Well, I cant get online enough to update properly, but I can certainly get typing and then upload this when Im back at home in a couple of days, huh?
I need to tell you about my new boobs, cos, lets face it, who doesn�t want to read about boobs? Its been a week since I got �em and, so far, theyre looking pretty awesome. They hurt like an absolute bastard (or pair of bastards) and very time I lean forward I think theyre going to fall off (Im pretty sure they wont) but otherwise theyre pretty good.
The actual operation was fine � the people at Salisbury are so lovely, I cant recommend them enough. I still feel a bit guilty that they�re actually experts in proper important reconstruction of poor bastards who�ve had horrible accidents or suffered some dreadful disfigurement, and not just wasting their time fixing up people�s top-bollocks but Im grateful for their skills nonetheless. It�s a bit different than Southampton, which always has an air of Sausage Factory Conveyor Belt about it � there they wheel you into a little room and fill you full of drugs and then cart you off to the operating theatre when youre already asleep and everythings a bit impersonal and�err�clinical. At Salisbury, my lovely surgeon came to see me beforehand and said �Im going to draw on you but I�ll wait til youre asleep� which made me half think that I might wake up with a nice Mexican moustache Sharpie�d on my face but I was worrying unnecessarily, it seems.
Then they cart you into the operating theatre and everyone�s all jolly and nice, even the people who are still scrubbing up �Oooh, Hello!� she calls from the sink �Look at me � Im all behind!�. The anaesthetist finds out what you like to drink and then squirted some stuff into the cannula with a cheerful �Well, there�s a couple o� shots of Glennfiddich for you � that�ll make you all giggly� and then I was waking up with a wee nursey holding my hand and I was wearing a GIANT black NHS enormo-bra that I certainly don�t remember putting on myself and I had new boobs. Yay!
Slight moment of high hilarity on the ward in the middle of the Saturday night when, of the five patients residing therein, four of us were puking and puking and puking, like a real life re-enactment of a Family Guy special. Ooh, it was horrible and I kind of spoiled the effect of my brand new Janet Reger satin pyjamas (thanks, TK Maxx!) by puking so hard that I wee�d on them and then the nurse had to come and change my bed. A very UN-glamorous moment all �round.
Just as a side bar, I�d like to put it out there, that satin pyjamas are not ideal for hospital wear, no matter how glamorous one wants to feel. The trouble is, you see, that hospital beds are designed to tilt at head and foot, for the comfort of the bedridden. Satin pyjamas are designed for lying completely flat in (or possibly, answering the door to the postman while sipping an early morning Martini). The combination of raised bed parts, shiny PJs and crisp hospital sheets means that the poor patient spends rather more time than one might consider reasoinable, trying to anchor oneself to the mattress to avoid the inevitable slippy slidy journey to the bottom of the bed, there to languish in an undignified (yet still glamorous) shiny pile, necessitating a kind of desperate claw-and-crawl back to the realm of the pillows!
I found I could maintain some kind of status quo by stuffing a pile of pillows in the bottom of the bed that I could jam my feet against, forming a sort of tidal defence against the flow of satin (and body!).
L came to visit me on the second day. Everyone else�s husbands had already been in, bearing gifts and hand-pats and kisses and generally being the lovely supportive entities that husbands are supposed to be, so Id had a chance to get up some serious false hopes before he arrived, moaning about the weather and the parking and the parking charges and the driving and the journey and the other motorists and how much he hates hospitals and generally being so sulky that I did genuinely wish that he hadn�t come to see me at all, especially as he didn�t bring me ANYTHING! Not a bar of chocolate, bunch of grapes, NOTHING. Just sat there, firing a series of brusque questions at me (How are you? Does it hurt? How long was the operation? Whats the food like? When are you coming home?)
With the benefit of a bit of kindly hindsight Im guessing he wasn�t actually feeling all that well and was trying to hide it but fucking hell. I was glad when he�d gone. The only good bit was when the doctors came to have a look at me while he was there � he�s a bit squeamish so I suggested that he look away while I was being examined. He thought I just didn�t want him to look at me so he pretended to read the paper but was doing a little side-eye while they were examining. He didn�t say anything until the doctors and nurses had all gone, then he leaned over and said (in a pervy Peeping Tom voice) �I looked! They look fucking awesome!�
And they do.
I�ll tell you a bit more about how I came to be staying at my mum and dads next time. Its not particularly exciting but I might have found a way to make it so by then!