It is now Wednesday and therefore three days since the surgery. I have so far had three rounds of "aftercare"- read as "bloody painful torture masquerading as massage designed by a sadist"- and am still feeling pretty out of it.
So far, aside from severe discomfort, I've had the pleasure of being constipated (thank you, Co-codamyl), constantly tired to the extent where I am napping for at least three hours every day and frequently woozy when I try to sit down/stand up/go to the loo/walk/MOVE. I know that in theory these things will all pass with time and healing. I know this. I don't necessarily believe it, but I know it. I decided to attempt to shower yesterday, given that in every round of aftercare I have to lie on a table having my thighs pummelled whilst my pundenda is on show for anyone who feels like wandering in, and I'd quite like to at least be clean whilst all this is going on.
Clean, it would appear, is a relative term.
You see, I tried to have a hot shower. That was my first mistake. Once I'd leapt like a scalded cat out of the shower cubicle, I settled for a slightly less agonising temperature of water and tried to clean myself. Washing my hair wasn't so bad- apart from the water from the power shower battering my bruises no matter which way I turned- but when I tried to scrub the Sharpie ink off my thighs, I realised that unless I wanted to pass out in the shower, I had better stop that silliness right away. Still, I managed to get as clean as possible. However, I had also been standing up for a good ten minutes by this point and when I got out of the shower realised that I could barely stand any longer due to weakness. This meant doing all the things I usually do after a shower- wrap a towel around myself, brush my hair, wrap it up etc.- were nigh on impossible. And here is where the moral of the story is. No matter how much fun drugs are at the time there are ALWAYS side effects, kids. Last night, thanks to good ol' Lidocaine still being in my system, I spent approximately 3 hours crying because I felt utterly useless and fairly retarded in all senses of the word. Not the most fun I've ever had.
On top of the Lidocaine side effects, I've also been reminded of the joys of taking antibiotics when you're on the contraceptive pill. Anyone else remember this? That's right. The Pill does not work when you're on antibiotics, so not only do I have all the aforementioned problems, I have also just come on. WOO.
I'd better have the sexiest damn thighs this side of FHM at this rate.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Catching up: The surgery and the next day.
Hello my lovelies
As I suspected, I was completely off my tits yesterday evening and as such did not have the inclination (or the ability) to blog about my surgery, so I shall catch you up with the events of both yesterday and today's session of aftercare.
Sunday 25th July
Mum and I arrived at the clinic at 9 am and were shown into the reception area by Mark, the surgical assistant. Sat there for about an hour reading and waiting for all the other staff to turn up (timekeeping is not really something they worry about over at Cosmetic Medical Group) and met my anaesthetist, Dr. Van Vurren- did I mention nearly all the staff are South African?
We were then shown into the surgical wing which is all very plush and nice, but still smells like a hospital. Some things are universal, I guess. Anyway, I was given a big snuggly dressing gown and told to go and "change". By that, I mean that along with the dressing gown I was given a paper thong to wear underneath, and sod all else. Mum tried the "well, at least you've not got one of those backless gowns so your bum isn't showing". No, it wasn't showing whilst I was wearing the dressing gown. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be wearing the big snuggly dressing gown during the operation, so the comforting aspect was a little lost on me.
Once I'd changed, suddenly there was an influx of people who were all going to be looking after me. Dr. Van Vurren came in and told me about the anaesthetic, which was called intravenous sedation, or "conscious" sedation. Basically, I was going to be awake but unaware of what was going on. This made Mum feel much better as General Anaesthetic scares her a bit, but I was unconvinced as the idea of being awake whilst having my fat liquified and then sucked out of me wasn't desperately appealing. I then filled out yet another medical history form, was left alone for about five minutes and someone else came in with paperwork for me to sign. By this point, I'm not going to lie, I was feeling pretty nervous. Going in for elective surgery is almost worse than necessary surgery because if you jump ship at the last second, you're not going to have a heart attack or any other life threatening problem. In my case, I'd have just had tubby thighs the remainder of my life. Still, I sucked it up and stayed put.
At about half ten, my surgeon (Dr. Grant Hamlet) popped in and gave me the most surreal experience of my life. I had to stand against a wall and have photos taken of the front and the back of my thighs whilst wearing nothing but said paper thong, and then get drawn on with a Sharpie whilst my surgeon is sitting cross-legged on the floor basically staring at my crotch. By the way, to all my ex boyfriends- did you notice I had a lopsided bum?! Apparently I do.
At eleven, I was given anti nausea pills and at half past, it was crunch time. I had to go for a wee then stand in the operating room (or OR as I will now call it, being a child of the Grey's Anatomy era) with nothing but that damn paper underwear on and be sprayed down with iodine solution. I climbed onto the table face down, had my back covered with towels so I wouldn't get cold, and had the needle put into my hand that would pump the anaesthetic solution into my system. A heartbeat monitor was placed on my finger and a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around my other arm in order to check that years of smoking wasn't going to cause me to die or something during the op.
I don't really remember a lot after the anaesthetic started going through my system. I remember having some really trippy dreams- you know, the sort of hallucinations you have when on a really good drug. Kaleidescope-type visions. Then I "woke up" and apparently started crying and saying I wanted Adam for about an hour whilst the anaethetist held my hand. I was told I'd been screaming towards the beginning, but I don't remember being in any real pain, although I had one point where it hurt a bit- sort of a burny sensation under my skin. I also remember being told to turn over and did so very gingerly as the effect of Lidocaine is much like the point at which you've drunk so much you're not far off from being sick and nothing will save you. Side effect of which is if you do anything fast, you do it much more energetically and with more force than you intend to. The outcome of this is that I deliberately turned myself over v-e-r-y slowly. It still seemed fast to me, but Dr. Hamlet told me he'd considered buggering off to make a cuppa because I was taking so long.
I drifted out of it again and when I came round, everything was still very dizzy and out of focus, but Mark and Dr. Van Vussen were pottering around me tidying up and chatting to me. Eventually they got me vertical and wrapped me up in the deliciously snuggly dressing gown and walked me back to the waiting room. I say "walked me back"- I mean this more than literally. Dr. V had to walk backwards holding my arms whilst Mark was behind me holding onto my waist because I could not keep my footing (I'm telling you, screw illegal drugs- Lidocaine's a damn sight more effective!). They stuck me on the sofa in the waiting room where I essentially passed out again, only vaguely aware of people coming in to dress my incisions, talking to me or just sitting and waiting for me to be conscious again. I called Adam when I was slightly more coherent (at least, I thought I was, but when I called him again that evening he told me I'd been slurring and a little bit hard to understand) and said goodbye to last of my dignity when I had to be dressed by Mum and Maria, who was kind of an administrator/patient helper/fuck knows. Seriously. Dignity is just a WORD to me now. I've been annoying Mum by absolutely refusing to let her help me all day today so I can regain some self-possession- it's a pride thing. Anyway. We got me in the car and I was out of it until we got home then spent the evening on the couch.
This morning (Monday 26th) we were up bright and early (yay) to go back to Farringdon for my first round of aftercare. Aftercare consists of an ultrasound massage, in which the area gets lubed up (they say it's not lube, but it totally is) and basically an ultrasound stick just goes up and down the area you've been operated on and sends little electronic waves through your skin to promote healing and stuff (I wasn't really listening, I was more aware of the fact that I was naked from the waist down for the second time in less than 24 hours in front of this man. Doctor or not, it's still odd). That was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The unbearable part was the drainage massage, in which my legs were very firmly massaged upwards in the direction of my incisions (one in the groin on each side and one under each bottom cheek which makes sitting down SO MUCH FUN) to basically get all the crap, like the anaesthetic solution, to run out of my system. According to everyone, today is the worst day for the pain. I fucking hope so. Standing up, sitting down, walking, even trying to go to the toilet is so painful. On a very basic level, it's like muscular pain, like I spent all of yesterday exercising without warming up, stretching, or doing any exercise for the previous year. I say on a basic level, because you can sort of recognise it. However, don't be fooled. It's far more painful than that. It's a stinging pain both deep inside and on the skin. Indescribable. Also, my skin doesn't really have any sensation. It's numb and yet ultra-sensitive where the fat was taken out, and I'm told this will take up to three months for me to regain full feeling. I must say, however, it's very reassuring that nearly all the people at the clinic have had VaserLipo done on them and so can say from a first hand experience what will happen and how it feels.
I have morning appointments until Thursday for my aftercare. I won't bore you with the details again, except to say how my legs feel and whether the pain is better/worse/no different as each day passes. For now, I'm going to try to lever myself out of this chair without yelping. You know you're in pain when it's a victory if you manage to stay quiet doing that...
A xxx
As I suspected, I was completely off my tits yesterday evening and as such did not have the inclination (or the ability) to blog about my surgery, so I shall catch you up with the events of both yesterday and today's session of aftercare.
Sunday 25th July
Mum and I arrived at the clinic at 9 am and were shown into the reception area by Mark, the surgical assistant. Sat there for about an hour reading and waiting for all the other staff to turn up (timekeeping is not really something they worry about over at Cosmetic Medical Group) and met my anaesthetist, Dr. Van Vurren- did I mention nearly all the staff are South African?
We were then shown into the surgical wing which is all very plush and nice, but still smells like a hospital. Some things are universal, I guess. Anyway, I was given a big snuggly dressing gown and told to go and "change". By that, I mean that along with the dressing gown I was given a paper thong to wear underneath, and sod all else. Mum tried the "well, at least you've not got one of those backless gowns so your bum isn't showing". No, it wasn't showing whilst I was wearing the dressing gown. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be wearing the big snuggly dressing gown during the operation, so the comforting aspect was a little lost on me.
Once I'd changed, suddenly there was an influx of people who were all going to be looking after me. Dr. Van Vurren came in and told me about the anaesthetic, which was called intravenous sedation, or "conscious" sedation. Basically, I was going to be awake but unaware of what was going on. This made Mum feel much better as General Anaesthetic scares her a bit, but I was unconvinced as the idea of being awake whilst having my fat liquified and then sucked out of me wasn't desperately appealing. I then filled out yet another medical history form, was left alone for about five minutes and someone else came in with paperwork for me to sign. By this point, I'm not going to lie, I was feeling pretty nervous. Going in for elective surgery is almost worse than necessary surgery because if you jump ship at the last second, you're not going to have a heart attack or any other life threatening problem. In my case, I'd have just had tubby thighs the remainder of my life. Still, I sucked it up and stayed put.
At about half ten, my surgeon (Dr. Grant Hamlet) popped in and gave me the most surreal experience of my life. I had to stand against a wall and have photos taken of the front and the back of my thighs whilst wearing nothing but said paper thong, and then get drawn on with a Sharpie whilst my surgeon is sitting cross-legged on the floor basically staring at my crotch. By the way, to all my ex boyfriends- did you notice I had a lopsided bum?! Apparently I do.
At eleven, I was given anti nausea pills and at half past, it was crunch time. I had to go for a wee then stand in the operating room (or OR as I will now call it, being a child of the Grey's Anatomy era) with nothing but that damn paper underwear on and be sprayed down with iodine solution. I climbed onto the table face down, had my back covered with towels so I wouldn't get cold, and had the needle put into my hand that would pump the anaesthetic solution into my system. A heartbeat monitor was placed on my finger and a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around my other arm in order to check that years of smoking wasn't going to cause me to die or something during the op.
I don't really remember a lot after the anaesthetic started going through my system. I remember having some really trippy dreams- you know, the sort of hallucinations you have when on a really good drug. Kaleidescope-type visions. Then I "woke up" and apparently started crying and saying I wanted Adam for about an hour whilst the anaethetist held my hand. I was told I'd been screaming towards the beginning, but I don't remember being in any real pain, although I had one point where it hurt a bit- sort of a burny sensation under my skin. I also remember being told to turn over and did so very gingerly as the effect of Lidocaine is much like the point at which you've drunk so much you're not far off from being sick and nothing will save you. Side effect of which is if you do anything fast, you do it much more energetically and with more force than you intend to. The outcome of this is that I deliberately turned myself over v-e-r-y slowly. It still seemed fast to me, but Dr. Hamlet told me he'd considered buggering off to make a cuppa because I was taking so long.
I drifted out of it again and when I came round, everything was still very dizzy and out of focus, but Mark and Dr. Van Vussen were pottering around me tidying up and chatting to me. Eventually they got me vertical and wrapped me up in the deliciously snuggly dressing gown and walked me back to the waiting room. I say "walked me back"- I mean this more than literally. Dr. V had to walk backwards holding my arms whilst Mark was behind me holding onto my waist because I could not keep my footing (I'm telling you, screw illegal drugs- Lidocaine's a damn sight more effective!). They stuck me on the sofa in the waiting room where I essentially passed out again, only vaguely aware of people coming in to dress my incisions, talking to me or just sitting and waiting for me to be conscious again. I called Adam when I was slightly more coherent (at least, I thought I was, but when I called him again that evening he told me I'd been slurring and a little bit hard to understand) and said goodbye to last of my dignity when I had to be dressed by Mum and Maria, who was kind of an administrator/patient helper/fuck knows. Seriously. Dignity is just a WORD to me now. I've been annoying Mum by absolutely refusing to let her help me all day today so I can regain some self-possession- it's a pride thing. Anyway. We got me in the car and I was out of it until we got home then spent the evening on the couch.
This morning (Monday 26th) we were up bright and early (yay) to go back to Farringdon for my first round of aftercare. Aftercare consists of an ultrasound massage, in which the area gets lubed up (they say it's not lube, but it totally is) and basically an ultrasound stick just goes up and down the area you've been operated on and sends little electronic waves through your skin to promote healing and stuff (I wasn't really listening, I was more aware of the fact that I was naked from the waist down for the second time in less than 24 hours in front of this man. Doctor or not, it's still odd). That was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The unbearable part was the drainage massage, in which my legs were very firmly massaged upwards in the direction of my incisions (one in the groin on each side and one under each bottom cheek which makes sitting down SO MUCH FUN) to basically get all the crap, like the anaesthetic solution, to run out of my system. According to everyone, today is the worst day for the pain. I fucking hope so. Standing up, sitting down, walking, even trying to go to the toilet is so painful. On a very basic level, it's like muscular pain, like I spent all of yesterday exercising without warming up, stretching, or doing any exercise for the previous year. I say on a basic level, because you can sort of recognise it. However, don't be fooled. It's far more painful than that. It's a stinging pain both deep inside and on the skin. Indescribable. Also, my skin doesn't really have any sensation. It's numb and yet ultra-sensitive where the fat was taken out, and I'm told this will take up to three months for me to regain full feeling. I must say, however, it's very reassuring that nearly all the people at the clinic have had VaserLipo done on them and so can say from a first hand experience what will happen and how it feels.
I have morning appointments until Thursday for my aftercare. I won't bore you with the details again, except to say how my legs feel and whether the pain is better/worse/no different as each day passes. For now, I'm going to try to lever myself out of this chair without yelping. You know you're in pain when it's a victory if you manage to stay quiet doing that...
A xxx
Saturday, 24 July 2010
The night before.
So, I'm mayseychild. I'm 21. I'm also undergoing a form of liposuction called VaserLipo on my inner thighs at 9:30am. This blog, whilst so far looking a bit self absorbed, is a way for me to chart the progress of the surgery, both for my benefit and for anyone else who is thinking about it.
For anyone reading this and thinking "21? Foolish girl, why is she getting surgery? Go running! Eat less!" let me clarify.
I've always been a wee bit chubby. It may have been slightly more than "a wee bit" when I had my "ugly duckling phase", as my Mum liked to kindly put it. However, when I was younger I was also a competitive ice dancer- and a damn good one, though I say as shouldn't. I stopped skating at 16- whilst still in the quacking phase- for my GCSE's and the abundance of muscle at the top of my inner thighs swiftly turned to fat.
Whilst my tummy and arms do not affect my life, perception of myself or (within reason) what I can wear on a day to day basis, this does. I cannot wear skirts or dresses without wearing shorts or tights underneath- stockings don't even work. Shorts have to be knee length (which is quite galling as from knee down, I've got a nice set of pins). It is very easy to convince yourself you are obese when you can't wear skirts because your enormous, child-eating thighs will give you heatrash through chafing. And, more to the point- it's bloody uncomfortable.
So, at twenty and beginning my second year of university, I decided I'd damn well do something about it. No more claiming "I'm built for comfort, not speed!". I was going to get my arse in gear. And I did! EVERYWHERE ELSE.
Whilst I dropped a dress size and made everyone exclaim "Goodness! Haven't you lost a lot of weight?" my thighs remained a source of irritation and discomfort. It would appear that no matter your diet or exercise regime, some fat just won't budge. So, when my 21st started rolling around, I decided that it was time to explore a measure a little more drastic.
I feel I should also explain here for those of you that don't know me- I don't really believe in plastic/cosmetic surgery for vanity's sake. I could have my tummy tucked, my arms tightened and toned, my boobs lifted and plumped along with lipo-ing my thighs, and I'd look bloody amazing. But I wouldn't be me. My surgery is purely for comforts sake. Yes, it will be lovely to prance about in hotpants in the summer without wibbling. But it'll be even lovelier to know that in forty-five minutes, I won't be in pain. I won't have a rash. I won't have bruising on my thighs from horrible ingrowing hairs. This may sound terribly self-pitying but I'm sorry, unless you've been there you simply will not understand, and the most I can hope for is that you will sympathise.
It is now nearly one am, and I have to be up in less than seven hours for the surgery. I have done most of the pre-op procedures apart from quitting smoking and frankly, I like it far too much to do so. It's fine, I've got good blood pressure. Got the feeling I may be made to afterwards though.
I'm a little nervous. Not about the op itself, more about everything I have to do afterwards. Or not do, as the case may be. Bless my darling boy, I had to tell him tonight that he wouldn't be getting any for 4 weeks after the surgery. All he said was "fine, but I'd best be getting 4 weeks of sex the day your bandages come off". Fair play.
So there's the background, and a little about me. I hope to be able to blog tomorrow about how the surgery went and how it feels, but if I don't then it's probably because I'm out cold and full of painkillers.
Nosda, my pets.
A xxx
For anyone reading this and thinking "21? Foolish girl, why is she getting surgery? Go running! Eat less!" let me clarify.
I've always been a wee bit chubby. It may have been slightly more than "a wee bit" when I had my "ugly duckling phase", as my Mum liked to kindly put it. However, when I was younger I was also a competitive ice dancer- and a damn good one, though I say as shouldn't. I stopped skating at 16- whilst still in the quacking phase- for my GCSE's and the abundance of muscle at the top of my inner thighs swiftly turned to fat.
Whilst my tummy and arms do not affect my life, perception of myself or (within reason) what I can wear on a day to day basis, this does. I cannot wear skirts or dresses without wearing shorts or tights underneath- stockings don't even work. Shorts have to be knee length (which is quite galling as from knee down, I've got a nice set of pins). It is very easy to convince yourself you are obese when you can't wear skirts because your enormous, child-eating thighs will give you heatrash through chafing. And, more to the point- it's bloody uncomfortable.
So, at twenty and beginning my second year of university, I decided I'd damn well do something about it. No more claiming "I'm built for comfort, not speed!". I was going to get my arse in gear. And I did! EVERYWHERE ELSE.
Whilst I dropped a dress size and made everyone exclaim "Goodness! Haven't you lost a lot of weight?" my thighs remained a source of irritation and discomfort. It would appear that no matter your diet or exercise regime, some fat just won't budge. So, when my 21st started rolling around, I decided that it was time to explore a measure a little more drastic.
I feel I should also explain here for those of you that don't know me- I don't really believe in plastic/cosmetic surgery for vanity's sake. I could have my tummy tucked, my arms tightened and toned, my boobs lifted and plumped along with lipo-ing my thighs, and I'd look bloody amazing. But I wouldn't be me. My surgery is purely for comforts sake. Yes, it will be lovely to prance about in hotpants in the summer without wibbling. But it'll be even lovelier to know that in forty-five minutes, I won't be in pain. I won't have a rash. I won't have bruising on my thighs from horrible ingrowing hairs. This may sound terribly self-pitying but I'm sorry, unless you've been there you simply will not understand, and the most I can hope for is that you will sympathise.
It is now nearly one am, and I have to be up in less than seven hours for the surgery. I have done most of the pre-op procedures apart from quitting smoking and frankly, I like it far too much to do so. It's fine, I've got good blood pressure. Got the feeling I may be made to afterwards though.
I'm a little nervous. Not about the op itself, more about everything I have to do afterwards. Or not do, as the case may be. Bless my darling boy, I had to tell him tonight that he wouldn't be getting any for 4 weeks after the surgery. All he said was "fine, but I'd best be getting 4 weeks of sex the day your bandages come off". Fair play.
So there's the background, and a little about me. I hope to be able to blog tomorrow about how the surgery went and how it feels, but if I don't then it's probably because I'm out cold and full of painkillers.
Nosda, my pets.
A xxx
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