My boobs are gone! On November 1, I underwent a bilateral breast implant removal. When I had my breasts repaired 32 years ago, the operation was done on a Friday and I was back at work on a Monday. Removing my implants has proved to be much more challenging.
Prior to the operation I was under the impression only one of the silicone implants had ruptured, but the wiser move was to remove both. It turned out that both were in a significant state of disrepair. I came out of surgery, bound like an Egyptian mummy, with drains coming out of both sides. After undergoing anaesthetic, I couldn’t sleep so off I went downstairs at 2am for a sneaky cigarette. I am a naughty girl. I came back to the ward and tried to settle to sleep, but felt something trickling down my side. I buzzed the nurse and she redressed the drain site.
I’d only just started to eat my breakfast when the doctor arrived. She was not happy. I had developed a huge haematoma and required emergency surgery, so it was back to the operating theatre for me. On return to the ward, I was confined to bed.
On the third day in hospital the doctor said I should stay another day so I conceded, but come hell or high water, I was going home the following day. That night, the lady in the bed next to me was vomiting all night; another lady was in so much pain that she was constantly buzzing the nurse; and the lady opposite me passed copious amounts of wind. I had had no sleep.
By the time the doctor came to see me on the fourth day, I was dressed. I had put on a bit of a face and was raring to get the hell out of there. The doctor told me, “You are still losing too much blood into the drain. I’d like you to stay another day”, but I told her “Not a chance, sunshine. I’m out of here”. I discharged myself against medical advice, carrying a drain on either side of my chest but feeling so much happier. I don’t like hospitals — they are unhealthy places and I firmly believe that recovery in your own comfort zone is far more rapid. I signed the form (the one they have you sign so you can’t sue them should something happen out of their care) and returned home.
I am extremely fortunate; my neighbour, a retired nurse, took my vital signs both morning and evening, and even though they were all good, she was concerned I was still losing too much blood from one of the drain sites. I acknowledged her concern and went into the accident and emergency department.
I saw a gorgeous young Irish doctor. He took blood to measure my haemoglobin, which was fine, but wanted me to stay overnight so the plastics team could see me in the morning. I refused. I felt fine, albeit uncomfortable, and couldn’t see the point of taking up a hospital bed that someone else may need more urgently than I. Again, I discharged myself against medical advice. The doctor wasn’t happy with me and in his beautiful Irish brogue said, “I might not show it but I am angry with you”.
I returned to the hospital hoping that my drains would be removed on day 10, but no such luck. I’m stuck with them for at least another week. I continue to carry around these drains (in a Princess Cruise bag), wearing a compression singlet, but so grateful for my Angel of Mercy who lives next door and who continues to help me.
My bumps are gone, my belly is most definitely bigger than my now non-existent boobies, but I’m as happy as a pig in shit!