Hello again everyone. You’re lucky I’m still talking to you now that I’m a proper famous tabloid centrefold what’s been in Chat! The Daily Mail, The Mirror and The Sun. Sadly Phil and Hollie are STILL playing hard to get (c’mon ITV, throw me a frickin’ bone here), but I haven’t given up hope. It can only be a matter of time before I’m sat on their sofa after all, and fortunately, because I didn’t Actually Die and only Nearly Died, I have all the time in the world (touch wood).
Frog started school this year, and quite rightly, all my new school mum friends are in proper awe of me thanks to my appearance in the tabloids, which just goes to show the calibre of person that I’m hanging out with now. I don’t mind hanging out with illiterate chavs though ‘cos I do it all the time at home, and the fact that all my new school mum friends have now made me their Queen Bee makes up for their sordid interest in the gutter press anyway.
Sadly, because all we ever talk about at the school gates is yawno reading levels, children’s illnesses and the latest Peaky Blinders scam by the school to squeeze money out of us, I haven’t been able to tell all my new school mum friends about how I Nearly Died. Obviously I try and shoe-horn it into every convo, but there’s only limited time available at pick-up, and my story is so epic I don’t really feel I can do it justice in the five minutes I’ve got to grab Frog and run before his teacher lynches me to bore on about Frog’s delinquency, which lets face it, is totes his problem now anyway.
Fortunately, because I’m super smart, I’ve been stealthily adding all my new school mum friends to my Facebook, so that when I publish this blog post I can make sure they all read it and learn to appreciate decent literature. In fact, I’m really looking forward to pick-ups next week because I wholly anticipate having to drag Frog and the Baldy Rats through a school mum guard of honour, before being asked by Frog’s teacher to be the subject of ‘Show and Tell’. And I will quite happily oblige, tits are completely natural after all (well not in my case I’ll admit) and it’s important that five year olds are taught about health and well-being. And who better to teach them about that than someone who’s Nearly Died? I might even get to do a whole school assembly- or in my case a disassembly.
Now, in my last hilariously entertaining blog post, I’d told you all about how I stayed awake in surgery (#NearlyLifeGoal) and had a new origami nipple tweaking procedure. It was annoyingly classed as minor surgery (even though it wasn’t), so there were no drugs and no bed rest, and only a very small underwhelming bandage. I forgot to say in my last hilariously entertaining blog post how my dishy consultant instructed me to look after my nipple after surgery. He said I was to get a make-up sponge(!), cut a nipple sized hole in the middle of it, place my origamied nipple inside the hole and then stuff the whole package into my bra to stop my nipple from wandering off. I did wonder at the time how my dishy consultant knew so much about make-up sponges, and I was also slightly miffed that he felt that I would have any to hand. I’m a natural beauty after all, and the fact that I wear layers and layers of polyfilla and foundation, and require a shit ton of plastic surgery to make me appear like a natural beauty, is neither here nor there, and none of his business quite frankly (apart from the plastic surgery bits obvs). Still, he’d done a fairly good job of origamying my nipple, so I just smiled indulgently at him when he mansplained how to use make-up sponges.
I had to go back for a check-up one week after surgery so that my dishy consultant’s minions could unravel the dressings and make sure my nipple was healing up ok. In the week between my origami nipple tweaking and my check-up appointment, the NHS admin had gone into overdrive. In fact, so desperate were they to get me in to check up on the make-up sponge action that they sent me, not one, not two, but THREE letters. Two arrived on the same day and had different appointment times on them. And the third one arrived the next day with a big bold headline saying ‘PLEASE DISREGARD ALL OTHER LETTERS’. This one was obviously the boss letter.
What amazed me though was that the appointment time on the boss letter had been Tip-Exed out, and a new time handwritten in blue biro over the top. The blue biro time was THE EXACT same time that was on one of the underling letters. I was very confused. But clearly not as confused as the NHS appointment system. It did make me smile though. I have a deep affection for the NHS admin, because despite getting everything wrong most of the time, they still get it right when it matters, a bit like Frank Spencer.
Once I’d fathomed out my appointment time, I went back to the plastics outpatients clinic and this time, despite arriving in the hospital car park HALF AN HOUR before my appointment time, I spectacularly failed to find a parking space, so I was ten minutes late for my appointment. Being late REALLY bothers me, especially when it’s for the NHS. Thanks to the patronising posters in my local doctors’ surgery, I knew that missed appointments cost the NHS billions of pounds each year, and although I wasn’t sure how much late appointments cost the NHS, I figured that time is money, and so I was mortified when I eventually arrived in plastics outpatients well after my scheduled appointment time.
Because I was late, all the minions were standing around at the reception desk looking cross, and the rest of the waiting room was empty. At first I thought I was going to be scolded for my tardiness but just before the receptionist launched into a tirade of (quite justified) abuse, and demanded a cash payment to make up for the thousands of pounds I had cost the department, the chief minion called out my name and then all the lesser minions stood back, relaxed and gazed at me in admiration. Thank god I was a celebrity patient! I wasn’t properly late at all- just fashionably late, as is my right. All the lesser minions then took turns to pass my notes around and marvel in awe at the medical photos. Even the receptionist properly chilled out and told me not to worry about being late, she was just grateful that I was still alive.
Once everyone had sung a rousing chorus of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and congratulated me on my awesome, and wholly unexpected achievement of staying Nearly Alive, the chief minion took me into one of the consulting rooms and asked me to lie on the trolley so she could unravel my make-up-sponged-and-sellotaped nipple bundle (I didn’t have any fancy surgical tape).
When she pried my origamied nipple out of its snug little fortress, I was pleased to see that my new nipple seemed to be healing up nicely. It took about thirty seconds to check and I was just about to put my bra back on and leave, when I thought I’d better mention that I had noticed a very slight lump in my left breast.
Klaxons went off. Red lights started flashing and people started yelling and running in all directions. My dishy consultant rushed in, and although I was thrilled to see him, it was also a bit worrying because I wasn’t expecting to see my dishy consultant at this check-up because he outsourced all the yawno stuff to his minions.
This. Must. Be. Serious.
He put on a VERY concerned face, grabbed my left tit and had a good old rummage around. After a properly thorough examination, he declared that it was probably ‘just a fatty lump left over from the fat graft’ and explained how sometimes the fat just died and there was nothing you could do about it. He looked really sad about it, and I felt a bit sorry for him. It must be awful when all your best mates are lumps of fat. Especially if they then go and die on you. It’s not a ringing endorsement of your personality is it?
Fortunately, some of my best mates are also dead lumps of fat, so I shot him a look of deep empathy, reached out and squeezed his hand. In that moment I felt that we’d become closer than we’d ever been.
Once he’d wiped the single tear away from his eye, he seemed to remember something he’d been taught in the second module of his B-Tec and brightened up considerably. He got all excited and said “hey! maybe it’s not a dead lump of fat after all – maybe it’s a cyst- shall I have a go at popping it?” I was about to say ‘Nah, you’re alright mate’ but it seemed that the temptation of doing yet more surgery was too much to overcome, and so he told me to ‘shut it’ and started ordering his chief minion about in a bossy, no-nonsense, mannish kind of a way.
And then began three minutes of hilarity. I lay on the trolley and watched the events unfold with a huge grin on my face and the Benny Hill theme tune playing in my head. My dishy consultant and his chief minion dashed around the consulting room in a frenzy- pulling boxes off shelves, opening and closing drawers at random and getting in each other’s way. They were clearly looking for something and I couldn’t wait to see what they’d come up with. I assumed that it would be a superior quality blue marker pen and felt quite relaxed about it. Until I saw what they’d unearthed.
The grin was instantly wiped from my face, I turned pale and I began to shake.
My dishy consultant had found a box labelled ‘GREAT BIG FUCK OFF STABBY THINGS’ and from it produced the longest needle I had ever seen in my life! It wasn’t a needle it was a bloody spike. The sort you get on the tops of Victorian railings. I gaped at it in horror, but the minion just smiled reassuringly as my dishy consultant held it up to the light and started making stabbing and swooping motions in the air with it, like a low rent d’Artagnan.
I’m not joking, I’d seen shorter and blunter javelins. I trembled and looked frantically around for the minion with the anaesthetic. There was surely going to be anaesthetic right? I mean, come on! I know I’d cost the department about 4k by turning up ten minutes late, but surely, surely they weren’t going to deny me some anaesthetic? It’s a basic human right after all. Isn’t it?
The minion saw what I wanted but shook her head sadly- she clearly had no jurisdiction in these parts. I made to get the fuck out of there as fast as I could, but before I could scramble off the trolley, my dishy consultant pinned me down with his elbow, grabbed my left breast in one hand, yelled ‘SHARP SCRATCH’, leaned back on one heel, and then propelled the needle into my left tit with a swift overarm motion and with the full force of his body weight behind it. I braced myself, looked away and then yelled as my boob took the full force of the impact. It had all happened so quickly I was left reeling.
Jesus Wept. What kind of a sick sadist was he? I knew about his Hannibal Lecter tendencies, but at least then there had been anaesthetic. No wonder they had a band-of-brothers thing going on. If anyone knew that this was what they did in check-up appointments EVERYONE would be missing appointments right, left and centre and the NHS would be in even more of a financial pickle.
After slashing at my left tit like he was in the shower scene from Psycho, my dishy consultant relaxed a bit and shot me a well chuffed grin. It was clear that he was in his element. I gazed in horror at the four foot long spike that he’d left hanging out of my left tit, and as my dishy consultant waggled it about, I screwed up my toes and winced in pain. He finally noticed me and said ‘sorry, is that sore?’ NO SHIT! Of COURSE it’s sore! Are you insane? I’ve got a sodding great spear hanging out of my left tit!
Of course I couldn’t tell him it was bloody painful though, (remember I’m a double hard bastard), so I just gritted my teeth, shook my head and whimpered, ‘no, not really’. I couldn’t possibly show weakness at this point because God knows what else he might have done had he started seeing me as a victim.
Once he’d had a good old waggle about he drew up the syringey bit and nothing came out, so he DID IT AGAIN!!! Christ on a cracker! Was there to be no end to this madness?
I’d really had enough now and told him to ‘back the fuck up’ because I wanted to keep the cyst. He looked a bit deflated, but then remembered that I’d dragged him away from his pot noodle lunch (probably) and so gave me strict instructions to bypass him and go STRAIGHT to the breast department if the lump changed. The unspoken implication being that they knew what they were doing in that department.
Once he’d lovingly placed the needle back in its box, he bid me a cheery goodbye and said he’d see me in three months to sign me off. Then the reality of what he’d said hit him, and he quite rightly looked devastated. I was overcome with emotion (and pain from the tit jabs) and also went a bit teary-eyed, at which point I think he probably thought I was about to tell him that I loved him again, so he dashed out shouting ‘Merry Christmas’ over his shoulder.
So I left the hospital with my make-up sponge wrapped nipple and a gaping hole in my left breast, to reclaim my car which I’d had to park in the staff-only bit of the car park, seeing as how there were no patient spaces left, and the celebrity VIP space that I had demanded years ago still wasn’t built yet. I had to pretend to be a member of NHS staff of course so no one twigged that I had parked in the wrong bit, so I slouched my shoulders, lit up a fag and hurried along looking glum, haggard and overworked. Luckily my genius disguise worked and no one stopped me.
Then it was Christmas which meant life got VERY busy and I had to focus on spending time with the kids and buying presents for other people. These are the worst parts about Christmas. The best part is all the food and alcohol of course.
So, when I next saw my dishy consultant for what I thought was going to be the last ever time, it was January 2019, and, like the rest of the population, my left nipple was depressed.
I know that January is always a depressing month (more so since the Baldy Rats were spawned in it) but I was surprised to see that it had a very tangible physical effect on me. My left origamied nipple had shrunk back from it’s make-up-sponge-and-sellotaped hidey hole and was no longer sticking out at all. And in addition to this, my left tit had also flattened out a bit. The lump hadn’t changed because, let’s face it, after what happened to it in the last appointment it was terrified to step a foot out of line, but the rest of the fat cells had clearly seen what had happened to their mate and taken the smart decision to leech out whilst the going was good.
I’d also lost a bit more weight, and then put some on (hello? it’s Christmas remember) and so maybe my fluctuations in weight had something to do with it. Anyway, it couldn’t be denied. I had a concave tit and a depressed nipple, and something had to be done about it. (And any of you who think that I pressed on my nipple and spent hours squeezing the fat out of my left breast just in order to get more lipo need to shut it. I definitely never did either of those two things on a daily basis, and I’ll sue anyone who says different).
When I saw my dishy consultant again I was pleased to note that there was no javelin sized needle anywhere in sight, so I relaxed and stripped off. I showed him my depressed nipple and he basically brushed it off (not literally) and (rather defensively I thought) said it was the best he could do, but that if I wasn’t happy he could slice a bit off my right nipple so they matched.
Is there no end to this man’s macabre practises? I was joking before when I said that we had a David Lynch-style, parasitic love affair going on, but honestly- slicing up nipples? Surely, surely that was a more than just a mere nod to Eraserhead?? I was getting more and more concerned about him. I obviously refused his kind offer to slice up my happy nipple and instead complained about how my left tit was all lop-sided and a bit rubbish. He looked it over, had a good old feel and then agreed. He said he could fix it but it would unfortunately mean more lipo. Boom shanks! Yeeha! Who gives a shit about a depressed nipple if I get more lipo? I was well chuffed and instantly forgave him for his tit stabbing antics at the last appointment. He said it would mean more pain, more bandages and a long recovery blah blah blah but I wasn’t listening. I was already planning what bikini top I’d wear to ‘Show and Tell’.
I was also doubly pleased about the extra surgery because it meant I could continue to stalk my dishy consultant in his work environment and didn’t need to stand forlornly in his garden looking through his windows just yet. My dishy consultant was also clearly thrilled to have an excuse to see me again and gave me a broad, slightly sinister, grin. I’d found a keeper for sure.
Of course with hindsight, it’s pretty obvious why he was so keen to do the extra op. Not only was I the best ever patient he’d ever had, and supplied him with a whole new vocabulary of medical terms, I’d also massively enhanced his street cred with his minions and made him famous. I bet everyone wants to work with him now in case they get featured in my hilariously entertaining blog or the gutter press. Totally explains why there was a different flakey strudel practice consultant registrar every time I went in, and why I never entirely lost my entourage.
In addition to The Sun, The Daily Mail, The Mirror and Chat! (which I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet) my story has now also been published in The The New York Times, The India Times, The Europe News, inews.co.uk, The World News and my current favourite The Asian Parent (I couldn’t really figure out why either). So it was no real surprise that my dishy consultant jumped at the chance to extend our time together.
As I said, ‘cos of Christmas I’d gotten a bit fat again, not Weeble-fat like before, but fat enough that my tummy stuck out more than my boobs (even more so now that my left tit was concave). At Grump’s request I’d dyed my hair bright pink (Porl hated it) but even with this as a distraction, the weight gain must have been obvious so I thought I’d better mention it. I told my dishy consultant that I had about another stone to lose but he said not to worry because the next op would be in three months’ time, which would give me plenty of time to get back to my ‘fighting weight’.
The fact that he’d mentioned ‘fighting weight’ made me feel a bit anxious. Who did he want me to fight? And why? Was this a whole new aspect to his sadism? Patient baiting? Or maybe it was because he wasn’t planning on using a general anaesthetic in the next op either and so thought I’d need to fight for the right to not have a screen again. Anyway I took his phrase seriously and immediately enrolled in some Boxercise classes at Petersfield Rugby Club. Nothing says ‘stay the fuck away from me, I’m a tough mother fucker’ more than sparring with a bunch of fat mums at a Rugby Club, and I’m pleased to say that I am now not only down to my ‘fighting weight’, but also have arm muscles, which will come in handy should my dishy consultant ever try to javelin me in the tit again.
Thanks for reading yet another hilariously entertaining instalment in the saga of my Near Death. I do hope the spike jabbing antics of my dishy consultant hasn’t put you off going for your check-ups. If it has, then at least please have the decency to cancel your appointments rather than just missing them. I don’t want to be sued by the government for increasing the NHS debt. This bastard blog is STILL not bringing in the passive income that it should be, but I’m buggered if I’m going to let the damn thing start costing me money.
In my next blog post I’ll tell you all about my FINAL fat graft and lipo op. I imagine it will be hilarious.