The first post-surgery day I was a blob; I could barely move a muscle. A sweet nurse used a sponge to bathe my dry lips, and let me bite down on a small sponge so I could get a teeny weeny bit of water. I did have a little gadget that I could press with my thumb to administer pain medicine whenever I needed (within 20 minute intervals). My thumb had a field day pressing down on that sucker!
I also had to wear a "bear hug" to keep my newly reconstructed breasts warm, and it was like a super duper heating pad over my entire body. Combined with my instant menopause (minus my ovaries), I was as Doc PS warned me I would be, "warm."
On day two, I hit a snag. My blood pressure was dipping and I was running a fever. I needed a blood transfusion! The transfusion was painful and I heard the nurse say, "this blood is thick." Okay. "Is it time to worry, yet?" I wondered. The room was spinning. Doc PS came in and examined my breasts, or "flaps" as they are called in plastic surgery world. My adopted girls were not covered with any gauze, so I could see them in all their glory. Every hour, 24 hours a day, the ICU nurse had to use a doppler (like the kind used in ultrasounds to hear the baby's heart beat) to "listen" to my breasts -- they made a whooshing sound. The strength of that sound indicated whether or not the transplanted tissue was "taking" to its new home. Yes, indeedy, my new breasts were like little babies!
Unfortunately, on that second day, Doc PS came in to check on me and didn't like what he heard on my right side. He also was concerned with the color. "It's dusky," he told the nurse, adding, "it should be pink." Within minutes, Doc PS and the nurse arranged for emergency surgery. Doc PS said he had to open me up (AGAIN!) and take a look at that "flap." He thought perhaps I had a blood clot there, or one of the veiny, artery thingys was kinked up (not his words, just my interpretation). The nurse called my husband who was on his way down to see me anyway after dropping our daughter off at day camp.
"This isn't life or death, is it?" I asked Doc PS, calmly. "No, it isn't," he said. "I'm hoping I can repair and save the flap." "How often does this happen?" I asked. "About five percent of the time," he said. Lucky me! I had signed a consent form outlining all the dangers and possible complications associated with this surgery, so I knew the risks. Doc PS and I discussed Plan B; if he couldn't save my right flap he would remove the transplanted fat and make room for an implant.
Yes, it did occur to me that I had made a big freakin' mistake opting for this surgery.
Within a short amount of time I was signing a whole new batch of consent forms for further surgery. I was brought to the OR. The anesthesiologist wasted no time and put a mask over my face. I kept batting my eyelashes so everyone would know I was still awake. "Don't start until I'm asleep!!!!" I screamed to myself.
I woke up and my husband and teenage son were there. A sight for sore eyes! Good news, too! Doc PS was able to fix my flap and all was well again. No need for an implant on that side. Whoo-hoo!
A wave of happiness and relief went through me. I was also drugged up. I asked my son how his college math class (summer school) was going. He admitted that he was struggling with it. In a total moment of just-out-of-surgery weakness, I said, "Don't worry about math. Do the best you can and drop it if you have to." Take it from me, never, ever let your guard down with your children! Not even when you are high as a kite on drugs!
Indeed, my son dropped the class.
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