21.

Twenty-one years ago today, at the age of 21, I walked down an isle to take a vow before God that I would spend the rest of my life with my best friend.  Sounds simple enough, right? 

Let's be honest.  As we confidently repeated the words, 'For better or for worse,' we were actually thinking,
'And we'll live happily ever after.'

I wonder what would have gone through our heads that day if we were given a tiny glimpse into the future?

"Do Ron and Shari promise to love, honor, and cherish each other on the day that..." 

...Ron discovers Shari's gag reflex is as weak as her bladder.  Simultaneously.
...Shari is using the port-a-potty in the park and Ron backs the van up against the door, trapping her inside.  fyi; he'll also trap her inside revolving doors.
...Shari hoses down the living room with a fire extinguisher because she panicked when a candle broke.
...Shari's locking the door of the condo in Hilton Head and Ron sneaks up behind her, covers her mouth and pretends to be an attacker to "test her instincts." 
...Ron acknowledges that he is a people person, and that Shari is most definitely not.
...Ron tells Shari she sucks at first impressions.  And he's right.
...Ron has neck surgery and Shari poses his puke bag in inappropriate positions and takes pictures while he sleeps.
...Ron tries to teach their 5 year old how to ride without training wheels by sending her down a hill on her bike.  In the park.  While she's wearing a dress.  And a giant 4-wheeler helmet.
...Shari starts saying, "I want your honest opinion."  Ron starts responding, "Please don't make me play this game."
...Ron and their 12 year old son get escorted from a car dealership because he truly believed he was The Grand Prize Winner and when he found out that the post card was a ploy to get him to come buy a new car, he causes "a public disturbance." 
...Shari puts all the Cassanos leftover pizza on the roof of the van and forgets it's there.  Except she thinks Ron did it.  But she did it.  But she's convinced he did it.  He'll go to his grave knowing she did it.  And she'll go to hers believing he did it. 
..."Ron from New Carlisle" calls into a live radio talk show about sex to discuss his wife.
...it's discovered that when God brought Ron and Shari together, He ultimately created the complete embodiment of Good Cop, Bad Cop and that works to their advantage in almost any given situation.

 "Do Ron and Shari promise to love, honor and cherish each other on the day that..." 

...Ron begins to realize that Shari's brokenness goes far deeper than he ever knew.
...life takes it's toll and they come to a fork in the road where they ask each other if this is the end of 'Ron and Shari'...and on that same day decide that 'Ron and Shari' are worth the fight. 

Because Ron and Shari are 2 imperfect people, trying to raise 4 imperfect children, as an imperfect family, in an imperfect world, but whose stronghold is one perfect God.

Today.  We, Ron and Shari, look back on the previous 21 years of fun, laughter, tears, struggle, growth, change, turmoil, peace, failures, and successes and understand this truth:

We are living our Happily Ever After.

What God has joined together,

let no man separate.

~Mark 10:9~

Remembrance and Resolution, 2014

On September 14, 2013, I sat amongst thousands of women participating in a Beth Moore live simulcast that was broadcast around the world.  Every single thing she said that day is worthy of mention, but I'd never do it justice. 

So please forgive my very rough and simplified summation, and I take full responsibility for any misinterpretation.

Her message was that we need to stop living as a slave under the law, which brings shame and self-condemnation and start living under grace, which brings freedom and peace.  She clarified that this is not to condone sin, but rather to realize that there is nothing that cannot be covered by the blood of Christ, if only we accept Him and submit to Him.  Grace is not permission to stay in sin, it's our power to GO from it! 

We were given a True or False quiz.  One of the statements was,
"I have disappointed God."
Without hesitation, I didn't just write True, I wrote, 'Sooooo True.'  Do you realize how many people I've disappointed to the point of destruction?  Why should God be any different?

Then she read the definition.
Disappointed:  sad or displeased because someone has failed to fulfill one's hopes or expectations.

What she said next took me by such surprise that a small sob escaped me and tears ran down my cheeks.

"You have never disappointed God."

Think about that.  In order to disappoint God, we'd have to be clever enough to surprise Him and do something different than what He thought we'd do.  That's not to say He's not displeased with some of our choices, but that's only because He loves us, wants what's best for us and hates to see us hurt ourselves with our sin.  But disappointment is impossible because He already knows exactly what we're going to do at all times.  Disappointment is human.  We get disappointed.  Not God.

When you live under the law, you're never good enough. 
When you live under grace, He is enough.

She went on to explain that when we give our lives to Christ, we become new creatures, but for some reason, we continually try to resuscitate our old dead selves and seem determined to carry around a rotting corpse whose only purpose is to weigh us down with guilt and regret.

Toward the end, she shared a sweet story about her 3 year old granddaughter who received a pair of tap dancing shoes.  Having never been exposed to that style of dance, her mom didn't explain what the shoes were for, but rather sat back quietly to see what she would do with them.  After strapping them on, she went straight to the kitchen and tentatively stepped one foot to the hardwood floor and gently tapped before returning it to the safety of the carpet.  Then she repeated the action with the other foot before carefully walking to the middle of the kitchen floor.  Within a minute, she'd thrown all caution to the wind as she excitedly tapped her feet with a look of pure joy on her face.

She finished with this.  "Are you living your life in fear and regret?  Or are you dancing in joy and peace?"

Right there in my chair that day, I realized that Beth Moore described my 2013.

After ditching my 'corpse' in the hills of Kentucky at Tough Mudder in October 2012, I approached my new year with one philosophy: 
No more fear.  If God presents a door, I'll walk through it.

When you stop tip toeing on egg shells for fear of failure, it frees you to dance! 

As a result, my remembrance of 2013 is the year of breathless exhilaration, crazy adventures, opportunities and blessings I never would have even thought to pray for, and seemingly impossible dreams come true right before my very eyes.  None of which would have happened without the God who sees me as His beloved child...not a disappointment!

...God sent His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship.  Because you are His sons, God sent the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, "Abba Father."  So you are no longer a slave, but God's child; and since you are His child, God has made you also an heir.  ~Galatians 4:4-7~

On the heels of the non-stop whirlwind of 2013, the only resolution I feel God telling me for 2014 is this:  Be still.

I don't know exactly what it means, but I've come to recognize His voice too clearly to question it.  I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean that I should withdraw from society and spend my days in solitude, tempting as that sounds sometimes.  But I'm reminded of something Joyce Meyer says.  "Until God tells you to do something new, just keep doing the last thing He told you to do."

So that's my plan for 2014.
I'll be still...while I dance...

Worth The Weight

A tiny hand full of people have seen my stomach these past 4 weeks and things were escalating to a fever pitch about Before and After pictures.  I won't call out the person who threatened to pull up my shirt Sunday at church.  You know who you are. 

I suspect not a word I write will even be read today, but here it goes anyway, as I conclude this Tummy Tuck series.  Unless of course situations develop in the future, but let's all hope that doesn't happen. 

This month of recovery has been full of things both expected and unexpected.  I knew going in that 'Official Recovery' was 4 solid weeks.  No more, no less.  When my doctor ordered, "4 weeks down" I thought to myself, "Well, he doesn't know me very well."  But apparently, he could smell my attitude a mile away because he followed it up with, "You'll do it if you want your money's worth."  Now, he's talking a language I understand.

My life came to an abrupt standstill.  I expected that.  What I didn't expect, was the opportunity to sit back and watch my family pull together...in every area not pertaining to my belly button, anyway.  And let me tell you, they successfully ran this place, complete with an entire delicious Thanksgiving meal for 20 people.  Did everything run like a well-oiled machine all month?  Of course not.  But it wouldn't have with me in charge, either.

As of Thursday December 12th, I have permission to return to life as normal and toss the list of forbidden activities out the window.  I followed the doctor's orders and for an entire month refrained from sleeping on my stomach, lying flat in the bed, lifting anything over 2-3 lbs, taking baths, work, exercise and sex...okay, maybe not all things were followed to the letter, and 3 days seemed appropriate. Let's not get ridiculous with our orders here, doc.

The hardest for me personally was not exercising.  Not because I felt good enough to do it, but because it required me to rely solely on diet for weight management.  I quickly realized how much I depend on the option to burn those extra eaten calories.  I can tell you right now, return to exercise will not be physically easy or painless, but I'll be relieved to retrain my body back into a strict daily regimen, because it would appear that I have a serious addiction to special dark chocolate chips eaten by the handful chased with a tiny scoop of natural peanut butter eaten from the end of a butter knife. Now we know.

I will also have permission to remove the Velcro girdle that day.  But, I won't be removing the Velcro girdle.  At least not yet.  It scares me when it's off.  I believe the phrase, Fear of freedom sums it up best.  That awful thing squeezed around my midsection like a boa constrictor has become like a child's security blanket and I suspect I'll need to wean myself from it accordingly.  Certainly didn't expect that.

According to the doctor, my stomach will continue losing swelling and changing for up to a year, so I've decided to document my recovery with pictures on a monthly basis.  I won't bore everyone with those each month, but I'll be more than happy to privately share them with anyone who's contemplating having the surgery or is simply interested in the continued healing process.

On a different note, I expected the extra blog readers tuning into this series out of morbid curiosity.  What I didn't expect was the flood of emails and messages in my inbox from women I both know and don't know, who asked questions and shared with me their testimonies of struggles, successes and failures.  Honored doesn't begin to describe each moment I open a message from a woman with the courage to confide their story with me, each one awe-inspiring in their own way.  I'm completely amazed with all of you and hope you continue updating me along your journeys. 

Back in 2002, at the age of 30, I stepped on a scale and saw the number 254.  I sure as heck didn't expect that.




Today, I turned 42.  My eyes have a few crows feet, there are laugh lines forming around my mouth and I don't even want to discuss the way my neck skin is starting to sag, not to mention my thighs. 

Fear not, I'm not on the slippery slope to a life spent on the surgeon's table.  I do not now, nor will I ever have the face or the body of a 20 year old and I didn't miraculously morph out of surgery a size 2.  But that wasn't my intent in having this procedure. 

Here we are in 2013 and for once in my life I'm not trapped in a 254 lb mindset.  For once in my life, I don't look in the mirror and see the pain of the journey hanging in the evidence of the loose misshapen skin.  And for once in my life, I look in the mirror and see only one scar reminding me of my surgery, rather than a multitude of scars reminding me of my past. 
Worth every bit of it.

With exception of some temporary crease marks from my tightly squeezed girdle, being slightly freaked out by my own belly button and suddenly having the option of bouncing a quarter off my new stomach skin, things are pretty much back to normal.

All in all, not much has changed around here and it feels pretty great to return to my role as a 42 year old, low-key, conservative mom and house wife preparing to send out our family's greeting cards.  So on that note: 

Merry Christmas...

From our normal family to yours!

Tuck In Roll

Part V:  Recovery, Week 3.

In light of how the first 2 weeks of recovery went, this 3rd week was downright boring.  (Granted, our standard of boring might be a little different than some.)  I traded my Vicodin for driving privileges, therefore, my life took on a slightly normal spin.  Which brings us to the main focus of week 3.  The horrid, thick, and itchy Velcro girdle. (Dramatic music here:  Duh duh duuuuh.)

I've made reference to the girdle, but when you have tucksticles, a girdle is the least of your concerns.  The girdle is mandatory 24/7 and I'm only allowed to remove it to take a shower.  It squeezes everything in, helps ever so slowly reduce some of the swelling, and overall gives me a sense of security.  (My new stomach scares the crap out of me half the time.)  But last week was Thanksgiving and I'd be seeing friends and family that spanned beyond our inner circle of 6.  You know what that means.  Pants would become mandatory.  And my children rejoiced.

I'm pretty predictable these days.  I'm either sitting in a recliner or lying in bed.  Sometimes I'm wearing pants, usually I'm not.  But regardless of where I am or what I am or am not wearing, there's one thing that sends them bolting from the room in absolute terror.  The loud sound of ripping Velcro.
I'm not the only one who fears my new tummy. 

Although I can unwrap my own stomach, I haven't yet learned the art of rewrapping it tight enough.  Enter Ron.  Again.

And that brings us back to pants.  I didn't own any appropriate ones that fit over my girdle.  That landed he and I in a Women's dressing room at Kohl's together where we could be overheard saying things like:  Lay flatter; This bench is too uncomfortable; Pull it harder; It's not lined up right; It's digging into my thigh and Quit complaining and let me finish! 

And to think my biggest worry was that Security might think my bulky shirt meant I was shoplifting. Silly me. 

Surprisingly, we were still allowed to make a purchase, which thanks to the big fat girdle included two sweat suits...so much for my pre-surgery visions of low rise skinny jeans and festive holiday crop top ensemble.

So how might I attempt to look normal while sporting an obvious abnormality?  I'll resume tanning, of course, because a fresh tan fixes everything. 

Flash to me lying face up in the tanning bed, completely unwrapped and exposed, with my knees bent at awkward angles because I'm still unable to lie flat and fighting panic as I realized I was trapped under a heavy tanning bed lid, coming dangerously close to screaming for the salon owner to break in and let me out. 

You see, sometimes our drama seeps out into the general public.

But recovery wise, we're on the home stretch.  Friday, a burning sensation began coursing through my ab muscles.  More of a post-ab-workout pain than the post-surgery pain I've grown accustomed to.  Then Saturday, things got strange.  I felt a spasm in my stomach that reminded me of something...the familiar feeling of an unborn baby kick from inside. 

Well, wouldn't that be horribly unfortunate timing.

As the spasms increased throughout the day, a word I learned way back in massage school crept out of it's long forgotten place in the attic of my dusty memory.  Synapse:  a junction between two nerve cells, consisting of a minute gap across which impulses pass by diffusion of a neurotransmitter. 

Holy crap.  I think I feel my nerve endings reconnecting.  And low and behold, I'm slowly regaining feeling in portions of my stomach that were previously numb.  (Thank you, Lord.)  A new level of healing has begun.

My mandatory girdle phase ends next Wednesday.  That means Ron has one more week to play his sick little, 'How tight can I wrap her" game that leaves him clapping while I lay flailing on the bed like a helpless mermaid.

As for my appointment today, nine outer stitches were removed.  One long stitch that runs under the surface of the entire length of a precisely thin incision spanning roughly 18-20 inches between hip bones along my bikini line will eventually dissolve, if it hasn't already.  Just in case, I'm still forbidden to take a bath.

I guess my plan of Ron and I sitting in the fitness center hot tub together, with me wearing a string bikini, sipping wine disguised in a water bottle while I leisurely shave my legs will have to wait one more week. 

Just kidding.

I'm not taking Ron.

Mother Tucker!

Part IV:  Recovery, Week 2.

Despite dreading the impending removal of my 2nd drain, I left last week's appointment pretty darn excited.  I was given official permission to take a shower.  If you've never been forbidden to bathe, or been a contestant on Survivor, you might not appreciate the magnitude of such a restriction.  And for someone obsessed with freshly shaved legs, it was kind of a nightmare. 
So a real shower.  That's a big deal.

Here's something you need to know about my family and my tummy tuck.  Zac, Aubrey and Kearstin want absolutely nothing to do with the recovery process.  From the pictures and stories, I'm sure you can't imagine why.  Caymen has been pretty oblivious to any of the major details.  She doesn't ask questions and she's never around during any of my detailed follow up care.  It's just a matter of fact that 'mommy had surgery on her tummy' and 'daddy takes care of mommy.'   As for Ron, he's a little too involved sometimes, and is entirely too fascinated with some of my post-surgical side effects.

For instance, there are areas of my tummy I've lost feeling from where they cut nerves.  I might regain that feeling, or I might not.  This is something that screws with my head.  When I scratch my stomach and I can't feel anything at all, I could very easily qualify for a rubber room.  So when Ron's applying Neosporin to my belly button stitches, that make me nauseous right now anyway, and he starts poking my belly real fast and saying, "Can you feel it?  Can you feel it?  Can you feel it?" while he makes obnoxious sound effects...well, that's grounds for divorce threats in my opinion. 

But back to bathing.  I wanted to take my shower Wednesday night, but Caymen started vomiting.  (Because we didn't have enough gross bodily fluids going on around here.)  So on Thursday, I couldn't wait any longer.  Ron wasn't home at the time, which had it's pros and cons.  Kearstin refused involvement on all counts.  After much persuasion, Aubrey agreed to help me rewrap myself into my Velcro girdle, but refused any involvement in the actual bathroom.  That left only one option.  "Hey Caymen...wanna help mommy?"  Sure! 

All she had to do was sit on the stool in the bathroom while I took a shower with instructions to run and get Aubrey if I "need anything."  Code for:  Tip over, fall out of the bathtub, and/or get overtaken with Heebie Jeebies at the sight of my own stomach, pass out and drown.  You can't think too far out of the box around here.

As I undressed in the bathroom, I knew I better prepare her for what she was about to see when I removed the wretched Velcro girdle..."A rubber tube is hanging from a gaping wound in mommy's hip...totally normal and nothing to fear, cry or vomit about." 
A necessary reminder to myself as well.

Here we go...*Rip*...For several seconds she sat there staring silently and then said, "Well.  Things just got interesting and disgusting all at the same time."  Out of the mouths of babes.  And little did we know just how quickly things were about to escalate.

My ten minute shower was absolutely glorious.  I quietly congratulated myself on being hygienically self-sufficient again while Caymen sat happily humming on her stool beside the sink.  I turned off the water, stepped out of the tub and that's when, without warning, my drainage tube ejected itself from my body and fell to the floor at Caymen's feet. 

In dead silence, we both looked down at it.  We looked at each other.  We looked down again.  She finally said, "I think you're gonna need to tell somebody about that." 

I looked at the exit site and saw a bloody hole full of stitches...and then I calmly and rationally reacted to the situation...all hell broke loose.  I sunk to the bathroom floor, gasping for breath and grabbing for my phone.  The only thing going through my mind was that it broke in half and the other half was still inside me, embedded deeply within my soul. 
(Cut me some slack.  Drama runs rampant here.) 

The doctor was sent an emergency page and immediately called me back.  He had some great news and some really not great news.  The great news was that the tube did not break off inside me and that was the whole deal laying on the bathroom floor. In hindsight, I remember thinking that my tucksticle was hanging a little lower than normal length throughout the day, but I never gave it much thought.  Anyhoo, there was no way for him to safely insert a new one and that meant I would not have to live through another drainage tube removal, but he wanted to see me Monday morning.    Because, the not so great news was that my body now had potential to collect fluid inside me, with no way to escape, thus requiring him to use a spinal needle to manually remove it. 

His voice took on that low, slow motion sound effect when he said, "S-p-in-al n-e-e-d-l-e."  and I answered in a slow mo, "Nooooooooooo..." right before my head thunked against the bathroom wall.

Enter 'Bed rest until Monday' because that was the best way to prevent my body from producing fluid.  Within the first hour of bed rest, I was convinced I could feel fluid building up in my lungs and by Saturday morning, I could hear gurgling because as it turns out, Ron isn't the only hypochondriac in our family.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful here.  God has been super-generous in providing writing material throughout this process, not to mention my life in general.  But as I lay in bed for 3 days contemplating what might happen with a needle on Monday morning, I prayed something I've never prayed before;
"Please Lord, don't make me write that."

Monday morning arrived, I lay on the exam table and in order to check for excess fluid, the doctor smacked my stomach, twice.  Not that I could feel it, but at least he didn't make sound effects.  No fluid!  As an added bonus, they were able to remove my belly button stitches while I was there and I've been upgraded from 'Bed Rest' to 'Take it easy, seriously.'  Whatever that means.

As we drove away I said, "I'm so happy right now." 
Ron replied, "Me too...those are some flat ass abs."

Happy Thanksgiving.

What The Tuck?!?

Part III:  Recovery, Week 1.

In all my pre-surgical research, there was one recurring theme.  The pain.
I tried not to dwell on that because
1.  I've experienced 3 C-sections and
2.  I'm a Tough Mudder twice over, after all.  What is this pain you speak of?

This is where you're expecting me to fill you in on the indescribable  tummy tuck pain, right?  Wrong.  In all seriousness, with exception of the moment I woke up in the post-op room, my pain level has been quite comparable to that of a C-section.  Certainly no worse, that's for sure. 

So here's a day by day breakdown of my first 7 days of recovery, including some things they told me to expect and a few they most certainly did not...


Wednesday & Thursday
The key to recovery is to get a jump on your pain pills on the first day and stay ahead of the pain game.  I took a Vicodin religiously every 3 hours for the first 48 hours.  That, on top of the pain blockers I'd been given during the surgery, made those first two days go smoothly.  I rotated between sitting in a recliner and lying propped up on my side with a pillow between my knees in bed.  The worst part was the transition from sitting to standing and vice versa.  Ron did the brunt of the movement for me and I just hung on.  A heating pad also helped a lot.

Bathing is strictly prohibited the first week, so on Thursday night, Ron put a chair in the bathtub and helped me shave my legs and wash my hair without getting the Velcro wrap around my midsection wet.  That's true love, people.

We'd been forewarned about the 2 drains that would remain attached to me for at least a week that Ron would be responsible for emptying and measuring the contents twice a day.  What they don't tell you is that they're two rubber pouches that hang from chords and dangle right at your crotch. 

It didn't take long for my family to dub those "Mom's testicles"....until the day Caymen overheard me tell Ron I need my testicles emptied and Ron replied, "Well, so do I but you don't hear me complaining." 

Caymen burst out laughing and said, "You don't have testicles, daddy!"
My drains were immediately renamed Tucksticles. 
Hopefully that solves any potential '1st Grade Show n Tell' nightmare.

Quick word of advice:  DO NOT weigh yourself the day after surgery.  I made the huge mistake of sneaking onto my scale, discovered 5 extra pounds and spiraled into oblivion.  Ron was furious and strictly forbid me from weighing myself again.  Turns out, it's just extra fluid and it comes off within 4 days...I know that because I continue to sneak onto the scale each morning.  Ssshhhh.

Friday  
The itching under the girdle began, as did a slight rattling in my chest, causing me to feel the need to cough.  Anyone who's ever had a C-section knows that you'd rather gouge out your eyeballs with a butter knife than cough.  (Same goes for sneezing.)  I panicked about my cough to Ron.  His response was to casually inform me that my nurse in the recovery room immediately following my surgery told him that I should take deep breaths so that didn't happen.  I furiously asked him why he never told me that.  He said, "You were laying right there when she said it.  Your eyes were open, I assumed you were paying attention." 

Saturday & Sunday
Huge turning point.  I woke up feeling noticeably better and my Vicodin dosage was bumped to every 5 hours...which is good, because that's roughly how long it takes Ron to watch a football game on tv.

Monday
Ron returned to work.  Bruising began to creep down my left leg, but otherwise I felt great.  I washed my own hair, I shaved my own legs and I began eyeing my tightly wrapped tummy like a child eyes a birthday gift.  I mentioned to Ron the possibility of taking a quick peek.  And that brings us to....

Tuesday.
I think the best way to explain what happened is to describe the scene Zac walked in on when he returned from work:  Ron, wearing only his boxers, was scrambling around frantically yelling at me to calm down, while I stood wearing only my pajama top, loosely hanging around my neck, looking down at my swollen (albeit smooth) tummy and swaying woozily back and forth unable to rip my eyes away from my belly button that is overflowing with black stitches that looked exactly like a swarm of ants from where I stood.  "Holy mother, wrap it back up...WRAP IT BACK UP!!!!!"

Sadly,  Zac was Facetiming with his girlfriend at the time.  A good reminder not to walk into our bedroom unannounced.  Another lesson learned the hard way.

Wednesday  (one week post-op)
We sat in the plastic surgeon's waiting room. Ron played on his phone while I sat with my hands stuffed into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, trying to hide my tucksticles from the other patients.  The silence was broken by a painful scream that came from an exam room in the back.  My immediate thought was, let's take the dramatics down a notch in there, shall we?  (Before you remind me of the scene from our bedroom a mere 12 hours before, let me remind you that my belly button looked like it was full of ants, okay?!?  If that doesn't call for drama, nothing does.)

Half hour later, I was sitting in my own exam room with my pants down around my thighs, my head hanging upside down with my hair in my crotch, face to face with my ant infested belly button, violently dry heaving because the Physician's Assistant had just removed my right tucksticle.  Let me explain...she unstitched a portion of my fresh incision and slowly pulled a 12inch piece of tube out from under my rib cage from the inside.  She was exactly right when she said, "This won't hurt."  What she failed to mention was that it would feel like she was pulling a live snake out of my freakin soul.  But hey. I didn't scream.

Stay tuned next week when they remove my one remaining tucksticle and the ants from my belly button. 

I don't see how any of that could possibly go wrong...

Tuck It Up

Part II, The Surgery:

Wednesday morning, I carefully followed all of the pre-surgical instructions.  Well, almost all.  Certainly when they said 'No Make-Up', they weren't referring to eye liner and mascara.  That'd just be ridiculous.

A small portion of my thoughts were centered on the excited anticipation of realizing another dream.  But then I'd find myself on an irrational thought loop:  I'm going to be lying on a surgical table completely exposed to a room full of medical professionals and unable to suck in my stomach.  What will they do with my roll of skin after it's removed?  What if I'm under just enough anesthesia where I can't move or respond, but not enough to where I don't feel him do the surgery?  What if I throw up?  What if he puts my brand new belly button up too high?  Or worse, too low?  You get the idea.  Worst case scenarios are my specialty. 

Before we left, I shared some of my concerns with Ron and Zac.  Huge mistake.  What started out as a simple question turned into the great belly button debate that had me briefly contemplating asking the doctor to leave me belly button free until Zac suggested that no belly button at all might give the illusion of constant camel toe.  Well that settles that.

Before I could finish my inner shudder, Ron chimed in with, "I'm more concerned with how far your vagina might get pulled up."  ....silence....
I've tried to come up with an explanation for what he said.  I've got nothin.  Clearly, there was a massive break down in communication somewhere along the way.

We left for the Ohio Valley Medical Center in Springfield.  I need to take a minute to praise that place.  Ron and I have each had procedures done there and we have yet to have a negative experience as far as the surgical center goes.  It runs like clockwork.  The staff is incredible from the time you enter to the time you leave and everything in between.  They treat you like you're their only patient and this time was no different.  I highly recommend it.

We arrived at 11, by 11:30 I was in a room hooked up to my iv and at 11:45 the anesthesiologist walked in.  It was the same man who took incredible care of me during my C-section for Caymen and I'll never forget him.  Nothing like receiving a little pre-surgical hug from God, right?   He explained everything he'd be doing during the surgery.  I shared my concerns about anesthesia and he assured me he'll know exactly how far I'm under at all times.  I also told him it's extremely common for me to throw up when I'm coming out of anesthesia and the mere thought of vomiting after this particular procedure had me scared to death.  He calmed my nerves and explained the precautionary steps he'd take to ensure I wouldn't get sick. 

Then he told us about a patient he had on the table once who had a hernia removed.  Just as they closed his incision, he became violently ill and all of his stitches tore open. I said, "That doesn't really make me feel better."  He replied, "Oh, that won't happen to you.  He was young and muscular." 
Thanks, dude.  Does your wife call you Chuckles, per chance?

Around 12:15, my doctor came in to see me, reviewed everything he was going to do and then asked if we had any questions.  I darted my eyes toward Ron and silently willed him not to say vagina. 

Shortly after, I was being wheeled away from my husband toward a full abdominoplasty that could take up to 3 hours.  Mine ended up taking roughly 2.  I hope to learn more details of what my personal procedure entailed at my follow up appointment and share those in my next post. 

The next thing I knew, I woke up sitting at an angle.  The throbbing sensation in my abs immediately reminded me where I was and the nurse asked me to rate my pain.  I said the first thing that popped into my mind, "It hurts like a mother."  And with that, she pumped me full of morphine and I returned to a happy place where I could eat saltine crackers, drink water and go to the bathroom...because urination is the magic key to getting discharged after surgery.

 The nurse unhooked me from my iv and pulled up my gown to explain what was happening.  I'm wrapped tightly with a velcro girdle contraption that tightly squeezes my abs from just under my chest all the way down over the incision site.  Two tubes remain inserted into my incision, exit from underneath the wrap and are attached to rubber pouches that catch drainage.  She explained all the post-op instructions to Ron and then asked if we'd like to see my new tummy.

She released the wrap and through morphine goggles, I think I saw a smooth stomach and just maybe the most perfectly placed brand new belly-button a girl could ask for.  But she quickly wrapped it back up tight and we're under strict orders to keep it that way until my first follow-up appointment on Wednesday.   

By 3:30, I was being wheeled out to our van with a fresh carnation in hand as a sweet parting gift. 

All surgery concerns appear to have been unfounded.  I'm pretty sure I stayed asleep during surgery, I never threw up, I couldn't care less what they did with my roll, from the brief blurry glimpse I got, it seems the doctor can be trusted with belly button placement and on return from my first trip to the bathroom, I gave Ron a thumbs up.  Breathe easy, fella...everything below stayed put and I still pee sitting down.

 

Onto the next stage. 
Recovery.



To Be Continued...

 

*Please attribute any typos to the periodic doses of Vicodin I'm still under...as for any offensive personal details, that was probably all me.