Saturday, August 6, 2016
Booby Trapped- Part 6
Much to my pleasant surprise, this first week of recovery has been pretty low-key. I stopped taking the Percocet the day after my surgery, thanks to that soup video, and I switched over to plain old Ibuprofen. It's painful, but not unbearable. My throat is very sore from the breathing tube that ran down it during surgery, which thankfully, I remained blissfully unaware of until after the surgery. Notice the anesthesiologist didn't mention that was gonna happen in our little pre-op meet 'n' greet, probably because within 2 minutes of meeting me, he realized the less I know the better.
I'm continuing to wear my chest vest 24/7, per doctor's orders, and because it's become my new security blanket, and I may or may not have attachment disorders. Considering I lived in my 'tummy huggie' for almost a year after my tuck, my kids don't even question my Velcro apparel anymore.
Thursday the 21st was my first follow-up appointment with the doctor. My biggest concern that day was how puffy I was. Seriously, it felt and looked like I'd put on 10 lbs overnight, so of course I weighed myself to make sure I didn't, and discovered that I didn't. I'd gained 7, which you'd think would've made the downward spiral that followed at least 3 lbs less dramatic, but you'd be wrong. It was a full 10 lb plummet to an all out emotional brouhaha in the bathroom, where Ron attempted to comfort me by explaining that each boob probably weighs 3 1/2 pounds now so this is probably just my new weight, which might've sounded good in his head, but when said out loud, made things notably worse, and had me rethinking my stance against Percocet.
So I squeezed myself into my 'fat' shorts, pulled a big t-shirt over my chest vest, and waddled into the doctor's office, where he raved about how good I looked. Lies help no one, sir.
He looked me over, checked my incisions, and confirmed that everything looked exactly like it was supposed to at that stage of recovery. Then he asked me if I'd pooped yet. File that one under C for curve-ball. "Poop? Not ringin' a bell, but I was high for 2 days, so there's that."
He explained that while I was on the surgery table, he decided that the implants would look better behind my pec muscles, rather than in front of them, as originally planned. That's a big deal to me, because that's what I really wanted in the first place, but was told by my original doc that it was a more extensive and invasive procedure and that it was unnecessary. But in my mind, by putting them behind my pec muscles, I had an extra layer of body tissue trapping them in, thus preventing any unfortunate implant disasters during Zumba. I'm not saying it makes medical sense, I'm telling you how my mind works. Regardless, Dr. O'Neil did me yet another huge favor, by going above and beyond what he would've had to do, because he wanted to do his very best job for me. Again.
Have I mentioned how much I love this doctor? Well, it's worth repeating.
But that definitely explains the pain I was feeling in my chest muscles at night...not like a good kind of oh-I'm-so-sore-from-that-workout pain, but more like a son-of-a-b*tch-somebody-sliced-through-my-pecs-with-a-knife kind of pain. See, that's different.
I'm still under his orders not to do anything, which is fine by me, because I can't lift my arms above my head and whenever I go from lying down to sitting up, I feel the throbbing sensation of an engorged woman capable of breastfeeding a small country of starving infants. As for feeling like I have 2 construction cones protruding off the front of my chest, the doctor says those should relax...a little...over the next 3 months.
My goal now being that they're down to normal size by October, which should eliminate at least 3 of my husband's Halloween costume ideas he has in mind for me.
We came so close to leaving there without saying anything ridiculous. So. Close. But then the doctor shared some "good news." Thanks to not having any stitches or drainage tubes, he said I could shower whenever I want, which Ron took as a green light to ask if that means I'm now also allowed to get in the hot tub with him at night, because heaven forbid, we make it out of that appointment without sounding as creepy as humanly possible.
How bout'chya go ahead and tell him we've already had sex while you're at it?
Ron's "can I pretty please submerge her 48-hour boob incisions, held solely together by glue, into a 104 degree hot tub full of chlorine" question was met with a resounding "no" and then a "NOOO!" from the nice normal doctor who still thinks we're lunatics. Shocker.
In other news, I haven't experienced any bruising at all, by Saturday I was able to (sort of) sleep on my side rather than my back, and I took my last Ibuprofen on Sunday afternoon, because I'm not a fan of being dependent on medication, despite the excuse of having had surgery 5 days ago.
I go back to see the doctor July 28th, and I think he's going to be as pleased with my progress as I am, because all in all, this recovery has been uneventful for my standards....well, except for Thursday night when I started to have a full out panic attack whenever I thought of having foreign objects embedded in my chest and thoughts of rippin' your new implants out with your bare hands makes nothin' but sense, am I right?
But no need to tell the good doctor everything, because as much of a pain in his ass that we were before the surgery, I'm trying to make up for now.
We'll resume this series on Monday where you can learn what to expect during your 2nd week of recovery after your boob job...assuming your husband takes you to a waterpark 11 days after your boob job, of course.