Sunday, January 02, 2005

Lipo: Day Three

So it's been three full days since the surgery. For all of you who've sent well-wishes and inquiries about my recovery, I'm great, thanks. A little uncomfortable, but great. And you ROCK for being so concerned. For the insignificant handful of you who've expressed anonymous (why are you folks always anonymous?) desire to see me rot in hell for my unquenchable vanity, um ... my abs are more ripped than yours so your opinions don't count.

And for the vast majority of you who have asked tons of questions about the good, the bad and the ugly involved in recovering from lipo, you're in luck! Because I'm about to blather on and on endlessly on the topic:

I'm on the same pain medication that turned our virtuous friend Rush Limbaugh into a hypocrite victim—an innocent victim—of drug addiction. The bottle says to take my drugs as-needed, but—aside from the first night and the first morning—my overall pain level has been hovering around the mere-discomfort level. And the drugs make me as rational as a right-wing talk-show host with three divorces and a drug problem loopy, and I don't like to be loopy. So I just take them at night to help me sleep. Besides, I kind of like being aware of the pain—it gives me a more honest perspective on my recovery. So as long as the pain isn't debilitating, I don't see any reason to mask it.

While the last-shred-of-Rush-Limbaugh's-credibility memorial drugs seem to help me get to sleep, the dull pain that flares up every time I wiggle—along with the fact that I'm in the least pain only when I'm on my back and I'm not a back sleeper—helps me wake up about 500 times a night. I did manage to heave myself over onto my side last night—a triumph!—but the pressure on the spot where the love handle used to be created a rotting ache that quickly forced me back onto my back. Baby steps ...

The one unpleasant side effect of recovery—leftover bruise blood following gravity to my scrotum—is manifesting itself a little differently from what I was told to expect. Instead of turning my nutsack into a saggy purple man-tit, the blood is following a slightly more ventral path, giving me instead a huge black porno cock. It doesn't hurt, and it's strangely compelling to behold—but if I hadn't been told to expect something like this I'd probably be freaking out about now. (And, for the record, I've opted NOT to take pictures of it. Because the last thing I need is to have those pictures all over the Internet when I'm trying to run for Miss America.)

The girdle thing is still on tight, and it's still holding the absorbent contouring pads in place where the fat used to be. And it's still giving me the posture of a Victorian spinster. With a Galileo thermometer up her ass. I was told before the surgery that I should avoid slouching in the girdle at all costs because it might make the skin grow back in funny (to everyone but me) flaps. Fortunately, slouching is NOT an option in this contraption. (Smelling like a bedpan, unfortunately, still is.)

The discharge papers I got at the hospital said specifically NOT to remove the girdle until my checkup on January 10. But the nurse called me this afternoon and gave me permission to remove it—and the stinky pads, which I can throw away—long enough to shower tonight if I wanted. Which I am SO going to do.

I still can't get my pants buttoned over the girdle. Maybe once the pads are out. If not, I'll be going to work in sweat pants this week. Klassy!

I've had surgery twice in my life: I got my tonsils out in kindergarten and I got my wisdom teeth out in high school. Other than that, I've never been in a hospital, I've never been sicker than a mild case of the flu, I've never taken more than one sick day a year (usually for a migraine)—and I've never had much empathy for the frustrating inertia of people who are chronically ill. I have a distant family member who is ALWAYS sick; she's had something like 30 major surgeries in her 30-year life. And I've never quite understood how she couldn't just bounce out of bed and jump back into life once she'd spent enough time recovering. And now I understand how pain and discomfort and exhaustion—and drug side effects—can zap your energy and render you pretty useless. For what it's worth.

Probably not. While I'm thrilled I actually made my self-perceived "problem" go away—and though I feel fully justified about it after discovering that eating right and running a marathon weren't going to do it for me—the fact remains that I spent a lot of money on a potentially dangerous operation that I absolutely didn't need. Warning! Gray Area Ahead! I have no regrets about doing it, though, and I'm psyched to see how it all turns out. But the pain and the isolation and the months of recovery—at least from my perspective three days after the surgery—ultimately aren't worth it. I fully reserve the right to change my mind, though. And I probably wouldn't try to dissuade anyone from doing it if he or she had equally valid reasons, realistic expectations and responsible financing.

Now I'm off to my shower—and my first peek at my results ...


J. said...

I came across this post while devouring a bag of Fritos. Upon reaching the portion regarding a "huge black porno cock," I was inclined to pause the gluttony and wipe the salt from my lips with my sleeve. Contending with the internal conflict one can expect from the concept of post liposuction deoxygenated plasma and pussy white blood cells sloughing off to engorge one's fallace and the act of ACTUALLY CONSUMING FRITOS caused me a little nausea and moral discomfort.

Then I remembered, "porno cock," stared down into the bag of dehydrated oil and pressed corn lard chunks, with my greased up fist thrusted into it, shrugged my shoulders and ate on.

mmmmm, the yummy fried fat taste of baser want! It may not be love, but it will do for now.

Jeff said...

You're a braver man than me, I'm such a wuss when it comes to invasive surgery. Maybe that's why my body image thoughts have become more and more, uh, forgiving as time goes by...
Hope you're feeling better soon and the results make you feel it was all worth it. And personally, I would SO take a picture if I had a huge black porno cock hanging between my legs...

Mark said...

A speedy recovery to you, pal. You are SO west coast now. (You also seem to have an extremely healthy attitude about the whole thing.) I can't wait to see post-healing photos!

ihatehydro said...


I ran into your blog looking for some idea on what it was like to live in Chicago. My wife and I are hopefully moving out there soon and wanted to get an idea of what to expect. Boy, did we get so much more than we were expecting!

Thank you for providing us with hope. Congrats on your nomination and good luck with the recovery.

Keep up the inspirational blogging….