The day of surgery wasn't quite what I had expected, it was almost pleasant. I'm no masochist but the people I met, made it an awful lot easier than the mental melee I was prepared for.
Putting guide wires in place on both sides was at times comical. The positions I found myself clamped to a mammogram, I'm sure would have challenged a yoga guru. The lovely ladies in Radiology were so patient when my escaping boobs ( or me ) wouldn't do as directed. You can't blame them (the boobs), I think they knew what was coming. Getting the long springy wires in was one thing, sticking them in place was quite another. A shout went out from the consultant who was on her knees with my clamped boob in a very dark corner of the room. She jokingly asked if anybody had a torch; the technician whipped out my iPhone. Round one sorted!
Sitting around for surgery was tedious, the pre-surgery questions made me snigger childishly. I was asked by the same nurse "did I have diabetes" eight times. I know that they have to ask but when she kept going, I began to wonder if she was trying to catch me out. Had I said I had diabetes at some point? And for someone that doesn't wear tights and is cack handed, surgical stockings are a test too far. Put a zip in them please.
Time was finally called for the long march to the theatre. No 11 was quite like every theatre I'd been in before, the team lead and anaesthetist were a hoot mind. Climbing onto the operating table, I made a conscious note of not rolling over. I may not have the physique of a twig but Lordy, heaven help those with a bigger backside than mine. I clung on with a death grip. Then flowed the heavenly and I mean heavenly fentanyl. I did ask for some to take home but the anaesthetist was very uncharitable. She muttered something about losing her job. Spoilsport.
Waking up didn't really happen. They tried shaking, shouting, icy cold rags and shining bright lights in my eyes. All I can remember of the first few hours was a lady's floating voice saying "she had shed loads" and a nurse telling me to breath. A damn annoying alarm kept wailing and ruining my peace every time I managed to get back to sleep. They finally relented in their efforts to rouse me and I was detained at their pleasure, to sleep it off in peace. Enter Max the nurse. Every patient in recovery needs a Max. He was lovely in every way. He even held my hand as I wobbled and gibberd like a drunkard to the bog, and yes of course, I did bare my apple pickers to all. That's professionalism.
I had a whole ward to myself. It was odd, eerily quiet. At least I didn't have to contend with mass snoring and cardiac monitors. All in all it was a peaceful night punctuated with the odd call for analgesia. The next morning I woke up to another world. The peaceful ward was in fact a radiology day unit. Lots and lots of nurses buzzing around and cleaners hitting every piece of metal in time to some 80s rock anthem. It wasn't long before it started filling up and I was happily given my marching orders. Nurse Julie was great by the way. Simply great.
The first couple of days at home were horrid. I'm not going to pretend it was easy, I was pathetic. The left side which had the WLE / SNB, and should have been the trouble maker was fine but the right that just had a WLE, hell was that pain. I popped tramadol like smarties. I think part of reason for the pain was the Dolly Parton effect of surgery. Both boobs were rock solid too. Only this morning, five days later, has bruising start to show and the brick like boobs start to soften, so too mercifully has the pain decreased. It's the first time I could do the exercises today.
A friend invited himself to stay this weekend. The blighter bought 4 bags. All very nice but when on earth am I going to be able to replace them? Another friend is getting married next week and I have yet to make her wedding present. Anybody have a healing magic wand?
I'm just crossing my fingers that the surgeon (She Who Must Not Be Named), was having a good day and chopped out clear margins. The thought of another round of this doesn't fill me with joy. But then there would be more Fentanyl. Every cloud...
