A New Part Of Me. An Introduction

I’m not a good patient.  That’s what I’ve learned from this experience thus far.  I’m not good at laying around.  My mind spirals into the softness of where my body I can only imagine is going to settle since I’ve been pretty much vertical since Friday.

But…

Let’s rewind so I will catch you up.

I had surgery a week ago this Friday.  It was a cosmetic thing.  Not something I needed, but something that I wanted.  That alone makes me feel like I shouldn’t complain about any of it. Not to mention the judgment I’m sure I’m receiving from friends and family.  And, by the by, if you are judging and reading this, I don’t blame you.  I’m judging me too, which I often do, probably way worse then you ever could.

I digress…

I showed up for surgery at approximately 8:05 AM.  Surgery was supposed to start somewhere in the 10 AM range.  We went through all the necessary paperwork.  Thanks to my husband who had to do most of the writing, the talking for me, since everything was of course in Spanish. I’m in Mexico if you don’t already know, and that is where I am having this event for it does feel like an event in my life.

They escorted me to my room, which was locked.  So we waited and then waited a bit more until it was opened and I could get situated.  Everything was pristinely clean without that stink that some hospitals carry that makes you feel like a person has just died around the corner.

The first nurse came into the room and asked if I was Regina.  Um…no, although I’m not opposed to having that name as an alter ego at some point. He looked embarrassed, as he should, scurried away, and came back a few moments later with the correct information.

I was a tad trepidatious when I realized that he was the one, the chosen one, who would be needle sticking me in a few minutes so that I could be properly hooked up to an IV.

Now reader, I have small veins and if you have read my previous blog, I do not bleed all that much.  Maybe because of the size of my veins?  (That kind of makes sense in my head.) So, I was expecting this to be some kind of ordeal, but not to the extent that it actually turned into being. 

I usually drink a ton of water before I get my blood drawn and I was staying properly hydrated weeks leading up to this surgery, I promise you that.  But I had to fast from not only food, but liquids for eight hours and I was feeling it.

Needless to say, the wrong name calling nurse, failed at his the mission of getting of attaching me to an IV, and he tried both of my arms.

He then called for reinforcements.  This new guy tap tapped and then tapped some more.  First one arm, then the other.  I held my breath, squeezed my eyes tightly closes (like that would help) as he tried, and then failed.

A girl nurse was soon called in.  Finally, I thought, she will do what the boys cannot.

Wrong.  Band aide four was soon placed after her failed attempt.

The anesthesiologist showed up and we took a break from attempting the needle sticking as she asked me several questions that I assume all anesthesiologist ask.  I found myself wanting to be her number one patient and perfect in every possible way.

”Have you ever done any drugs?” She asked.  

I vehemently shook my head from side to side, indicating a resounding no.  I would never do such a thing I wanted my violent head shaking to indicate.

”I need to know,” she continued, “because the medicine you will be receiving plays with the same parts of your brain that certain drugs do.”

Oh, I thought.

”She does have her medicinal marijuana card,” my husband thankfully piped in.

And I was truthful in saying I haven’t smoked in quite some time, especially since I was preparing for this surgery.

”Have you ever been a cigarette smoker?” She asked next.

”Yes, but it was a long time ago; like 20 years.”

She nodded along as I saw in my mind’s eye a month ago.  Sitting outside, listening to a band on one of those beautiful, sunny May days.  Bumming one cig after another from one friend after another.  It was only a month ago, but should I divulge such a thing?  What would she think of me.  Would they dismiss the whole procedure with an awkward shrug, judgemental eye blink?  But if I don’t tell her will I die on the operating table.  My lungs playing an I told you we didn’t like that stuff all along, why didn’t you listen to us.  It really only serves you right in the end.

I didn’t tell her about my day drinking, day cigging excursion if you were wondering.

“I’m going to try to get the IV into your arm now,” she stated.

Yes, I thought.  She looks like she knows what she’s doing.  She will get this part done.

She did not.

My mind was whirling.  What am I going to do if they can’t find a vein?  Surely I’m not that unique; something that I’m quite used to not being, so let’s not start now, I thought.

The problem is, I can find a vein, but because the liquid is a bit thicker, the moment it enters your veins they collapse.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “But, I think I know the nurse who can help.”

I love a woman with a solution.

”He works with preemie babies, so he’s used to dealing with small veins.  When they take you to the operating area, we will have him try.”

She soon left and I was finally alone with the plastic surgeon who had been looking rather bored this whole time. I even watched him yawn more than once, scroll on his phone, and give what I could only assume were annoyed side eyes in my direction as if to say, “Why must you have such small veins to begin with.”

This was the first time I met him in person.  His assistant, my actual doctor, I soon realized, is the personality behind the duo. He is Italian after all and quite gregarious. 

We went over what I was hoping to accomplish.  He brought several implant sizes and I surprisingly went with the largest.  410 ccs.

”I most likely will do a small lift,” he said.  “Since you have lost so much volume on the top of your breast.”

And I really have; it has been something that I have been quite self conscience about for the last few years.

But why, you may ask.  I’ve never had kids; little leeches that suck breasts dry and cause them to deflate like sad little or big (depending) balloons.

However, I did gain quite a bit of weight in 2019-2021.  About 50 pounds to be exact.  And when I gain weight it goes everywhere; face, jaw, neck, arms, hand, stomach, legs, ankles, and yes the breast.  They became quite large.  Now that I am at a more comfortable, more situated weight, my breast deflated quite a bit.

Once all of that was decided I was whisked upstairs with a good luck and a hasty kiss from my husband.  I know my eyes were the size of saucers as I was wheeled to the operating room.  Nurses of all ages, of all genders, were running around me, each one dealing with their specific task at hand.  No one really paying me any mind. Aren’t I the star of the show, I thought. The answer is no. No I’m not.

Finally, the anesthesiologist came to my gurney as she brought along another nurse.  He must be the one who works with premie babies.  He expertly took one arm, put the needle in and viola, I was attached to the IV and the medicine that hopefully would put me asleep until this whole procedure was over.

”Now, when we wheel you into the other side of the room, there’s going to be a lot of people around, putting various items on your body.  Don’t be alarmed,” the anasthesiologist said.  And I am so glad she gave me the warning because that is exactly what happened.  

My body was gently tousled from one side to the other as sticky things were placed on my back, my chest.

She stood over me and slightly bent down.

”Are you ready for your first shot of tequila?” She asked as she placed, what I could only assume, was the first part of the anathesia into my IV.  

I guess I’m a light weight, or maybe my tolerance has gone down since I haven’t been drinking the last week or so, for that is really all that it took for me to promptly pass out; the oxygen mask held a few inches from my nose.

The whole thing lasted about two hours, I was told.  I woke up in quite a bit of pain, although I was in and out of it.  I could feel each of the incisions.  Finally a nurse asked me, through Google translate (what would we do without modern technology), my pain level.

”Ocho” I croaked.  She nodded and proceeded to give me some more of that alleviating good stuff and then I was wheeled into the same room I had been previously where my husband was waiting with LAW AND ORDER, my comfort show, cued and ready for me to watch.

I have several things to say about this whole experience.  

Anathesia makes me quite chatty and I suddenly feel like I can speak Spanish. (I had quite the conversation with the nurse who took me outside).

And…

After seeing my surgeon the next day what I mistook for arrogance may have been just nerves.  He hadn’t met me before, he hadn’t felt or seen my breast in real life before and he was going to be operating on me in one hour.  I would be aghast if he didn’t feel a certain type of way about this whole situation.

”I want to let you know,” he said.  “All of the nurses in the operating room were women and I wanted to make a small incision on the side of your breasts to lift them a tiny bit more.  I asked the women in the room and they unanimously stated that they would rather them not be quite as perky then to have a scar in that particular area, so I listened to their advice.”

Wow, was my only thought.  I have friends who are nurses and their experience has taught me that is quite rare.  A surgeon listening to his nurses without letting his ego get in the way of what is actually right, wrong, and somewhere in between?

I’m quite happy with the results so far, if you were wondering.  I will be glad to get my stitches removed and to stop taking the pain meds (I don’t know how people can get addicted to this stuff…I hate it) and to finally be able to exercise again, even if it’s only going on a walk without feeling like my breasts are about to pop out of my chest and roll down the sidewalk.  Yes, I was holding onto them for dear life as I walked back to our apartment. I was perhaps premature in my walking prowess.

I’m glad this whole ordeal is hopefully behind me and the end result will not be met with complications (take it from me, do not go on google to see all the things that could and potentially do go wrong).

I’m trying to be better.  Reading, watching all of the LAW AND ORDERs I can, doom scrolling, and not getting into my own head about the state of the person I am.  I started daily meditations, writing in a manifestation journal, as well as a new book idea to keep me busy, and of course, let’s not forget a skin care routine that would cause even Korean women to look at me in wonder.

I do not regret what I have done to my body (what good would it do me anyway), but rather am embracing these new parts of me.  They probably need a name (am open for any suggestions) since I adopted them and I do hope they get along with my sometimes moody, often cranky, always self deprecating self or maybe they will provide the joy I sometimes need for my dopamine levels to be on the same level as everyone elses.  Only time will tell of course and I promise you I will keep you abreast of all of it.