For as much drama and hassle there was leading up to this surgery, I was actually thrilled when I found myself scrubbing my breasts for the required 2 minutes with the skin
Before I knew it, I was checking into the surgical center at 7am. As the nurse ran the obligatory pregnancy test and hooked me up for all the preliminary stats, she asked if I was nervous, and I answered honestly that yes, I was very nervous...the doctor might not show up, I'd seen pictures of boob jobs gone wrong, and a positive pregnancy test right now would be totally par for the course of how this process has gone thus far, and that'd kinda really suck. Then she looked down to see my blood pressure read 104/67 and said, "Good grief. I'd hate to see how low that is when you're not nervous."
See, I'm known more for causing high blood pressure, not so much having it.
The Anesthesiologist came in to talk to me. He explained that surgeries involving breasts increase the odds of post-surgical nausea. He asked if I had any concerns. Well, since you asked, I'm afraid of waking up in the middle of surgery, of everyone having to lift my dead weight to sit me up during surgery, and now you can add nausea after my surgery to my ever-growing list of fears.
Careful, my blood pressure may have just spiked to 105/68.
He reassured me by explaining that my brain waves will be closely monitored, so they know exactly how much anesthesia I need to keep me safely under.
"So then you're telling me that I don't have to lie about being 10 lbs heavier than I really am to make sure you give me plenty?"
"Um...we'd rather you not do that."
Then he made me stand on a scale and gave me disappointed looks. Whatever.
As for the Weekend At Bernie's nightmare, turns out the table lifts me to an upright position, not the nurses. And they took several extra precautions against nausea including a pill before surgery and a patch behind my ear, both said to last up to 3 days, as well as anti-nausea meds in the anesthesia itself.
Well, then, I guess I no longer have any concerns.
Finally, the doctor came in, armed with a purple marker and began measuring and mapping me out, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase purple nurples. I'm past any embarrassment with this process by now. I just stood still and avoided eye contact with the doctor or my husband, but especially my husband, who tends to giggle like a 7th grade boy when it comes to anything awkward or boob related, heaven forbid he think to say the words purple or nurple. And quite frankly, I was just relieved that the doctor showed up, so he could draw on me all he wanted at that point.
Right on schedule, it was time for me to enter the operating room, but they didn't pump me full of happy juice before wheeling me away on a bed. I had to walk. Fully aware and un-medicated, I walked myself into the surgical room, had to tell the team of nurses and anesthesiologists my name and exactly what I was having done. Under immense nerves and pressure, I remembered the technical terms of 'bilateral breast augmentation' but couldn't for the life of me remember the word 'mastopexy' so I resorted to "and then he's gonna lift 'em up." Or you could just open my gown and follow the purple marker maps, just somebody please knock me out so I can stop making eye contact with people.
Then I climbed onto the table, was told they'd give me something to relax, I noted that I tasted something funny in my mouth, followed by someone saying, "Goodnight..."
If you think I'm a hot mess on a normal day, just wait till tomorrow when you see me on narcotics...