blood supply. NO FAKE BOOBS. This is so deliciously wonderful because I have never wanted silicon within a 10 mile radius of my body. It also means they don't ever have to be redone. But my boobs will not defy gravity or act as floatation devices, which could have been fun.

The plan is the following: immediately after the mastectomy, Dr. N will put in an expander (filled with water) and then inject fat taken from my legs. Fat is alive (who knew?) and so he gives it six months to take root and then injects more fat ...every six months for two years. In the end, it will be me - redistributed. Like Jenga, he'll take some fat from the bottom and put it on top!

I am thrilled. So is my love. We celebrated this little joie over lunch on the terrace overlooking the sea outstretched far into an unforeseen horizon. But one that is looking more hopeful ...

Here's to you Dr. N., my rabbit in white scrubs for giving me an alternative future on this odyssey.