So, this is the one you’ve all been waiting for- the one where I STAY AWAKE DURING SURGERY and I bet you CAN’T WAIT to read all about it. You probably know by now that I’ve also HIT THE BIG TIME and this week my story’s appeared in both The Mirror and The Daily Mail. It seems that I’m smashing my nearly life goals right now, and I totally need to update my bucket list. Once I’ve crossed off appearing on This Morning, which let’s face it, can only be a matter of weeks away, my dreams will all have been fully realised, and I’ll have to come up with some new ambitions. I’ve always fancied going on tour with a rock band so maybe I’ll give that a shot. I’m pretty sure that hanging out with a tabloid centrefold star and snorting cocaine from a newly stitched origamy nipple will float the boat of many a rock star and as long as it’s not U2, I’m really not fussed about which band it is.
I always think that one of the great travesties of my nearly life is the fact that 2016 claimed the lives of David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Prince, George Michael and Leonard Cohen (and tons more super cool and sadly missed legends) and yet Bono, who I know we can ALL agree is a hoofwanking bunglecunt, is still bellendering around unscathed. There is clearly no justice in the world.
Anyway, as you know, in this operation my dishy consultant was going to attempt to origami me a brand new nipple out of the skin graft that he’d taken from my tummy tuck and stitched onto my boob. I had a bit of an idea of how it was going to be done after consulting Google (my dishy consultant’s explanations made no sense) but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and so I couldn’t wait to observe the whole procedure at close range.
To be honest, this time around I was feeling a bit emotional about it all and I’d had a bit of a wobble in the weeks leading up to this operation. The origami nipple tweaking was to be the grand finale of my Near Death and once that was done and I’d had my final check up, I was going to be discharged from the hospital’s care completely. This meant that I was unlikely to see my dishy consultant again and I knew that I’d miss him terribly. I’d have to make do with standing in his garden and staring forlornly through his windows, which I didn’t mind doing of course, it wouldn’t be the first time after all, but it was a bit of a ball ache trying to get a babysitter for the whole night, it was SO much easier to just stalk him at the hospital.
So, I was feeling a bit fragile but also super excited when I rocked up to pre-theatre admissions on the day of my surgery. As always the NHS admin was a complete disaster and this time I ended up with the wrong colour wrist band, despite being asked at least four times by different nurseys whether I was allergic to anything. I AM allergic to something. I am allergic to Penicillin. Dangerously allergic. The ‘die if I have it’ kind of allergic and, in fact, the reason why I was so seriously ill for so long when I Nearly Died, was because they couldn’t give me Penicillin when I was first admitted, and instead had to make do with giving me a cocktail of lesser antibiotics that they nicknamed ‘Dettol’. So it was wonderfully reassuring to find that there seemed to be no mention of my nearly life threatening allergy anywhere in my medical file. I can only assume that this was a cunning attempt by my dishy consultant to cause me to have a second Near Death and thus prolong our weird David Lynch style, parasitic love affair.
Anyway, once my dullsville white ‘nothing to see here’ wristband had been exchanged for a cool red ‘danger of instant death’ wrist band, I thanked the nursey and then told her that I was really looking forward to watching the operation. The nursey looked surprised, shook her head and told me that there would be a screen put up, and that I would be lying down and not able to see anything.
No way Jose! This operation was going to be the high point of the whole shebang and there was absolutely NO WAY on God’s earth that I was going to miss out on achieving my nearly life goal of watching myself being operated on by having a bloody screen put up.
So, I eyeballed the nursey, put on my best teacher voice, and made it VERY clear that I WAS NOT GOING TO HAVE A SCREEN. She quite rightly backed off and said I’d have to discuss it with my dishy consultant.
I’d won the first battle.
I then went to see my friendly anaesthetist who also seemed to think that there would be a screen put up to stop me from watching the op and fainting. I again made it very clear that I WAS NOT HAVING A SCREEN and after realising that I was built like a brick shit house and would clearly win in a fight, she also backed down and said she’d see what she could do. That’s what I love about the NHS. The fight went out of it a long time ago (thanks Jeremy Hunt) so if you’re a shouty and demanding patient like me, you usually get what you ask for in the end.
I was chuffed to bits when my friendly anaesthetist described what would happen in the operation and actually used the word ‘origami’- she honestly did! Completely unprompted by me. Of course I am taking full credit for this new term for the medical procedure, and I’m thrilled that my blog is obviously being read by proper clever dicks who are beginning to realise that Doxatisms are far more useful in explaining complex medical procedures to tiny brained patients than the usual cod Latin that gets bandied about in hospitals.
Once my friendly anaesthetist had left, my dishy consultant’s registrar wandered in. She was a practice consultant and I was a bit upset that I’d been fobbed off with a flakey strudel (I get enough of them at work) but she was proper lovely and seemed to know what she was doing, so I didn’t complain. The registrar drew on me with a superior quality blue marker pen and she only did a very small arrow because she wasn’t a proper consultant and so wasn’t allowed to take part in the proper consultants’ ‘top trumps’ competition. Then she drew the outline of the nipple incision and said “no doubt he’ll come along and do it again” and rolled her eyes. I nodded my understanding. There’s no missing his marker pen fetish and clearly it’s an open secret among his minions.
My operation was booked in for 11am, but I still had to be there at 7am because I am a celebrity patient, fun to be around and an inspiration to the lesser patients. I was quite happy to sit in pre-theatre admissions and be admired and I revelled in the fact that I had at least four hours of ‘me’ time, unsullied by my mithering kids and unhappy husband. I was dismayed to find that because my operation was going to be under local anaesthetic it had been classed as ‘minor surgery’. Bloody cheek. There is nothing minor about my missing nipple and it’s an outrage that my Near Death had been minimalised in this way. I made a mental note to raise it with the Board.
It seemed to be pretty busy in theatre admissions and I had a long wait. In the end I didn’t go down to theatre until nearly 2pm but I had my book and was as happy as Larry. Other lesser patients got fed up and asked where they were on the list, but not me. I had nabbed the only reclining recliner chair (I knew the game by now) fully reclined it, tucked my feet up under me and cosied on down. It felt like Christmas. I managed to get through about ten chapters of my book which was very appropriately about a serial killer who slices people up. I made sure that the cover was on full display and kept making horrified whimpering sounds as I turned the pages. I was gratified to find that I was soon given a wide berth by the lesser patients who clearly preferred to admire me from afar.
Once I’d seen my friendly anaesthetist and the flakey strudel registrar, I was called in to see my dishy consultant who was looking serious and business-like. There was strictly no small talk on theatre days, and I knew by now to keep quiet. I once toyed with the idea of turning up with (non)nipple tassles to see if I could raise a smile, but in the end decided against it- nipple tassles are surprisingly expensive.
Whenever I saw my dishy consultant for my check ups he was totes chillaxed and happy to have a bit of a chat, but on operation days it was a different story altogether and he was a bit frowny and intimidating. I originally put this down to the fact that operation day must be quite stressful for him- he’s in charge of managing the life expectancy of Undeads of course, but now I think it’s probably because he’s busy rehearsing dance routines in his head.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever had a man study your missing nipple with his nose inches away from your breast, and with a look of deep concentration on his face, and I can’t say it was the most erotic of experiences. However, at my age I’ll take what I can get, and so I determined to make the most of it and jiggled my breasts at him enticingly. As usual, he was completely unmoved by my advances and stayed a bit frowny, but as the flakey strudel registrar had predicted, he cheered up no end when he got to whip out his big blue superior quality marker pen. He took great care to pointlessly draw over the marks that had already been made on my tit by the flakey strudel registrar *sigh* and then strode off shouting over his shoulder that he’d see me in theatre.
Finally it was time to go down to theatre and although there was no whistle blowing or flag waving like there should have been, I was happy that I was accompanied by some of my old entourage who carried my bag and marvelled anew at the story of my blackened tit. Just before I went into theatre I nipped to the loo and whilst admiring myself in the mirror (I looked very fetching in my hospital gown, dressing gown, green stockings and flip flops) I realised to my absolute horror that my dressing gown was covered in stains. I was mortified to think that my dishy consultant had witnessed my slovenliness at first hand, but then immediately cheered up when I remembered that I was in Portsmouth, where stained dressing gowns are considered to be the height of fashion. I blended right in.
Once I was in theatre I had a good look around and was pleased to see that there didn’t seem to be a screen anywhere in sight which just shows you what a bit of arseyness and shoutyness can do if you employ them effectively. I was asked to climb up onto the trolley and was delighted to find that I had been allocated a non-reclining recliner trolley. There was clearly a theme emerging. My friendly anaesthetist and a theatre nursey had to wrestle the thing into submission before I could get on, and then once I was up on it they had to re-wrestle it into submission because I demanded to be sat up so I could observe what went on.
Once I was settled under a blanket with my breasts exposed, I was able to have a good look around and marvelled at the sights and sounds. As I’d predicted there was music playing but it seemed to be coming from a shit radio station and not the special NHS operation cassette player that I had anticipated. The radio was playing Bohemian Rhapsody and the next song was Like a Prayer– both cracking songs but not the best choice for an operation sound track I thought. I was desperate to mimic the Wayne’s World head banging to Bohemian Rhapsody but managed to resist the impulse- this was a surgical theatre after all.
I was puzzled to see that on the wall there was a large A4 photograph of a surgeon in scrubs holding a finger to his lips. The caption read ‘Shsss!!’. Sadly I was too far away to read the rest of the text but despite this there was no mistaking the sentiment. As I’d thought, there’s clearly some sort of band-of-brothers thing going on in theatre and no one is allowed to talk about it. Fortunately I’d only signed a consent form and not an NDA, so I am at complete liberty to tell you exactly what goes on in theatre and I will do so with honesty and openness.
When my dishy consultant finally flounced in, he was a sight to behold! He had gone from being serious and business-like to looking like one half of a comedy double act. He’d swapped the Hannibal Lecter muzzle for a pair of the MOST ridiculous pair of glasses that I have ever seen in my life. They looked like the ones you get from joke shops with the fake nose attached. It didn’t look like he had a fake nose attached but then he’s a brilliant plastic surgeon so I guess it wouldn’t.
The glasses were brilliant. They had thick black rims like the ones Eric Morecambe wore and there was a teeny tiny little magnifying glass in each lens. I thought that they would be super useful for locating bits of lego before stepping on them and I wanted them desperately.
I told him that I thought the glasses were cool because I’m a kind person and thought he could do with a bit of a boost. It must be a pretty hard life being a plastic surgeon and eyeing up tits all day after all. I didn’t really think the glasses were cool of course, I thought they looked bloody stupid, but he seemed happy enough in them and just nodded in a serious and slightly chuffed way. I honestly think he might have actually thought that he did look cool.
I was waiting for him to launch into a choreographed routine to The Stripper Song (he had the glasses after all) but sadly this was not to be. The radio was still happily playing songs from yesteryear and there was still no sign of the NHS cassette player, and so I resigned myself disappointedly to the fact that there was not going to be any operation choreography this time. Sad.
Once my dishy consultant had adjusted his comedy glasses and flicked my non nipple to make sure it was properly anaesthetised, he got down to business. I couldn’t actually wait. This was going to be fricking AWESOME. The chief minion adjusted my blankets so that my left breast rose like a lonely, white-scarred mountain from the green paper of the theatre wraps, and we all looked on expectantly.
Before he began, my dishy consultant cracked his knuckles, practised his jazz hands and then said in his best dishy consultant assertive voice ‘scalpel please’. It was JUST like how it is on the telly! All his blingy bits and bobs were handed to him by his chief minion and then JUST before he made his first incision, one of his lesser minions had the audacity to pipe up and ask him if he needed any hair removed from the site!! How rude is that? I was wide awake after all and was mortified to think that one of my entourage thought I had hairy breasts. The fact that this question was even asked illustrates my dishy consultant’s fondness for groinal skin grafts and I was doubly relieved that I’d managed to avoid having one.
Once I’d looked daggers at the rude lesser minion the operation was ready to proceed and I shivered with anticipation. I felt an overwhelming urge to ask my dishy consultant all my best and most intelligent sounding questions, but I know how men are with multi-tasking and I didn’t want to end up with a false nipple of my forehead, so I kept quiet so he could concentrate. The whole thing took about half an hour and it was really, really interesting. He sliced into the skin graft with a razor sharp scalpel and then kind of lifted up a flap of the skin and folded it back in on itself. There wasn’t much blood but I could see all the fatty gristly bits that were under the skin and at times he had to kind of hack into it a bit to lift the skin up fully. It was really cool and I couldn’t take my eyes away. I felt a bit of pulling when he lifted up the skin flap but it wasn’t painful at all and I loved every minute of it.
My dishy consultant had a seriously good team of minions around him (apart from the loser rude one) and although there was no doubting the high quality of his needlepoint, it was clear that he would be nothing without his thread snipping chief minion. She was proper on the ball, intuitively anticipated his every move and the second that he’d completed a stitch she was there to cut the thread. I thought I’d be gutted to miss out on the operation pop choreography but actually watching the two of them working together in sweet harmony was even better than watching them perform The Stripper Song routine. Almost.
When I told my mum about what had happened during the op (she’s a nursey so knows what’s what) she was really dismissive. She said that proper clever dick surgeons did all their own snipping and he must be a nomark lesser surgeon if he had to get someone else to do the snipping for him. I ignored her though cos I know that my dishy consultant is the BEST ever most proper clever dick surgeon in the whole world and anyway who cares if he’s a bit lazy and half arsed when it comes to the snipping. I imagine that drawing circles and arrows with his superior quality marker pen saps most of his wimpy man energy well before he gets into theatre, so it makes perfect sense for him to outsource.
All too soon the op was over, and my dishy consultant wandered off without a backward glance and without even blowing me a kiss. He’d left everything in a right old mess because he was too busy and important to tidy up after himself, and so his minions took over to clean everything up and stick the dressings on. I could tell that they were all super impressed that I hadn’t fainted, and I lapped up their admiration as I struggled off the non-reclining recliner trolley and back into my stained dressing gown.
I grabbed my bag and went to walk out but was stopped and told to get in a wheelchair. I told them that it was only an origami nipple tweak and that I was fine to walk, but they wouldn’t have it and the chief minion ordered me into the wheelchair and gave me my huge folder of medical notes to hold.
You can imagine my sheer disbelief when I sat down and the chief minion started to push me out of the theatre. I had only been gone and given a non-wheeling wheel chair! Seriously? Who the fuck makes the NHS equipment? Skoda? The bloody thing wouldn’t budge an inch and so I had to get out whilst the non-wheeling wheel chair was dragged into the corridor. Once the chief minion had done something to it I was told to get back in and then I was half pushed and half dragged to the patient dispatch centre. There was no touch-and-go ward this time because I hadn’t had a proper operation so I was a bit gutted cos I had to miss out on the warm blankets and the calm quiet voices. The non-wheeling wheel chair was a complete pain in the arse and I must have offered to get out and walk at least three times but the chief minion kept banging on about health and safety so I piped down and instead pondered how much more unsafe it must be to be bumped and booted down a corridor in a non-wheeling wheel chair than it would have been to just walk.
Once I was in the patient dispatch centre, I was greeted by a lovely young nurse who might have been a flakey strudel because she clearly had no idea about NHS budgets. She presented me not with the stale tuna sandwich that I was expecting, but with THREE packets of proper luxury biscuits! She also bunged me a packet of digestives but I ignored them because I am a celebrity patient and yawno digestives are for the riff raff.
This time I was only in the dispatch centre for about half an hour, and was soon collected by Porl. Sadly there was to be no drugs or bed rest this time and because Porl is the most squeamish person in the whole entire world I wasn’t even allowed to talk about what happened in theatre. Seems like I would have had to unwillingly join in with the band-of-brothers thing if it wasn’t for you lot, so thanks for being here.
I hope you’ve liked learning about what goes on in theatre and are enjoying the blog. I’m still on a quest to get onto Phil and Hollie’s sofa (not sure if you’re aware of that) so please do ‘like’, ‘share’ and forward this to as many people as you can. I’m more than happy for you to spam your entire contact list with my tit pics if it means I get onto ‘This Morning’. I have no shame and zero class- but I think we’ve probably already established that.
The next blog post finds me back for a check up with my dishy consultant for what I thought would be the final farewell. Turns out it wasn’t! Yay for me. And for him too obvs.