I awoke this morning to the sound of the plastic surgeon saying my name. It was 7am.
We chatted about how I was feeling (fine) and how the night had been (good). She dismissed yesterday’s fainting episode – “it’s really common” – then examined her artwork and declared it “perfect” in terms of the medical procedure having been a success.
The reason it’s checked so often initially is that there can be problems with the blood supply in the first 48 hours. If this happens, you need to go straight back to theatre. In extreme cases, the “flap” they’ve transferred from the tummy and reattached in the chest area can die and the procedure fails.
At seven this morning, I was just 40 hours out of surgery. If it’s looking this good at this stage, says the surgeon, “we shouldn’t have any problems”.
So it’s gone well in a medical sense. Perfect in an aesthetic sense would mean the reconstruction was identical to the original. It’s pretty darn close, I would say. I’m amazed, as are the nurses who do the checking – a couple have said it’s the best they’ve seen.
The lovely boob is one thing. The hip-to-hip scar is another. “You look like someone’s tried to cut you in half,” jokes one of the nurses.
The consultant gets down to business with the on-duty nurse. It seems I have a busy day ahead. I’ve to get out of bed and spend time sitting in the chair. Two of the four drains are to be taken out today and the urinary catheter should come out tonight. The loo is only about eight steps away from the bed but I fear that tonight when I have to go, each step is going to seem like a mile.
I’m envisaging lots of effort, sweat and perhaps some tears today as part of my “remobilisation”. It has to be done. Wish me luck.