I’m on my honeymoon so I’m setting up reblogs for while I’m gone but I don’t know how to do that and not have it instantly reblog so I’m cutting and pasting old posts that many of you may have never read.
In this post I discuss my first go round with plastic surgery. I said I wouldn’t do it again but I’m going to. In March I’m going to have a breast reduction because big boobs are awful things to carry around daily.
Here’s the original post:
I have had abdominal surgery three times in my life. The first two times were to have babies surgically removed.
In January 2009, I had my the third abdominal surgery, which was to correct the damage done from the first two. I had a tummy tuck. The tummy tuck was by far the worst of the three surgeries. I’m very glad I had the “procedure” but the recovery was a bitch. The problems began almost immediately in post-op. I began throwing up due to a bad reaction (a good reaction most likely would not have included vomit) to the anesthesia. Throwing up just after being sawed in half like a magician’s assistant is the only time I have felt justified in my concern about whether or not I was going to lose my guts in a personal explosion. The nurses or medical assistants or whatever they are called now, acted like they felt bad that I was retching but they really needed me to hurry up and recover and go home.
Don’t throw up after just being sewn back together.
Trisha, brilliant kitchen/bath designer and loyal friend, showed her true colors by objecting to my release from the medical facility due to the fact that after I would retch, get upset and tired; I would doze off and then… stop breathing. Trisha and I first met in 1977 and I’ve been breathing the whole time I’ve known her, so she noticed when I wasn’t. The nurses didn’t know me well, so they didn’t realize that under normal circumstances, I’m constantly breathing. Trish finally convinced the idiots that in fact, I shouldn’t be sent home and should probably be under a physician’s care. Her steadfast adherence to the benefits of breathing resulted in my being transported by ambulance to another hospital, which had a wing for elective surgery recovery, where I stayed for two or three nights. And then I was in bed for weeks and I had drains (DRAINS, I tell you) in my stomach. Gack.
I’m sure plenty of people are going to crawl up my ass about being put under for purely elective surgery and I get it. I don’t think I’d ever do it again and I’m puzzled how people become addicted to having surgery.
I don’t look like this
It wasn’t like going through labor and two C-Sections. In that situation, I almost (almost!) completely forget the pain and vomiting and morphine because I can rejoice in my healthy children. In the plastic surgery case, wouldn’t do it again but I do love having a flat stomach!
I tell you about the stomachectomy to tell you this: the problem with a surgically-flattened stomach is that when you (meaning me) gain weight, it goes to the side. In my weight loss adventure, I have taken some before pictures and they are evidence that fat now goes to my side, my waist, my back fat zone, love handles, however one chooses to describe it, THERE. My arms don’t have the waggly stuff on the back, my legs aren’t bad, my face has slimmed down noticeably since I have been drinking 64 ounces of water daily…but the side of fat is not going anywhere.
I realized this morning (Nov. 2012) that I have been blogging for almost a year and Someone Fat is still happening. As it turns out, my dieting efforts have greatly improved my writing skills.