wheeled
into the operating room.
"Have you got them?" Desiree asked a
buxom nurse who assisted her onto the operating table.
"We all do. We get a discount. I'm
getting my nose done in two weeks,'" she answered.
''I'm getting lipo next Tuesday,"
another nurse piped in. And then everything faded to
black.
When Desiree awoke, she felt as if an
elephant were standing on her chest. She knew her new boobs
probably only weighed a couple of pounds, but they felt like
two-ton boulders.
"How are you feeling?" The doctor was
holding her hand, gently rousing her from her groggy sleep. Desiree
looked down at her chest and willed her eyes to focus. She
immediately saw the two round mounds stretching her skin beneath
the fabric of the bra.
"I love you," Desiree told the doctor,
her voice scratchy.
"It's the drugs, honey," the doctor
said.
"No, I love you!" Desiree
insisted.
"I hate that doctor!"
Desiree wailed as Ginger's Bimmer hit a
pothole on the long drive home.
"Don't worry. That Percocet is gonna
kick in real soon. You're gonna be in seventh heaven in no time,"
Ginger said.
"Well, in the meantime, take it easy
on the bumps, Ginny," Desiree criticized.
"Cranky, cranky!" Ginger
admonished.
Eventually, they made it home and got
Desiree in the bed. The painkillers took effect, and she mostly
slept for the next three days. On the fourth day much of her pain
had subsided. She was able to do normal things, aside from lifting;
she just needed special help rising, sitting, and lying
down.
"How are you feeling, baby girl?"
Ginger asked Desiree gently, before heading into the kitchen to
start dinner.
"I'm okay, just a little sore."
Desiree shifted uncomfortably on the couch.
"Well, that's to be expected. How are
the drugs working?"
"I feel good as hell when I'm up. But
mostly, they just make me sleepy."
"Yeah. But you can't do much of
anything, so you may as well sleep. Ayo! By the way, who the fuck
is Mr. Lopez?" Ginger called out from the kitchen.
Desiree's eyes became wide as saucers.
She winced in pain from nearly jumping off the couch at the mention
of that name.
"Why would you ask me that?" Desiree
inquired. Was Ginger practicing some kind of voodoo? Desiree had
never mentioned him, and she hadn't written anything about him in a
notebook or journal.
"You kept calling out to him," Ginger
answered.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I guess you were having
a bad dream or something. You kept asking him to help you. I almost
woke you up because you were tossing and turning, and I didn't want
you to hurt yourself. But I figured the drugs probably had you
comatose and seeing shit. We all know how you act on pills, now,
don't we?" Ginger teased.
Desiree laughed along, but couldn't
help but wonder what else she had been saying in her sleep. Why did
she keep dreaming about the past? Desiree made up her mind that as
soon as she could manage her pain with Tylenol, she was going off
the Percocet. Ginger was right in one aspect: Desiree did not react
well to pills. They seemed to counteract her ability to live in
denial.
She clicked on the huge
television in the living room and flipped to BET to distract
herself. Since the surgery, she had a chance to catch up on all the
videos she'd been missing due to working or partying. She'd spend
hours watching BET and MTV, studying everything about every video
she saw. From the time she was really young, she'd catch Video Soul and Rap City , eyeing not
only the entertainers but the gorgeous models in the background.
She used to imagine that they lived such glamorous lives. How could
they not? They knew all the rappers and singers, they got to wear
the fly clothes, go to all the parties.
Desiree had noticed that
more and more videos were being shot in Miami. That day, she had
seen Trick Daddy and Trina's video for "Naan" and recognized half
of the girls in it from the nightclubs and hanging on the beach.
She even recognized a few strippers. I'm
just as pretty as any of them. Way
into the operating room.
"Have you got them?" Desiree asked a
buxom nurse who assisted her onto the operating table.
"We all do. We get a discount. I'm
getting my nose done in two weeks,'" she answered.
''I'm getting lipo next Tuesday,"
another nurse piped in. And then everything faded to
black.
When Desiree awoke, she felt as if an
elephant were standing on her chest. She knew her new boobs
probably only weighed a couple of pounds, but they felt like
two-ton boulders.
"How are you feeling?" The doctor was
holding her hand, gently rousing her from her groggy sleep. Desiree
looked down at her chest and willed her eyes to focus. She
immediately saw the two round mounds stretching her skin beneath
the fabric of the bra.
"I love you," Desiree told the doctor,
her voice scratchy.
"It's the drugs, honey," the doctor
said.
"No, I love you!" Desiree
insisted.
"I hate that doctor!"
Desiree wailed as Ginger's Bimmer hit a
pothole on the long drive home.
"Don't worry. That Percocet is gonna
kick in real soon. You're gonna be in seventh heaven in no time,"
Ginger said.
"Well, in the meantime, take it easy
on the bumps, Ginny," Desiree criticized.
"Cranky, cranky!" Ginger
admonished.
Eventually, they made it home and got
Desiree in the bed. The painkillers took effect, and she mostly
slept for the next three days. On the fourth day much of her pain
had subsided. She was able to do normal things, aside from lifting;
she just needed special help rising, sitting, and lying
down.
"How are you feeling, baby girl?"
Ginger asked Desiree gently, before heading into the kitchen to
start dinner.
"I'm okay, just a little sore."
Desiree shifted uncomfortably on the couch.
"Well, that's to be expected. How are
the drugs working?"
"I feel good as hell when I'm up. But
mostly, they just make me sleepy."
"Yeah. But you can't do much of
anything, so you may as well sleep. Ayo! By the way, who the fuck
is Mr. Lopez?" Ginger called out from the kitchen.
Desiree's eyes became wide as saucers.
She winced in pain from nearly jumping off the couch at the mention
of that name.
"Why would you ask me that?" Desiree
inquired. Was Ginger practicing some kind of voodoo? Desiree had
never mentioned him, and she hadn't written anything about him in a
notebook or journal.
"You kept calling out to him," Ginger
answered.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I guess you were having
a bad dream or something. You kept asking him to help you. I almost
woke you up because you were tossing and turning, and I didn't want
you to hurt yourself. But I figured the drugs probably had you
comatose and seeing shit. We all know how you act on pills, now,
don't we?" Ginger teased.
Desiree laughed along, but couldn't
help but wonder what else she had been saying in her sleep. Why did
she keep dreaming about the past? Desiree made up her mind that as
soon as she could manage her pain with Tylenol, she was going off
the Percocet. Ginger was right in one aspect: Desiree did not react
well to pills. They seemed to counteract her ability to live in
denial.
She clicked on the huge
television in the living room and flipped to BET to distract
herself. Since the surgery, she had a chance to catch up on all the
videos she'd been missing due to working or partying. She'd spend
hours watching BET and MTV, studying everything about every video
she saw. From the time she was really young, she'd catch Video Soul and Rap City , eyeing not
only the entertainers but the gorgeous models in the background.
She used to imagine that they lived such glamorous lives. How could
they not? They knew all the rappers and singers, they got to wear
the fly clothes, go to all the parties.
Desiree had noticed that
more and more videos were being shot in Miami. That day, she had
seen Trick Daddy and Trina's video for "Naan" and recognized half
of the girls in it from the nightclubs and hanging on the beach.
She even recognized a few strippers. I'm
just as pretty as any of them. Way
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