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
SPEAKING OF SLEEP
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!
AN UNEXPECTED REVELATION
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.
WOULD I DO IT AGAIN?
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 ...