I've got new boobs. Well-after nearly two weeks, I should say hello first. So-hello--and I've got new boobs. Was it worth all the pain? Was it worth the hospital stay from Hell? I'll tell you in six months, when all the swelling should (allegedly) go down.
It truly was the hospital stay from Hell. I decided that it was just so aggravating, trying to email, and blog-all on my phone, which just didn't want to cooperate. So I thought I would wait until I got back to my little shoebox home in North London-and I nearly didn't. Read on...
The surgery took place on Wednesday, the 26th. I was told I would be first on Mr. H's list; instead, I was last on the list. I wasn't taken to the operating theatre until after 6pm-and I was really nervous, since they started operating at 8:30 AM. So I wondered if they would be so rushed that they would screw it up, in a big hurry to finish-as if there was a taxi outside with the meter running. I mentioned that to the anesthetist, who reassured me that Mr. H and his colleague, Mr. S, have a lot of stamina and are well used to operating for many hours at a time. Of course: it's the NHS, like a conveyor belt, one operation after another after another. I was told that I should feel grateful, since many operations had to be cancelled due to lack of beds.
Ewww...I'd been fasting since before midnight the night before-and that was fine, because the food was so bad I didn't miss not eating. I thought it was really toxic waste on the plate. In fact, I wondered if I turned the lights out whether or not it would glow in the dark-or perhaps start moving. So, needless to say, I got friends to come and visit and bring food. Most of the patients on the ward did that; there was always the smell off pizza in the evenings. I have to say I was tempted.
I woke up in the recovery room-and I was terrified, because I was completely disoriented, and it reminded me of the way I felt after the gentamicin poisoning. I kept saying that I was disoriented-and it was clear that I was panicked. So a doctor came over to me and told me that it was a common reaction to the anesthesia, and that I would be fine in a couple of minutes. I remember saying that I couldn't be in Hell, because everyone was wearing white. Everyone laughed-and I asked for pain medication. I felt like someone had hit me in the chest with a speeding train.
So here is the short version of my two weeks in Hell. Mr. H. didn't come to see me either before or after the operation. I asked the registrar why-and she told me that consultant surgeons always send their registrars, unless there is a serious problem. They only stop by if the patient has private coverage-so, if I had either paid for the surgery myself or had an insurance company to pay for me, I would have had at least one visit by Mr. H. Welcome to the NHS-that doesn't feel very fair.
Some of the nurses would get my vote for Nurse Ratched of the year. They were that nasty-but then, I had a few things to say when some of them were not wearing gloves, or ignoring the directive to wear surgical gloves when dealing with the chest port. So, they weren't happy when I criticized their work-or, in some cases, non-work. In fact, there was only one nurse who was any good, and did things by the book-and actually seemed to care about her patients. She was great; I would not give the other ones the time of day-or the job. I couldn't help wonder why some of these people wanted to be nurses. They sucked.When I was told I was finished with the antibiotics last Monday night, and that I could go home on Tuesday, I wanted to do cartwheels down the hall. But-I couldn't lift anything, I couldn't raise my arms-and I've never been able to do a cartwheel. So much for that.
On Tuesday afternoon, the ambulance that had been booked to take me home was really, really late. They got it completely wrong, and I ended up sitting in the transport lounge, waiting for transport and making a real pain in the ass of myself. I kept getting up and asking where my drivers were. The guy at the counter kept shrugging his shoulders. Hmmm... and when the ambulance drivers finally arrived, they got lost.
Yes, that is what I said: they got lost. All they had to do was go straight, turn left, go up the hill, turn right and they would have been there. Bob's your uncle-except when he isn't. They took me on a tour of London that lasted 45 minutes (it should have taken ten- fifteen in traffic). I had this feeling that I might be in this ambulance for hours. When I finally got to the door, they blamed the GPS for giving them the wrong directions. It was the GPS-not stupidity. Right?
I stayed in on Wednesday, taking the Tramadol they gave me before I left. It didn't do a lot for the pain, and when I had to return to the hospital on Thursday for my infusions, I found myself crying in pain. Boo hoo. What can I say? I'm a crier. In fact, I was sobbing at one point. So I'm a sobber.
Friday, Saturday and yesterday I just hibernated. I told myself that I was having an existential crisis. Actually, I was just feeling very sorry for myself, and wondering why I put myself through not one, but two operations. What was I thinking?
I'm nearly at three years since the mastectomy-and three years since a very narrow escape. But, every time I looked in the mirror-when I forced myself to look at my chest in the mirror-I saw a sunken chest, prominent ribs, and a huge scar that ran from armpit to armpit. Every time I would try to wear some of my nice, skinny t-shirts I would notice-total flatness. They didn't fit. And all I could think when I looked in the mirror was: shit. I had cancer. I was lucky. I'm okay now. Only a lot flatter.
Would I recommend the surgery to anyone who just wanted to have bigger boobs? Hell, no. Screw the vanity, the pain just isn't worth it. As for reconstruction after cancer-I'll have to wait until the swelling goes down, everything is healed, and I have a good look at the end result. Then-I'll tell you!
I got really depressed after I left the hospital. There was so much pain. Apart from that, I'm not allowed to carry anything heavy for the next six weeks. Of course, I asked the registrar to define "heavy" (I'm such a pain). She said no lifting the vacuum cleaner, no stretching too far, don't do anything to mess up the work or I would have to have another operation to fix the damage. Yuck. So in six weeks I will have dust bunnies eight feet high. I'll need a mask and a flame thrower just to get into the apartment. Ewww.....So no cleaning floors, either. And now it will be two weeks since the surgery on Wednesday evening, I'm bored, my apartment will soon begin to grow all kinds of interesting (and probably unidentifiable) things...so I did laundry. And I was careful. I also walked for an hour. Boy-after more than a week of not walking anywhere, that was kind of difficult, but I knew I had to do it.
I did try to cheer myself up by thinking of funny things (I highly recommend that as part of getting yourself out of a depression). I thought about Mr. H, the surgeon, and the fact that he couldn't be bothered to at least stop in the room to see if I was still breathing. But he's the boob architect. He is the man people go to post-mastectomy for reconstruction. I wonder if he gets bored, seeing all those boobs, day in and day out. It isn't like anyone has anything spectacular. Once you've seen one, you've seen them all: different shapes and sizes, but a boob is a boob is a boob-unless maybe someone has two nipples on one side, or there is a nipple that resembles sprouting broccoli. Wouldn't that be different.
Then I thought about proctology. No idea why-I think that my annual colonoscopy is coming up over the summer, and, let me tell you, I don't know how anyone could ever like anal sex. I have had the hosepipe shoved up my ass, and I have been able to look at the inside of my intestines. So what? Nothing unusual, but bloody painful. And who would ever want to be a proctologist anyway? Some weirdo with a thing for assholes (and I mean that literally).
This random thinking had me smiling, and I'm feeling better. But - boobs? Proctologists?
Just saying...
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