7:43 p.m. - 2004-07-08
Bye Bye Boobies Part 3
My apologies for the extreme delay, everyone. Real life has been a little hectic of late! Stay tuned for updates about my new apartment, featuring the exploits of me and my soon to be roommate Diana. But for now, here's the rest of the story. Be warned, it's long.
The next thing I remembered was waking up when a nurse started talking to me. It's all pretty blurry - I don't know what she said or what I said in return - but I'm pretty sure I cracked a joke, which made me realise that I was alive and mostly functional. Immediately upon realising that, I also realised that Jesus, I was sore, although not as sore as I'd been expecting, and also that I felt pretty barfy. I looked at the clock that hung above me, and it was 20 after 3. Considering that I'd gone into surgery shortly before 1:00, I was astounded that it was still so early. The (extremely nice) nurse came over and asked me how if my chest was hurting. I looked at her like she was stupid and said "uh, yeah." She laughed and explained that she was more concerned about whether I was having shortness of breath or felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. (That was her exact phrase.) I said that I was pretty sure I wasn't having any heart problems, just that I'd been, y
ou know, sliced open and everything, and she said that was good. I told her I felt really nauseated (and puking was my number one thing I did NOT want to happen), and she trundled off and came back with some sort of anti-nausea stuff that went into my IV. I had to sit in the post-op room for 15 minutes after she gave me the shot (this stuff apaprently could have some sort of effect - I have no idea what it was). When she came back to check on me, I was still feeling pretty barfy, so she said I could either have another shot of the stuff that hadn't really worked the first time and then wait in the post-op room (which was the same room as the pre-op room, as far as I know) for another 15 minutes, or I could hold out until they got me back to my room where I could have Gravol and Morphine. Needless to say, I opted for the second option. The pain killer sounded incredibly appealing, but even more so was knowing that my mum and Jamie were both waiting for me.
So off I went, rolling down the halls of the hospital, and after we'd turned a few corners I heard my mother say my name. She sounded a little scared, and I can't say I blame her as I probably looked pretty awful, all pale and not moving. I don't think I've ever been so glad to hear her voice. I said hello to her, although I still couldn't see her, and then I rolled past and caught sight of Jamie's bright red hair. He smiled at me, and I gave him a half-hearted smile back, and then they kept on rolling me down the hall. Apparently, they told Mum and Jamie to wait a few minutes until they came into my room, but I didn't know that, and I couldn't understand why they didn't come with me. I just wanted Mum to tell me it was ok, and Jamie to make silly jokes (he'd been practicing bad breast related jokes for some time), and to feel like I was ok. Them not following me made me scared that something was wrong and I wasn't ok.
Soon enough, though, a nurse came into my room, and offered me morphine, gravol, and a glass of water. I am not exaggerating when I say that was the best offer I've had in my life. (Sorry, Jamie. The proposal was great, and all, but she had drugs!) I was so, so thirsty at that point, and I literally almost burst into tears at the offer. Jamie and Mum came in as she bustled off to bring me drugs and liquid, and they smiled at me and patted my hand and made small talk. Their presence and the impending arrival of narcotics made me feel infinitely better.
The nurse came back, and put the gravol into my IV and shot the morphine into my arm. (Which I don't even remember feeling - I was so sore everywhere else that a little pinch in the arm was pretty minimal.) She then noticed, however, that she'd forgotten my water, a comment which again nearly put me in tears. She came back pretty quickly with a cup full, and Jamie came and put the straw next to my mouth and smiled at me. I drank the water, and even though it was warm and tasted kind of funny, it was unbelieveably thirst quenching. Jamie sat down again, and the nurse left, and we chatted a little more - about how I was feeling, but also about stupid inane little things like how Mum's lunch was, and Jamie's German assignment, and all the regular things we'd have been talking about if we were sitting around at home. I started to get a little dozey - Gravol knocks me out like crazy - and the morphine was kicking in quickly. I had totally stopped feeling barfy, which made
me inordinately happy, and although I wanted to stay awake and talk to Jamie and Mum, I found myself dozing off. I would wake up occasionally, and Jamie would always jump up and give me some water, which I desperately wanted pretty much all the time. He was very tolerant of my repeated whimpering for a drink. I napped on and off, and half listened to a very amusing conversation in which Mum attempted to do some of Jamie's German translations, and before too long I'd woken up when the nurse asked if I'd like some apple juice. I happily accepted, and when she returned with the little plastic cup, I gulped it down, Jamie cheerfully holding the straw up to my mouth.
Before too long, though, I realised that I really had to pee. It had been some hours since I'd gone, and even though I hadn't had anything to drink for about 16 hours, I'd guzzled back two cups of water and a cup of apple juice, and it had gone speeding towards my bladder. I informed the nurse of my predicament, and she told me I could either have a bed pan or try to walk. Since I had to walk before they'd let me leave anyway, I figured I'd save myself the indignity of a bed pan and go for it. I struggled out of bed and draaaagged my IV to the bathroom, wincing all the way. It wasn't as bad as I'd expected, though, and I managed to successfully get to the bathroom without collapsing, exposing myself through my skimpy gown, or crying. Once I had gingerly lowered myself onto the toilet and settled my bladder, I made my way over to the sink to wash my hands and found myself staring into a mirror.
Even with the bags under my eyes and my messy braids (which every single nurse had commented on the thickness of, and which I highly recommend as surgery hair - having my hair pulled back in a way that was comfortable to lie on my back and stayed tightly out of my face for three days was the best idea I'd had), and the surgical bandage that was oozing various fluids, I could see the huge difference in myself. I looked taller, thinner. I looked more like the me I saw in my mind when I thought about myself, more like the me I'd been before I'd been suddenly visited by the breast fairy in my last year of high school. The difference was startling.
I made my way back to my bed and finished off my apple juice. The nurse came back in, handed my mother a sheaf of paper, gave her a few instructions, and told me I could go home. It was about quarter to five at that point, and it was less than two hours since I'd come out of surgery. All things considered, I was feeling pretty good, so with Mum's help I struggled back into my clothes (sweats and a loose fitting t-shirt), climbed into the wheelchair, and braced myself for the drive home.
The drive home was not fun. It was probably the worst half hour of the entire recovery - the roads in Edmonton are crappy and bumpy, and it was rush hour, so there was a lot of starting and stopping. I was propped at an uncomfortable angle in the back seat, and my mother, who is not the best driver in the world to begin with, kept checking on me in the rear view mirror, which just made things worse as it meant she wasn't watching the road. After getting upset a few times and coming dangerously close to crying again, we made it home. Jamie arrived soon afterwards, having gone in his own car and stopped along the way to pick up my prescription of pain medicine. I quickly took a T3 along with a few crackers, and gratefully gulped down the ginger ale Mum brought me, any trace of the earlier barfiness totally gone. I changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed, where I was propped up with many pillows and laid down on top of the surgical towels they'd given us to avoid any
seepage. (I hate that word.)
Jamie came and talked to me for a while, although he kept sitting on the bed and jostling me, and he eventually left me to nap, which I did for a while. Before too long, though, I was feeling moderately awake and got Mum to bring in my laptop. I set it up on the bed next to me and checked in with a bunch of my friends, online and offline, who happened to be on MSN and AIM at the time. I typed slowly, with only one hand able to reach the computer, but I was absolutely amazed at how positively civilised I felt, all things considered.
When my sister showed up a little while later to check on me, I informed her I would be holding a parade in honour of Tylenol 3. I poked around on the Internet for a while, checking in with my websites and noodling around. I slept, on and off, and snacked on crackers and sipped ginger ale from the bendy straws that Jamie had obligingly bought me. When I had to get up to go to the bathroom, I realised how immensely grateful I was that we had remodeled my bathroom for my grandfather's needs - we have a handicapped toilet and an assist bar that made lowering myself onto the toilet infinitely less painful than it could have been. I had a death grip on the assist bar, but it would have been much worse if we'd had a regular low-rider toilet.
After a few hours, I was pretty hungry, so Dad made me some dinner at about ten at night. I wolfed it down and thanked every deity I could think of that I hadn't gotten sick. I couldn't think of much that would have sucked more than puking up pickle juice while in large quantities of pain - the mere action of barfing would have been incredibly painful. I'd said all along that I could handle the pain, I just didn't want to barf, and that was exactly what happened. Thank God.
The Raisin called at about 8:00, and sounded incredibly surprised to be having an actual conversation with me rather than just getting a report from my parents, and I was repeatedly surprised at how decent I was feeling. As I posted on one of my message boards shortly after setting up my laptop (God Bless wireless internet, too - it saved my sanity.):
hi guys! i'm home and doing well. i love my wireless internet and am thinking of having a parade in honour of tylenol 3.
i was really super scared before hand and had to drink the nastiest stuff in the world. but!!! i didn't puke at all and actually feel pretty good, considering. hurts a lot but t3 helps a ton.
even with delightful surgical boustier and lots of gauze, the difference is unreal. i feel so LIGHT it is unreal.
i am tired of typing one handed so i will leave it at that. i am REALLY REALLY proud that i didn't chicken out even though i was terrified. and i'm REALLY REALLY glad it's over!!!
thanks for all your good thoughts.
The slightly drunken feel to the post can be attributed both to the one handed typing and the T3, I think.
A few hours later, Mum decided that she needed to go to bed, and the problem arose of how I would get her if I needed her, being that her bedroom is three floors away from mine. Technology came through in the crunch, though, and she took my cell phone off to bed with her and left me with my cordless phone on my pillow so I could get ahold of her quickly. We'd originally planned it the other way around, but I don't get reception for my cell in my basement bedroom. It worked well all night, actually - even before she went to bed, I'd call her if I needed a drink or whatever, and she didn't have to worry that she couldn't hear me calling for her, and I didn't have to yell up the stairs. I was a little concerned that one of my friends would call to leave me a message in the middle of the night, but fortunately that didn't happen.
It took me a long time to get to sleep - I watched a whole bunch of episodes of Friends on my computer, my sister having brought over season 5 to amuse me - and I was a little lonely once all my friends had gone offline. I eventually managed to doze off, but I didn't sleep very well - I had to sleep on my back, and I really, really hate doing that. So I'd always be insinctively rolling over in my sleep and then waking up from the shooting pain of doing so. I got a bit of sleep, though, and when I woke up the next morning I was feeling pretty good. I had an appointment later in the day to get the drains removed, which I was really not looking forward to. But it also meant I would get to see.
We went into the day clinic, and they took me out of my bandages and pulled the drains out, which I couldn't even feel, much to my extreme relief. Mum was in there with me, and so she saw the open wounds, which I can't imagine was particularly pleasant, but I couldn't see much of anything. They taped me up, told me to shower with my back to the water, and sent me on my way. The whole thing was utterly underwhelming and extremely quick.
Soon after I got home, I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror for a while. I was wearing a sports bra I'd bought the day before surgery, and I eased it up over my chest and stared at what was underneath. I was swollen and a little bruised, and covered in tape, but I coul dsee the forms of my new breasts underneath it all. I couldn't stop looking. I was so, so happy to have that weight off my shoulders - literally. I knew right then that I would never, ever regret the decision I made.
Recovery since then has been entirely easy. I've had no complications, very little pain, and nothing but total relief and happiness with the results. The day after my drains were taken out, I went to a party at the Party House and debuted my new boobs. Everyone was wonderful - especially Foreman, who drove me there and back even though I could only stay for half an hour - and I felt absolutely fine besides a little soreness.
My back has felt better from the minute I woke up from the surgery, and the improvement in my posture is quite staggering. Jamie took me shopping two weeks after my surgery, and I bought cute little tops, fun pretty bras that only cost $15, and shirts that didn't even need a bra. I feel better. I look better. Even my mother, who was a little nervous about the whole thing and thought it might be better if I just lost some weight, cannot believe how much more I look like she expects me to. I feel more like me. I feel like the real me was trapped beneath the sore back and the dents in my shoulders and the stupidly expensive bras, and now I'm out and free again. It's the best feeling in the world. The incisions are closed now, and the scars are already starting to fade. I'm back to my regular schedule - and have been since two weeks post surgery, when I came back to work. Life is good. Wedding dresses look better on me. I can wear any dress I want without having to
subject myself to torture devices disguised as undergarments. Shopping no longer makes me want to cry. I cut my hair just before I came back to work, and I look at myself in the mirror now and see a different person. I see the me I wanted to be, the one I felt like I couldn't be when I thought that all anybody saw when they looked at me was an oversized chest. I'm not hiding behind my hair any more, or behind baggy clothes and lots of layers. I'm here, out in the open, for everyone to see, and I couldn't be happier about it.
If you're thinking about having the surgery, know someone who is, or just want to know more, email me or leave me a note or a guestbook entry. I'll answer pretty much anything, and if you prove to be more than just an internet perv, I'll send you pictures, too. I've got a lot of them. Sometimes I just sit and look at them, flipping back and forth between the before and after, and I am incredibly grateful that I found the courage to go through with this and for the support that my friends and family gave me every step of the way. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the incredible support that came particularly from Jamie and my mother. Both of them were against the surgery at first, but once I'd made the decision, they never once wavered in their support of me. They took incredible care of me, and made me realise how lucky I am in so many ways.
Now, if you'll excuse me, the rest of my life is waiting for me.
