24th May 2018 | 10 minute read

Warm Blankets and Bandages

I simply cannot believe that not ONE of you has signed up to my desperate pay-per-view initiative. You do know I live in Petersfield right? The cost of nearly living here is astronomical and if you don’t start paying for the privilege of reading about my tits soon then a move back ’oop North to live with my rough-as-old-boot mates in Manchester may well be on the cards. And then Porl will have to commute for hundreds of hours every day to get to work and my children will all grow up to be flat cap wearing, whippet walking, pie eating, food bank trawling alcoholics. Not really the future I had envisioned for them so if you wouldn’t mind sending me your credit card details asap it would be appreciated.

In my last hilariously entertaining blog post I had left myself in the operating theatre having anaesthetic pumped into my veins by a friendly anaesthetist. Because I spectacularly failed to have any sort of out-of-body experience I have no idea what actually went on during surgery but I assume that it all went well because I woke up in recovery and not in the morgue.

I’m not sure if any of you will have been in recovery having not Nearly Died like me so I’ll tell you all about it. Recovery (or touch-and-go as I renamed it in my head) is a private ward that you get wheeled to in your trolley as soon as you come out of theatre. All the post surgery patients are crammed in together like intensively farmed pigs and touch-and-go nurseys keep an eye on them until they have fully recovered from the anaesthetic and come to terms with having had their bad bits hacked off.

Survivors from all different types of surgery end up on the touch-and-go ward together so as you slowly come round and start to take an interest in your fellow incarcerates you will see (and hear) all manner of random weird shit. Some patients are throwing up because the anaesthetic makes you nauseous. Some people are still asleep and snoring or farting loudly which is hilarious. Some patients have their legs strapped up in stirrups which is also hilarious (although probably not for them) and some patients are covered in bandages. A few of the patients are really confused when they come round and sometimes they shout and swear so it was a bit like being at work but loads better because I wasn’t actually at work.

Some patients have obviously had some pretty serious operations so they are screened off by curtains and attached to machines and have lots of nurseys and doctors hovering around them looking pseudo interested. Other patients are minor no-marks and so are just left rotting on their trolley and completely ignored. Because everyone was far too groggy from the anaesthetic to even think about getting frisky, male and female patients all end up on the touch-and-go ward together and because everyone is lying down and covered in blankets you can’t really tell what gender people are until they start waking up, at which time it becomes obvious. (The patients making a great song and dance over their suffering, making ridiculous demands and being overly dramatic were the men of course)

I’ve been on the touch-and-go ward many times over the past two and a half years and always the BEST thing about it are the warm blankets. I LOVE them. And the touch-and-go nurseys are so kind. All the nurseys I have come across have been kind because kindness is what nurseys are made from, but the touch-and-go nurseys are just gorgeous. One or two of them (depending on how endangered you are) get allocated to you and you become their special hobby until you leave. I always had two attendants (and sometimes a whole entourage) because I am a celebrity patient and fun to be around and the nurseys all wanted to hear about how I Nearly Died because of how rare it was and how special I am.

The touch-and-go nurseys are there waiting next to your bed when you come round from the anaesthetic and they talk to you in quiet voices and do everything they can to keep you calm and warm. They give you little sips of water to drink through a straw and cover you in warm blankets (did I mention the warm blankets?) and talk to you really softly and pretend to be your mum for a bit. As you get stronger and wake up a bit more they talk to you in normal voices and keep checking your obs to make sure that you are ok and not about to set all the alarms off by Nearly Dying. Recovery is a place of calm and serenity and touch-and-go nurseys do not look kindly upon patients who set their alarms off simply because they can’t cope with being alive. I tried to make the touch-and-go ward into a party zone like I had in the holding pen because calm and quiet is for losers, but I kept getting shushed because recovery is strictly for recovery only.

When I was fully recovered, and back to my normal awesome self, the touch-and-go nurseys disentangled me from my cocoon of warm blankets and sent me up to the dispatch centre where I was joylessly reunited with my non-reclining recliner chair. I was fed another stale tuna sandwich and a cup of tea and then I checked, double checked and triple checked every five minutes to see if Porl was there to collect me. The dispatch nurseys thought that I was a paranoid pain in the arse with anxiety issues but actually I just didn’t want to pay for another four hours of unnecessary hospital parking. Luckily Porl was also on the ball and harassed the dispatch nurseys every five minutes from the visitors’ waiting room so I’m guessing the dispatch nurseys must have thought that we were madly in love and desperate to be reunited. Of course that wasn’t the case at all we were just super skint (we live in Petersfield remember) and didn’t want to line the pockets of a bastard parasite private parking firm.

Porl took me back to my mum’s to fully recover but as she didn’t have any warm blankets to hand and refused my reasonable request to warm some cold blankets up for me, it was no where near as good as being on the touch-and-go ward and I made sure that I made my mum aware of this at every opportunity.

If you’ve kept up with all my previously entertaining blog posts you’ll know that I’d had surgery for a number of different procedures. I’d had a mastopexy (uplift) to my wallflower of a right breast which meant that the saggy bit of excess tit skin had been removed and the remainder reshaped into something that resembled a nice full breast rather than a spaniel’s ear. My nipple had also been removed and then restitched onto the newly remodelled breast so I had the classic ‘anchor scar’, a nod to my Pompey roots and a sure fire way to attract sailors. At the same time as reshaping my right breast, my dishy consultant had also performed liposuction to the outside of my thighs, my abdomen and my flanks. He’d then done something proper clever dick and scientific to the syphoned out flab- Strained it? Filtered it? Skimmed it? Who knows? but all the good bits of high quality fat had then been injected into my empty bean bag of a left breast to fill it out. I don’t know what my dishy consultant did with all the left over sub-standard crap flab but it might explain the lardiness of hospital dinners. Where’s Jamie Oliver when you need him?

Once I was at my mum’s sulking over the lack of warm blankets and grumpy because my mum was unable or unwilling to do a quiet calm voice like the touch-and-go nurseys, the pain meds gradually started to wear off and I began to realise just how extensive my surgery had been. I was sore from my knees up to my neck! The outside of my thighs felt like they were on fire and my stomach felt like I’d been punched repeatedly. My breasts also both hurt a lot and I couldn’t sit up in bed or roll over on to my side without help.

I had to spend a couple of days on complete bed rest at my mum’s and was taking a lot of pain medication. I was a proper invalid and felt pretty rough and really couldn’t do much other than complain about the lack of warm blankets and tell my Mum off for not talking in a quiet calm voice.

The kids were looked after by friends, family and nursery but to be honest I wasn’t really that bothered about where they were or who they were with- they were pretty good at fending for themselves by now and I was far more interested in myself- because let’s face it- I am far more interesting. The only thing more boring than your own children are other people’s and that is a fact. Children don’t really get interesting until they are old enough to get jobs and make money and sadly mine are way off this. It’s a shame that the Baldy Rats aren’t better looking, more charismatic or identical because we could have made a small fortune advertising nappies. As it is we are stuck with a bunch of takers for at least another 14 years and I’m quite resentful.

Anyway as soon as I was able to get out of bed without groaning and could stand up unaided I of course started to unwrap all of my bandages. I looked like a mummy and was completely covered from my neck to my knees in dressings and plasters and so I couldn’t tell what the results of the surgery were and I was very excited to see what lay beneath. When I’d taken all the bandages off I was absolutely amazed! I was covered in bruises but…..

I was a hotty! A Milf! A hubba hubba!

The result from the lipo was just amazing. My tummy was flatter, my thighs were more defined and my love handles were completely gone! I couldn’t believe it. I revelled in my streamlined status for about two days and then one morning I woke up and I had swelled up again!! I was fatter than before! I was gutted. Turns out this is typical though and after a week or so the swelling started to go down again and I became much less sore. My breasts looked great- just as good as before I’d had the kids and I’d gone back to my original cup size. I think I went from a D/E to a C cup and apart from the scarring on my left tit from the skin graft and the fact that I was still missing a nipple I looked fabulous. So much so that I just COULD NOT put them away. I think I fell short of showing them off to my dad but pretty much everyone else I knew had a good old look and quite a few of my friends also had a cheeky grope.

Now my dishy consultant had told me when he drew all over me with his superior quality marker pen before surgery that he anticipated that some of the fat that he’d grafted into my left breast would leak out. I’m not sure where it was supposed to leak out to but I have to say my double chin did seem a little bigger than usual post surgery.

After a month of recovery during which I couldn’t run, ride, drive or go to work I was proper bored and ready to start nearly living again. I went back to work but sadly my days of spinning around on my chair were well and truly over and I had to do some proper teaching. It was May by now and exams were just around the corner so I got roped into doing revision classes, taster days and exam invigilation. I did miss the chair spinning but it was nice to feel useful.

I also went back to my running and after a couple of weeks of running short distances I began to work up to running regular 5 and 6k distances again with the Runnyhoneys (I still wasn’t a fan of the name). I’d stayed on track with my new healthy lifestyle too and so the weight continued to come off bit by bit (in no small part due to the sterling efforts of my dishy consultant with his fat syphoning antics).

So fast forward three months to July 2017 and I was back in to see my dishy consultant for a check up and to see what he thought about my recovery.

SHOCK HORROR!!

This time he DID mention my weight loss AND he ALSO noticed that I’d had my hair cut and dyed blonde! Now ladies you KNOW that men never notice new haircuts and so this was a clear indication that my dishy consultant had finally started to see me as a potential conquest rather than as a patient. How shallow is that? I had known my dishy consultant for almost a year but it was only now that I was slim and blonde and had perky tits that he was bothering to make small talk. What a sleaze.

Anyhow, I didn’t mind that he was a bit shallow, as I have said before I had three kids, a fake tit and a missing nipple and beggars can’t be choosers. I did wonder how many other women he had reconstructed to fit in with his sexual preference for slim, blonde and perky  though. Not sure that it’s entirely ethical to remodel fat, titless women into his private aesthetic ideal but my thighs weren’t wobbly anymore and my empty bean bag tit was now a proper tit so I decided not to pursue this with the medical board.

All this unsolicited and out of character attention from my dishy consultant made me feel a bit nervous though so when he remarked on my new hair I mumbled something along the lines of ‘well blondes have more fun’. He enthusiastically agreed (a bit too enthusiastically I thought) so I hastily changed the subject by mentioning the Baldy Rats. He looked significantly less interested in me at this point and I left with my marriage intact. (It seems that the Baldy Rats do have some uses after all, even though they are not good looking, or charismatic or identical).

Because of the natural fat leeching and a bit more weight loss due to the running, my reconstructed left tit had flattened out a bit so I had a beautifully pert right breast and a deflated left breast. I was lopsided and looked a bit like a sideways version of BB8 from the front. Frog loves Star Wars so he was a lot happier about this than I was.

My dishy consultant had a good old feel (we were still fooling around at second base even though he was clearly desperate to take things up a notch now that I was thin and blonde and had perkier boobs) and he decided that he’d do another reconstruction operation to give my left tit a bit of a boost. This meant more lipo and so of course I was delighted. My dishy consultant seemed overly keen to see me again and so he booked me in for a second fat graft operation for three months’ time in September 2017, almost exactly one year after I Nearly Died.

I was very happy about the prospect of more liposuction and a fuller left breast and although my mum was a bit worried about the additional surgery and suggested that I just stick tissue paper into my bra, I completely ignored her because where was she when I needed warm blankets?

In my next hilariously entertaining blog post you’ll find me getting drawn on again, having a bit more lipo and being joyfully reunited with the touch-and-go nurseys.

Sign Up For A Slice Of Awesome

Stick your email address here sweet friend and I'll add you to my little black book.

You'll get a very occasional update (I'm very busy don't cha know?) and I'll give you the heads up when I post new blog content. I don't do spamming - life is way too short for that nonsense