Surgery 4 - torture chambers, pox and boob jobs

 I now associate uncomfortable, warm weather with my poor health. 

When I found out about my SCT in 2019, it was at the end of June and by the time I had my first major operation, it was the middle of summer. I spent my first set of recovery in the uncomfortable heat, trying to sleep with a variety of fans and open windows, my body swelling in the heat during it's already inflamed state. So it was already a link in my mind, last month, when I woke up on the hottest day of the year (so far) mentally preparing myself get ready for my fourth operation. 

We drove into London and I arrived at a hospital I hadn't yet been to before ( I'm slowly checking them all off) on Harley Street. 

I hadn't done my research on the hospital before arriving, but I was met in the waiting room by several women who all had an air of excitement about them, which confused me as I felt anxious and a sense of dread over yet another surgery. 

It wasn't until I was in my hospital room, dressed already in a gown and the familiar long white socks and sexy net pants that my nurse informed me that it was primarily a cosmetic surgery hospital that I was staying in. It now made sense why everyone else was smiling whilst I was tapping my foot nervously and It shouldn't, but it made me feel resentful; everyone else in that room wanted to be there, they had voluntarily chosen to have an operation that day to result in a procedure that they wanted to have done out of choice. I hadn't and I envied that. I had already recently come to the realisation that when you are unwell, your body is no longer yours - it's really difficult to get your head around the fact that your opinion isn't educated enough to know what is right for your own body - the decisions and opinions of doctors, nurses and surgeons come before your own - even when it comes down to the medication that you input into your body. mate, I used to drink 15 cans of Strongbow at my local pub when I was in my late teens, which developed into a slightly more  classy two bottles of wine in my twenties; a packet of cigarettes' and there was no thought behind it. Now, when I wake up, my medication has been instructed, my diet has been advised and alcohol has been replaced with vitamins, turmeric and ginger shots and aromatherapy baths to 'relax' my body as if my brain can't even send the signals anymore. That,  is easily accepted when it's every now and then at your local GP practice; but my body hasn't felt like my own for two years and sitting there in that room cemented that. How long would it be, before I no longer consult a stranger about the choices I make with my own health? when life is 'normal' again and I finally no longer need to go for check ups and scans - how scared will I feel to stand on my own two feet after so long? 

I asked the standard questions to make polite conversation whilst getting my blood pressure checked, my weight taken and waiting for the results of my pregnancy test; 'is it more men or women who come in to get cosmetic surgery?' (answer: 50/50). 'what's the most popular choice?' (answer: nose and boob jobs) 'How much does it cost?' (answer: around £40,000) and wondered on how many people would be walking out the same doors as me that day with a new nose or set of boobs and feeling completely different. I sort of wished that after all the surgeries I had, that one of the had resulted in a positive physical change of some sort whereby I would have at least got something out of it (yeah yeah, I'm alive and I've got my health, I know, I know!) instead of a gigantic scar on my bum and loss of dignity. 

My pregnancy scare was negative (imagine if it wasn't!) and I was taken down to the floor of surgeries. Now, usually I am taken into a little room (see my posts on surgeries 1,2 and 3) where I am given my dose of anesthetic, away from the big scary operation theatre and fall blissfully into a dreamless sleep, happily unaware of what is happening to me. Not this time! As if it was the big bang to end all surgeries, they walked me IN TO the operation theatre and just casually asked me to jump up onto the metal table, surrounded by the big lights, tools, metal trays and machines; everyone in the room was dressed in the mint green outfit like something out of 'Casualty' and waving me in like this was all not daunting in the slightest.

Now, I'd like to think after the past two years and the years before even (I've had twins remember) that I'm a tough cookie, but this even took me aback. I 'hopped' (imagine a manatee hopping) onto the table and they asked me to lie on my front - with my head down, as if I was preparing to be massaged on the set of 'Hostel' , whilst they, pulled open my gown and cut open the sexy knickers to all have a good look at my damaged and scarred bum. The pain specialist the proceeded to prod, poke and jab the area asking 'does that hurt?', (muffled) 'Yep!', 'does THAT hurt', (silently screaming and grabbing onto the table) 'Yep!!!' and I was drawn all over, like a board in a conference room, whilst they assessed the situation.  Bum out already on stage in the performance and then a massive wedge that felt like it was made of spikes was lodged in between my bum cheeks, stretching out my healing scar in complete agony that I had to then beg them to please put me under as I couldn't take much more. They agreed, I was stabbed in the hand, counted down from 100 and I don't remember the rest. 

I woke up, in recovery, with an overwhelming feeling that made me want to cry; 'what if this is it? - what if this is the end?' I felt like I was looking down a mountain at how far I had climbed and I felt a feeling of grief for the time I had lost and for the life and person I no longer was. It was probably all the drugs to be honest, but I felt like I had been woken up after a really long nightmare. 

In total I had 6-7 injections of nerve blocker, steroids' and antibiotics all up my back, into my spine, my scar and raw coccyx bone. I had what looked like a penis drawn on my back with a sharpie where the injections were mapped out and bruising.

I didn't pass anyone with bandaged noses on the way out and I don't think I would have noticed if I had - London was sunny, people were outside pubs and restaurants as if Covid hadn't happened, let alone what I'd been through and it all felt like a new beginning. I was so so sore and as soon as I got home I collapsed into bed. 

The days that followed were incredibly painful. I couldn't move, let alone do anything for myself; my husband had to bath me and I was back being bed bound which felt like I had gone all the way back to square one. With the hot weather, my already bruised body was swollen and it made it so uncomfortable at all times - not that I was sleeping due to the pain anyway. My pain relief intake had increased and I was still spending all my time sitting on ice packs, but now I was shut away in my bedroom - I felt like I had made a huge mistake by getting the injections, when the whole point was to give me a better quality of life and less pain from everything I had already been through. 

Then, a week into recovery, my son caught chicken pox. What began as a little spot on his lip, developed into a spread of small blisters across his little body within hours and he was ,understandably, uncomfortable and feverish with a need to be taken care of. He slept in my bed for the first few nights - neither of us sleeping due to my pain, or his pain and I was lost in a vortex of Calpol, lotion and oat bath's - but the need to protect and nurture my baby took over and my recovery took a huge backseat whilst my role as a mother took priority. Amongst all of that, even though I still wasn't getting any sleep, the distraction of taking care of my child helped me to get up, brush myself off and do what was needed. Yes, its perhaps pushed back my recovery but it's also helped me forget, I wouldn't want anyone else aside from his father to have taken care of him during those days and I was glad to be needed - I was no longer mummy with the sore bum who has to sit on the ice packs - I was mummy. Mummy who gave the cuddles and the kisses, who rubbed lotion on the naughty spots and gave soothing baths, who was there in the early hours to sing softy when he couldn't sleep and I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

We are going to Centre Parcs in two days. We have booked a four bed lodge and are going with a few family members, my baby nephew and friends. We have a games room and a hot tub, as well as activities booked and surrounded by nature - the change of scenery will certainly do this family good let me tell you! and it will allow me to get out of this house, my bed prison and will be the perfect place for both my son and I to feel better. 

As I sit here, half excitedly, half stressed (English weather is so unpredictable) packing the four suitcases for the week ahead. I feel really positive. Things have been TOUGH the last however long and sometimes it's felt like we cant get a break, but we deserve this holiday and we deserve the memories away from hospitals, medications and meetings. To have plans and make decisions that we want to make and have a change to restart. We'll have BBQs and bike rides if its sunny (with me whizzing ahead on my mobility scooter) or play board games next to the fire if it rains and I've even promised myself a cheeky celebratory cocktail during the holiday for getting through operation number four. 

Let's just hope our other twin doesn't come down with the chicken pox in the meantime!