The last two weeks have marked a measured ease in the pain department which in turn has fueled some extra energy. I still feel "low" comparatively speaking, far less general energy and longer sleep cycles. And by sleep I mean laying flat on my back in bed, yearning to curl onto my side and snuggle into my fluffy pillows and engage in some productive REM cycles.
Alas, side sleeping still annoys the incisions and thereby proves futile for now.
With pain shifting to mere discomfort I am considering scar minimization options.
Silicone sheeting has been touted as being the most effective means of reducing scars, so naturally I ordered some. Predictably, my plastic surgeon doesn't believe in such treatments. He believes that excellent cuts and genetics determine healing.
Sure hope he's right as I have a Halloween costume and Holiday dress whose success depend on it!
And since I am still not able to wear a real bra they will most certainly be on display.
It is odd to have paid $8,060 for a "cosmetic" surgery that only I can appreciate.
I am grateful to be back to a near-normal gym routine. Still not jogging yet but I think that will come soon enough.
Despite continued movement I remain chilled to the bone. The only place I feel remotely warm is in my car with the heated seats cranked all the way up. I shiver in my office under my sweater and scarf, my teeth chatter in bed with puffy blankets tucked in around me, and I have goosebumps on my lungs. I am cold and there seems to be no help for it.
Perhaps I should explore adding alcohol back to my diet, that might warm me from the inside out.
Anything is worth a try!
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Day 23 Post-Op aka Surgery Was Just The Beginning
Yes, they still hurt.
And if one more person looks at me squint-eyed at this news I am going to flash them my new boobs and they can see for themselves that I have 20 linear inches of incisions over one of the most sensitive areas of the female body. Healing skin and flesh is tight and itchy and tender and fragile. And it doesn't heal magically overnight.
Healing is a process not an event. There are literally thousands of tiny sutures being digested by my body every minute of every day. Which will take as long as it takes. Some minutes are pain free, most offer just a low grade annoyance. Toward the end of the day though when my body is exhausted and tired of being put upon they get super cranky and two Tylenol don't touch the burning.
As it turns out, surgery was just the beginning.
After three weeks my lower back has finally voiced it's objections to the situation. Sleeping solely on my back is an insult too much to bear. That is until I try sleeping on my side when the boobs weigh in and refuse to have any of it. Rock meet Hard Place.
This too shall pass. But not tomorrow, or even the next day.
And if one more person looks at me squint-eyed at this news I am going to flash them my new boobs and they can see for themselves that I have 20 linear inches of incisions over one of the most sensitive areas of the female body. Healing skin and flesh is tight and itchy and tender and fragile. And it doesn't heal magically overnight.
Healing is a process not an event. There are literally thousands of tiny sutures being digested by my body every minute of every day. Which will take as long as it takes. Some minutes are pain free, most offer just a low grade annoyance. Toward the end of the day though when my body is exhausted and tired of being put upon they get super cranky and two Tylenol don't touch the burning.
As it turns out, surgery was just the beginning.
After three weeks my lower back has finally voiced it's objections to the situation. Sleeping solely on my back is an insult too much to bear. That is until I try sleeping on my side when the boobs weigh in and refuse to have any of it. Rock meet Hard Place.
This too shall pass. But not tomorrow, or even the next day.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Day 17 Post-Op aka A Series of Most Unpleasant Sensations
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.
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.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Day 13 Post-Op aka Mother is Always Right
With some continued soreness I was skeptical about traipsing through Oracle Open World traffic for my afternoon meeting with an out-of-country VP. So I took my mommy with me!!! With my back-up pilot secured we braved cross town traffic and headed into the City. The new Eastern bridge span entranced us with it's Made in China glow, dazzling mommy through the sun roof.
I'm pretty sure it took as long to get from the base of the bridge through .9 miles of city traffic as it did from home to that point.
With 20 minutes to spare we triumphantly pulled into Valet parking ... only to be told that Valet was an all day service for $48. The man kindly suggested parking for the required 90 minutes in their lot across the street.
The building loomed large, a vertical parking structure with tight turns and narrower corners. A nightmare of a garage under normal circumstances. My boobs ached just looked at it.
The despair in my eyes must have been apparent from across the street, as I stood transfixed next to my car and the Valet, another parking attendant sprinted over and gallantly offered to drive my car over and park it for me. Relief washed over me and I pressed the keys into his hands, not a second thought about my car (which is wild considering my normal inclination is unnaturally protective of my vehicles). My mom whispered, "give him a BIG tip". I agreed. She insisted that I hand it over NOW. I scoffed and said I'd get him when we picked up the car, that's how it's done.
Tucking my mommy securely into the hotel bar, ginger cocktail in hand, garlic truffle fries on the way, I made my meeting with 10 minutes to spare.
An hour later I retrieved my mommy and asked for the bill, only to find out that she had already paid for her own drinks and fries!! Well, she'd had two and wasn't sure I could afford the second one. Really???? REALLY???
Ashamed that I had let my mom pick up her own bar tab we went to fetch my car. Which was literally waiting for me in the driveway of the tiny tight garage entrance, thrilled I scanned for my chivalrous parking attendant, money in hand. He was nowhere to be found, the cashier had no idea who I was even talking about.
With mounting shame we got into the car, "Yes, Mom, I know I should have tipped him when you told me to".
The drive home was a breeze but don't doubt for a second that the first thing I did when I got in the door was to whip off my bra and breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Day 12 Post-Op aka "No Thanks"
Dr Degnan: Everything looks perfect, do you want to take the tape off today?
Me: No thanks
Me: No thanks
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Day 11 Post-Op aka Normal v Narcoleptic
Vacillating between normal and narcolepsy for the last several days, I am blessed to be working from home. The littlest thing tires me out, making me sleepy and wishing that I could guarantee a nap wouldn't leave me wide awake at 2am. No sense risking it, I remain mostly awake.
Plus no one wants to see me take my bralette on/off that many times in a day. Nothing is comfortable: too tight when it's on, too loose when it's off, it's exhausting. Really.
The pain has been totally manageable since Day 3 Post-Op, just taking the occasional Tylenol when the aching returns. It's strange, it feels exactly like someone cut off the bottom half of my breasts and stitched them back on. Exactly.
The healing sensations vacillate between burning lines of pain and the prickly itch of a cactus that might have been implanted during surgery and is now growing rapidly inside of me (courtesy of the 100+ oz of water I am tanking every single day), it's needles sharp enough to cause every hair on my body to stand up and say WTF. I can all but feel my body chewing up and digesting the dissolvable sutures. Offended by the surgical tape it is airing it's protest in an itchy rash around my ribs.
What's a girl to do about all of this?? Get her hair done, naturally. I almost feel normal. Almost.
Plus no one wants to see me take my bralette on/off that many times in a day. Nothing is comfortable: too tight when it's on, too loose when it's off, it's exhausting. Really.
The pain has been totally manageable since Day 3 Post-Op, just taking the occasional Tylenol when the aching returns. It's strange, it feels exactly like someone cut off the bottom half of my breasts and stitched them back on. Exactly.
The healing sensations vacillate between burning lines of pain and the prickly itch of a cactus that might have been implanted during surgery and is now growing rapidly inside of me (courtesy of the 100+ oz of water I am tanking every single day), it's needles sharp enough to cause every hair on my body to stand up and say WTF. I can all but feel my body chewing up and digesting the dissolvable sutures. Offended by the surgical tape it is airing it's protest in an itchy rash around my ribs.
What's a girl to do about all of this?? Get her hair done, naturally. I almost feel normal. Almost.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Day 7 Post-Op aka Surgical Tape
I just knew that my surgical tape was starting to slide. And if I didn't get it checked today it would be down around my ankles by Sunday afternoon. Inevitably leading to an emergency call disturbing my saint-like surgeon on Sunday night while he was trying to get some much deserved rest.
Dr D's assistant sweetly squeezed me in between his other patients at the Surgery Center for a quick preventative re-taping.
Now by this point, Dr D has seen more of my breasts that DH so when he hands me a gown and leaves so I can change I have to wonder why. He returns with gauze, tape, and scissors in hand, settles down in front of me, looks hard, takes his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, returns them to his face and looks again. Without further hesitation he breaks into a huge grin, turns to DH chuckling, "ok, where's the camera? This must be a candid camera moment right? Because this tape and these breasts are perfect".
DH latches onto this unexpected but hugely welcome opportunity to commiserate with another male about my obsessive brain's innermost failings. A brief bromance blossoms over my bare breasts.
Trying for diversion I quietly ask if I am cleared for longer drives to and from my office, to which Dr D asks of DH, "is she ever ok to drive long distances???".
I take my neurotic boobs home and quietly obsession over the half millimeter movement of the only thing holding them together.
Dr D's assistant sweetly squeezed me in between his other patients at the Surgery Center for a quick preventative re-taping.
Now by this point, Dr D has seen more of my breasts that DH so when he hands me a gown and leaves so I can change I have to wonder why. He returns with gauze, tape, and scissors in hand, settles down in front of me, looks hard, takes his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, returns them to his face and looks again. Without further hesitation he breaks into a huge grin, turns to DH chuckling, "ok, where's the camera? This must be a candid camera moment right? Because this tape and these breasts are perfect".
DH latches onto this unexpected but hugely welcome opportunity to commiserate with another male about my obsessive brain's innermost failings. A brief bromance blossoms over my bare breasts.
Trying for diversion I quietly ask if I am cleared for longer drives to and from my office, to which Dr D asks of DH, "is she ever ok to drive long distances???".
I take my neurotic boobs home and quietly obsession over the half millimeter movement of the only thing holding them together.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
A list of Useful Tips aka Shouting Into Cyberspace
For those of you without a BFF well-versed in surgery prep, here are a list of things I recommend you do, buy, borrow, or steal:
(for my potential male audience, you might want to skip this post, don't say I didn't warn you!)
Things to do for yourself:
Things to buy for yourself:
(for my potential male audience, you might want to skip this post, don't say I didn't warn you!)
Things to do for yourself:
- Get waxed. Every last inch that you would shave on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis. Be sure to do this well in advance of surgery to give your underarm skin time to recover before being assaulted again.
- Get your hair color done a week before surgery. No matter what your friends tell you, trust me, you won't want to have someone pulling on your head and neck for hours on end even a week after surgery.
- Get a massage. Treat your soon to be abused body parts to a relaxing massage. Broken or otherwise, no one's back and neck can withstand the torture of sleeping sitting up or propped onto a wedge for 5 nights.
- Wash everything you own. Make sure all your favorite pjs, shorts, sweats, towels, everything is clean and ready for your return home.
Things to buy for yourself:
- Bras. Try on more seamless, wireless bras than you can stand well in advance of your surgery. Take them to your surgeon for review, he/she will undoubtedly find something wrong with half of your choices. Choose something light that breathes and has soft fabric. And did I mention, no seams????
- Camis with shelf bras. This is a variant on the above but super valuable to sleep in and swap out too when your boobs get tired of being confined to a bra.
- Pillows. Find something you can squish up into many shapes, or buy several that you can use to prop yourself up in a semi-reclined position. You might think you will only use them 8 hours a night but then where do you see yourself the other 16 hours a day? That's right, propping yourself up in a semi-sitting position on your own hateful couch.
- Sheets. Pain is a sweaty business. Buy a couple of twin flat sheets to use as covering for your pillows, couch, a light drape for your sore boobs.
- Snuggly blanket. You are likely to be slightly chilled for a day or two post-op so a light weight snuggly blanket is essential to staying warm without putting anything heavy on your body.
- Hoodies. Invest in a couple of light weight hoodies (I buy everything in twos so I can use one/wash one). You won't want to be putting on your favorite tight tee-shirt anytime too soon.
Things you need for survival:
- Crackers. Whatever you like best be it saltines, grahms, or something organic. A nice crunchy salty cracker can not be beat while you struggle to come out of anesthesia.
- Yogurt. It's easy on the tummy and helps replenish healthy intestinal bacteria.
- Water: Try buying several 50 oz bottles and drink at least one a day (I said before I do everything in twos so I downed 100 oz daily).
- Straws. Trust me, you won't want to lift a glass of water even to your lips. Bending straws will be your new best friends.
- Ginger ale. Something slight sweet and super bubbly with bite does wonders for your spirit and stomache.
- Hand sanitizer. You want to stay germ free and keep those around from calling you Howard Hughes when you ask them to wash their hands before touching you.
- DVDs. Something mindless that can play in the background as you drift in and out of opiate consciousness.
Things to expect:
- Pain. No, really. It hurts. It's not "discomfort" or "uncomfortable". It's painful to have a breast lift!!!!! It feels like your incisions are on fire, burning and stinging. It feels like someone removed your breasts and sewed them back on again. Cause, yeah, that's what happened.
- Percocet sucks. The first few tabs are like magic. The second few are a tease. The last one is misery. Headache like to blow the brains out the back of your skull headache accompanied by a rolling nausea. Fun!!
- Fighting anesthesia. Waking up is super disorienting, you don't know why you feel like someone just spent hours cutting on you, you just know you don't want to be there anymore.
- Taking off the gauze. When you first see your taped incisions you might feel like passing out. Plan ahead and be sure there is something to sit or lie down on, just in case.
Things to hope for:
- Breast that look amazing without a bra.
- Nuff said.
Day 5 Post-Op aka Giving Thanks for DH
An ode to my hubby:
I am grateful for how you water me (100oz daily thank you kindly), for how you tolerate me (knit-picking every last thing), for how you support me (despite assurances that surgery wasn't necessary), and mostly for how you love me (without reservation even at 4am when I can't quiet my restless brain or body).
Thank you.
I am grateful for how you water me (100oz daily thank you kindly), for how you tolerate me (knit-picking every last thing), for how you support me (despite assurances that surgery wasn't necessary), and mostly for how you love me (without reservation even at 4am when I can't quiet my restless brain or body).
Thank you.
Day 4 Post-Op aka Obsessive Much?
Midnight: check breasts for redness and swelling.
2am: check breasts again for redness and swelling.
4am: wash, rinse, repeat.
8am: breath again relived at the effects of 12 hours of rest and relaxation.
10am: check in with surgeon, just in case.
noon: practice more rest and relaxation.
midnight: sleep on cursed wedge.
water: 119 oz consumed.
tylenol: 500 mg.
2am: sleep, fitfully.
4am: curse wedge with the white hot passion of a thousand suns.
5am: sleep, uncomfortably.
2am: check breasts again for redness and swelling.
4am: wash, rinse, repeat.
8am: breath again relived at the effects of 12 hours of rest and relaxation.
10am: check in with surgeon, just in case.
noon: practice more rest and relaxation.
midnight: sleep on cursed wedge.
water: 119 oz consumed.
tylenol: 500 mg.
2am: sleep, fitfully.
4am: curse wedge with the white hot passion of a thousand suns.
5am: sleep, uncomfortably.
Day 3 Post-Op aka OMG I Fucked Up Again
"They couldn't look any better", the words every anxious patient longs to hear from their plastic surgeon and here I was, the beneficiary of this glowing praise.
I was committed to being a good girl. I drank 100oz of water a day and ate dark leafy greens and whole foods to boost my healing time.
When DH and I peeled the gauze off earlier that morning my initial queaziness gave way to thrill: my breasts where standing up all on their own. They were real and will some day be spectacular. There was almost no swelling or bruising beneath the protective gauze.
And I could shower.
Blissful warm water rinsing off the residue of days past. A triumphant return to the human race was in my immediate future.
Freshly cleaned and dressed in actual clothes, DH and I trekked to my first post op visit.
As somewhat of a fitness nut, or as much of a nut as someone with a crush injury to their lumbar spine can be, I was anxious to get my body moving again. My surgeon cleared me for walking on a treadmill at 3mph for 20 min a day and I was overjoyed. He cleared me to sleep on my side with the aid of a soft pillow and my neck rejoiced at the prospect and he even said I could even have a small glass of wine, all was rightish in my world.
Do not pass go, do not collect $200, I beelined to the gym for my well deserved walk.
After a few minutes I realized that 2.5 mph was going to be my top speed of the day and 10 min my max time.
I peeled my grateful feet off the treadmill and headed to my physical therapist for some time working out the spasm in my neck and back. 10 minutes into that I realized that my new body was sending up an emergency signal: ENOUGH.
Panic clawed it's way into my heart, sure that I had ruined my talented surgeon's work. I beelined for home and went straight for the promised glass of wine, 4 oz thank you.
Slow realization crept in as I felt my breasts tighten and swell that I had completely screwed this up. Peeling out of my bra I could see the bright red results of doing too much too soon.
An emergency call to my surgeon reassured me that everything would be fine provided that I backed off, a skill I do not possess. A quick peep at the angry swelling convinced me that it was a skill I needed to practice, immediately.
I changed my wine for water.
I slept propped on my hateful wedge.
I didn't move faster than a slug in winter.
And this day too did pass.
I was committed to being a good girl. I drank 100oz of water a day and ate dark leafy greens and whole foods to boost my healing time.
When DH and I peeled the gauze off earlier that morning my initial queaziness gave way to thrill: my breasts where standing up all on their own. They were real and will some day be spectacular. There was almost no swelling or bruising beneath the protective gauze.
And I could shower.
Blissful warm water rinsing off the residue of days past. A triumphant return to the human race was in my immediate future.
Freshly cleaned and dressed in actual clothes, DH and I trekked to my first post op visit.
As somewhat of a fitness nut, or as much of a nut as someone with a crush injury to their lumbar spine can be, I was anxious to get my body moving again. My surgeon cleared me for walking on a treadmill at 3mph for 20 min a day and I was overjoyed. He cleared me to sleep on my side with the aid of a soft pillow and my neck rejoiced at the prospect and he even said I could even have a small glass of wine, all was rightish in my world.
Do not pass go, do not collect $200, I beelined to the gym for my well deserved walk.
After a few minutes I realized that 2.5 mph was going to be my top speed of the day and 10 min my max time.
I peeled my grateful feet off the treadmill and headed to my physical therapist for some time working out the spasm in my neck and back. 10 minutes into that I realized that my new body was sending up an emergency signal: ENOUGH.
Panic clawed it's way into my heart, sure that I had ruined my talented surgeon's work. I beelined for home and went straight for the promised glass of wine, 4 oz thank you.
Slow realization crept in as I felt my breasts tighten and swell that I had completely screwed this up. Peeling out of my bra I could see the bright red results of doing too much too soon.
An emergency call to my surgeon reassured me that everything would be fine provided that I backed off, a skill I do not possess. A quick peep at the angry swelling convinced me that it was a skill I needed to practice, immediately.
I changed my wine for water.
I slept propped on my hateful wedge.
I didn't move faster than a slug in winter.
And this day too did pass.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Day 2 Post-Op aka Chilling with BFF
Gratuitous shout out alert for my BFF that helped me make lists of what I would need to prevail before and after my surgery. Without her guidance I never would have taken the lifesaving crackers and grahams and ginger ale to the surgery center. Without her expert tips I would never had bought that reviled wedge that I so desperately needed to keep my tender boobs elevated at the proper angle. Without her recommendation I never would have found the most amazing plastic surgeon to get me through this metamorphosis.
The BFF-ster showed up with a refreshing face mist for my sad complexion, pumpkin scented hand wash for my chapped skin, and a bacon'n'eggs coffee cup brimming with caramels and real salt water taffy all the way from Memphis! She gave DH a much needed break from tending to my high maintenance ways, "could you open the curtains, oh wait that one is wrinkled, could you straighten it out?", "I'm not sure you measured the milk correctly for the boxed mac'n'cheese, I'm sure it will be too watery", "could you move the ottoman 3 degrees to the left, no your other left", ad nauseum.
Together we chose my first post-lift purchase: a made-to-order Trashy costume (no spoilers here, everyone will have to wait until Halloween for the big reveal ... pun intended) that I had coveted for, well, ever. My perky pair of DDs deserves the exposure, especially after what I shelled out for them.
Sunday was pain free and downright pleasant.
Monday, monday. Not so much.
Day 1 Post-Op aka I Hate That Fucking Couch
Three years ago my DH underwent extensive major surgery. Brilliantly I ordered two gloriously ginormous new couches designed for a lengthy recovering in front of the big screen TV. He never used them. Instead, sealed himself into the master bedroom with duct tape, leaving me to recoup on the grand sofa.
Here my ass was planted for 24 hours, not counting two shuffles around the dining room table on the arm of my DH. Here I was safe from the agony of movement and the faint wavering of the floor under my unstable feet. Here I grew to hate the cushion beneath me and the pillows propping up my sore back and cricked neck and the ottoman that slid out from my feet just when I thought I might be getting comfortable.
Saturday the 14th was a better day all around though. My dear BFF kept my mind off the discomfort with silly texts and sweet encouragement. My dear Mummy and Daddy delivered nuggets and cupcakes and a soft stuffed puppy. My DH kept track of my drugs and my water intake, rotating crappy DVDs on the TV all day.
The ring of fire under my ace wraps slowly abated and deferred to the spasms in my now really pissed off neck. I took more Percocet. And promptly wished I had not: the back of my skull wanted to explode under the pulsating pressure of too many opiates in a brain not accustomed to pain medication. For hours my head throbbed, my neck shrieked, and my tortured boobs weren't even on the map.
At 2am I woke DH up in tears, I simply could not sit, lay, recline, exist, in that couch nest a moment longer. And I would chew glass before I would take another Percocet.
The tempurpedic wedge cradle was put into effect in our bed, DH slept while I tried not to vomit. Once the Percocet was mostly out of my system I was able to rest for short stretches through the dark morning hours, shopping on my iPhone more than sleeping. The wedges were little better than the couch, forcing my neck into an unnatural position and leaving my poor crushed L3 & L2 to collapse in the void between. I tried every pillow possible: the tempurpedic contour, a neck collar, a rolled up towel, then just nothing. My thoracic spine throbbed with the injustice of it all, no relief in sight.
Here my ass was planted for 24 hours, not counting two shuffles around the dining room table on the arm of my DH. Here I was safe from the agony of movement and the faint wavering of the floor under my unstable feet. Here I grew to hate the cushion beneath me and the pillows propping up my sore back and cricked neck and the ottoman that slid out from my feet just when I thought I might be getting comfortable.
Saturday the 14th was a better day all around though. My dear BFF kept my mind off the discomfort with silly texts and sweet encouragement. My dear Mummy and Daddy delivered nuggets and cupcakes and a soft stuffed puppy. My DH kept track of my drugs and my water intake, rotating crappy DVDs on the TV all day.
The ring of fire under my ace wraps slowly abated and deferred to the spasms in my now really pissed off neck. I took more Percocet. And promptly wished I had not: the back of my skull wanted to explode under the pulsating pressure of too many opiates in a brain not accustomed to pain medication. For hours my head throbbed, my neck shrieked, and my tortured boobs weren't even on the map.
At 2am I woke DH up in tears, I simply could not sit, lay, recline, exist, in that couch nest a moment longer. And I would chew glass before I would take another Percocet.
The tempurpedic wedge cradle was put into effect in our bed, DH slept while I tried not to vomit. Once the Percocet was mostly out of my system I was able to rest for short stretches through the dark morning hours, shopping on my iPhone more than sleeping. The wedges were little better than the couch, forcing my neck into an unnatural position and leaving my poor crushed L3 & L2 to collapse in the void between. I tried every pillow possible: the tempurpedic contour, a neck collar, a rolled up towel, then just nothing. My thoracic spine throbbed with the injustice of it all, no relief in sight.
DD-Day
When you live with a pair of 32 DDs for this long you start taking certain things for granted: never stand up without a bra, never lie down without a bra, never ever workout without two bras.
Today all of that would change for me.
Hair washed, dried, and tied cleanly in a pony tail, DH and I made the trek to the surgery center sans our obligatory morning coffee.
Once checked in, the staff efficiently removed all indications that I was a real person, changed my sweats and hoodie for a cotton gown, hair cap and paper boats. There was some discussion as to where I should apply the paper boats, ultimately we settled on my feet.
My surgeon was present the entire time and made me feel as comfortable as possible considering that I was basically allowing him to remove both my breasts and reattach them in a more optimal position.
My DH watched in fascination as I was marked and measured for cutting.
My anesthesiologist became my new best friend when he gave the ok for Versed to be administered in the IV tapped into my wrist.
No turning back now, they wheeled me into the Operating Room. I was handed a mask to hold over my mouth and asked to breathe deeply. My brain tried to panic when a little red lever on the mouth piece shifted ... alas I was out before I could ask if I had screwed up yet another aspect of my pre-surgical prep.
"I'm sorry I changed my mind, let's not do surgery" were the first words out of my mouth as the nurses tried to bring me out of the anesthesia. Surprisingly no one looked horror struck at this reversal revelation. Also not surprisingly I continued to fight the process, kicking off my blankets and nearly tearing the IV out of my wrist. More anti-nasuea meds on board and I started feeling a bit more human.
What felt like mere moments later I was whisked, literally, at like 20 mph and dumped from wheel chair into the passenger seat of my car, for what would be the longest 30 minutes of my life.
Time warped and waved it's middle finger at me as my DH gently maneuvered my SUV through city streets and two freeways to get me homehomehome. I shoved crackers into my mouth to keep from having anything come up the wrong way, wildly wishing for a hole in the earth to swallow me up and obliterate the confusion and pain and dizziness washing over me in tsunamis.
I had the temerity to complain when DH backed the car into the driveway to provide closer access to the front door. Ungrateful and unrepentant, I fell into my pre-made nest on the monster couch to suffer in what I hoped was relative silence. Talking hurt, breathing hurt, existing hurt.
My friends had lied. Betrayal nestled into my soul, they had made no mention of the degree of pain this would carry. They never hinted at the bitter stinging and burning searing my chest.
Yet I forced myself to wait a full 4 hours after being discharged before taking my first pain pill. I watched and listened to the clock tick away long minutes before I gobbled my first Percocet. Percocet that I swore I didn't need, who would, no one said the pain would be like this.
4 anxious hours later I took my second Percocet and tried to relax into the drug, let it carry me away from my exhausted body.
I slept, if you can call it that, propped up in my couch nest and woke to less pain and more Percocet.
Today all of that would change for me.
Hair washed, dried, and tied cleanly in a pony tail, DH and I made the trek to the surgery center sans our obligatory morning coffee.
Once checked in, the staff efficiently removed all indications that I was a real person, changed my sweats and hoodie for a cotton gown, hair cap and paper boats. There was some discussion as to where I should apply the paper boats, ultimately we settled on my feet.
My surgeon was present the entire time and made me feel as comfortable as possible considering that I was basically allowing him to remove both my breasts and reattach them in a more optimal position.
My DH watched in fascination as I was marked and measured for cutting.
My anesthesiologist became my new best friend when he gave the ok for Versed to be administered in the IV tapped into my wrist.
No turning back now, they wheeled me into the Operating Room. I was handed a mask to hold over my mouth and asked to breathe deeply. My brain tried to panic when a little red lever on the mouth piece shifted ... alas I was out before I could ask if I had screwed up yet another aspect of my pre-surgical prep.
"I'm sorry I changed my mind, let's not do surgery" were the first words out of my mouth as the nurses tried to bring me out of the anesthesia. Surprisingly no one looked horror struck at this reversal revelation. Also not surprisingly I continued to fight the process, kicking off my blankets and nearly tearing the IV out of my wrist. More anti-nasuea meds on board and I started feeling a bit more human.
What felt like mere moments later I was whisked, literally, at like 20 mph and dumped from wheel chair into the passenger seat of my car, for what would be the longest 30 minutes of my life.
Time warped and waved it's middle finger at me as my DH gently maneuvered my SUV through city streets and two freeways to get me homehomehome. I shoved crackers into my mouth to keep from having anything come up the wrong way, wildly wishing for a hole in the earth to swallow me up and obliterate the confusion and pain and dizziness washing over me in tsunamis.
I had the temerity to complain when DH backed the car into the driveway to provide closer access to the front door. Ungrateful and unrepentant, I fell into my pre-made nest on the monster couch to suffer in what I hoped was relative silence. Talking hurt, breathing hurt, existing hurt.
My friends had lied. Betrayal nestled into my soul, they had made no mention of the degree of pain this would carry. They never hinted at the bitter stinging and burning searing my chest.
Yet I forced myself to wait a full 4 hours after being discharged before taking my first pain pill. I watched and listened to the clock tick away long minutes before I gobbled my first Percocet. Percocet that I swore I didn't need, who would, no one said the pain would be like this.
4 anxious hours later I took my second Percocet and tried to relax into the drug, let it carry me away from my exhausted body.
I slept, if you can call it that, propped up in my couch nest and woke to less pain and more Percocet.
Prep-Work for DD-Day
Planning soothes my soul so after scheduling and rescheduling and then rescheduling again, I settled into making sure everything would go perfectly until the day of surgery. I bought a dozen wireless, seamless bras, a handful of button down shirts and zip up hoodies; I laid in a stock of kale chips and superfood, I found a pair of temperpedic wedges that would cradle my recovering body in weightless perfection. I stopped taken anti-inflammatories, vitamins, salicylates, and paid dearly to have every last hair waxed off my body.
Then everything fell apart.
My job imploded under the pressure of a massive product and structural reorganization, my manager and friend of 7 yrs left the company, and my role changed under a new Senior Vice President.
My annual exam revealed a nasty case of Costochondritis - no, not when you spend too much money at Coscto and pull your back out trying to shove all the bulk items into your car, but an inflammation of the cartilage at the sternum. So sorry, no anti-inflammatories two weeks before surgery, suck it up buttercup.
My mom informed me that I had multiple allergies to every major antibiotic known to man, confounding my surgeon and prompting me to try using one of my last days to get an allergy test. When my allergist promised that she would load me up with forbidden pre-op antihistamines should I react to the drug test I turned to my pharmacist for a history of what I had taken successfully in the past.
My annual mammogram showed a new hypo-density, sending me back for more pre-op boob squishing. The special views showed that the hypo-density was actually nothing, however it unexpectedly revealed a cyst that had never been seen before. I spent 90 minutes undergoing an ultrasound for the radiologist to report that the cysts were benign, but that I would need to go back for a re-viewing in 4 to 6 months. With my neck in full spasm I wasted the next three days chasing second opinions and a final clinical report.
My surgical spot was kicked to Friday the 13th.
After an agonizing evening spent second guessing every single last thing, I resolved to go through with my plan.
Then everything fell apart.
My job imploded under the pressure of a massive product and structural reorganization, my manager and friend of 7 yrs left the company, and my role changed under a new Senior Vice President.
My annual exam revealed a nasty case of Costochondritis - no, not when you spend too much money at Coscto and pull your back out trying to shove all the bulk items into your car, but an inflammation of the cartilage at the sternum. So sorry, no anti-inflammatories two weeks before surgery, suck it up buttercup.
My mom informed me that I had multiple allergies to every major antibiotic known to man, confounding my surgeon and prompting me to try using one of my last days to get an allergy test. When my allergist promised that she would load me up with forbidden pre-op antihistamines should I react to the drug test I turned to my pharmacist for a history of what I had taken successfully in the past.
My annual mammogram showed a new hypo-density, sending me back for more pre-op boob squishing. The special views showed that the hypo-density was actually nothing, however it unexpectedly revealed a cyst that had never been seen before. I spent 90 minutes undergoing an ultrasound for the radiologist to report that the cysts were benign, but that I would need to go back for a re-viewing in 4 to 6 months. With my neck in full spasm I wasted the next three days chasing second opinions and a final clinical report.
My surgical spot was kicked to Friday the 13th.
After an agonizing evening spent second guessing every single last thing, I resolved to go through with my plan.
Making the Decision to Cut
Elective surgery: two words I didn't think were in my vocabulary. Certainly not in my physical universe.
And yet, I tried the idea on like a new bra, carefully considering every angle, the overall effect, the feel of it against my skin.
I gave the concept room in my brain to bang around the empty corners for over 3 years. I squashed down the execution to tend to several tragic life events. Then I finally took the idea out of my head and gave it a checkbook.
I bought myself a perkier pair of breasts.
In retrospect I wonder if I ever really intended to execute on the notion or if I just got caught up in the planning and was ultimately snowballed by the effort into the surgery room.
Either way, here I am, Day 3 Post-Op, blogging about my adventures in plastic surgery.
Time, gravity, weight ... none of these things were on my side.
My age alone was likely cause enough for having a breast lift. Add in decades of high impact aerobics and pile on the effects of 65 lbs of weight loss a dozen years ago and my boobs were screaming for help.
With three friends that had all gone under the knife for similar surgeries, I used my social network to get a feel for what the process and results would be like. None of that stacked up to reality.
My reality is that my husband is living with cancer and every day is a new exercise in coping and moving forward.
My reality is that two crushed vertebrae is painful on a minute by minute basis.
My reality is that a high stress job never lets you take time off and never lets you have a moment of peace.
As the thought coalesced in my head my quest to find the most talented surgeon began. Yelp reviews were hugely helpful in eliminating surgeons (automatically crossed off anyone that had already been sued for disfigurement, LOL). Word of mouth led me to the two best doctors: one I just didn't gel with and the other was instant bonding.
Life was never going to line up and hold still for me so that I could do something for myself so I sucked it up and put the surgery on the books.
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