Yesterday I went to the 'Marsden and had my third breast operation but the first that was cosmetic.
That makes it sound like it was driven by vanity – it really wasn’t – but it will hopefully enhance the end result when I finally get my reconstructive implants.
Essentially, I’ve had fat siphoned out of my outer thighs and injected into my boob. And yes, I know that sounds like every woman’s dream - especially post-Christmas - but, before you get too jealous, please try to remember that I’ve only had one tit enhanced and have to wear support pants for a month!
The immediate result is that my fake boob is now even bigger than it was before (and now significantly larger than the other one) and bright red! My legs are also very, very bruised and sore. Once I am stood up, or sat down, I’m fine – but getting there is an entirely different matter. I’m feeling very battered and pretty immobile.
Fortunately Mr P. has come to stay with me for a couple of days and was, yet again, the designated ‘responsible adult’ into whose care the hospital discharged me. However, when I say ‘responsible’ most people who know him will roll their eyes ... and with good reason! I’ve cited some of his hospital exploits in the past but this time I decided to get photographic evidence. I really can’t leave him on his own for more than two minutes!
|Logging in to the hospital system and playing a football game; trying to take his own blood pressure (the machine stopped working altogether after this); having a little lie down on my surgical trolley.|
Also keeping me and my lop-sided cleavage company this week is my new furry flat-mate, Phoebe. She moved in on Saturday and has already made herself very comfortable. She's also had about five different names but, hopefully, this is the final one!
The name was actually suggested by Mr P's Mum and it seems to suit our little glamour puss very well. In fact, it’s also proved rather prophetic as we have discovered that little Phoebe has a few, ahem, ‘digestive’ issues – so has been serenaded with more than a few choruses of ‘Smelly Cat’ in the last couple of days.
But naughty boyfriends and flatulent cats aside, everything else seems to be on track. I’m hoping 2013 could be my year.