All the things NOBODY tells you when you get an extended tummy tuck, or any sort of largely altering bodily operation.
- It really, really hurts.
- Sex. Don’t even think about it.
- Sleeping in any other position other than your back. No, just no.
- Needles. I hope you like them because you’re getting a minimum of two every day in hospital.
- Pillows. A lot, you need a lot. If you don’t have them. Buy them. Yesterday.
- Panadol. Drag your arse to Costco and buy a box, not a 20 pack. A box, maybe even a pallet load.
- Walking upright. You are dreaming, prepare yourself for looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame for a month. Minimum.
- Tablets. You’re popping those bad boys like they’re M&M’s.
- Questions. Whether warranted or not you’ll get a lot, answer them or don’t. It’s up to you.
- Haters. I swear, once you go from flab to fab people hate you, despise you even. You will lose friends, I hope you don’t. But I did. Just smile and wave, flick them the bird. Whatever.
- The emotions, now this one is a big deal. Cry cause you can’t move, cry when you finally can move, cry cause you’re sore, cry cause the sun’s shining or it’s raining. Just be prepared for all of the crying. Tissues. Costco (refer to number 2).
- Showering, HA!!! Hope you’re not fond of them because you sure as shit won’t get them in hospital. Especially if you have drains in. Which brings me to the next shit show.
- Drains. Possibly the worst part of the entire ordeal. These pesky little pvc things are stitched onto your skin’s surface to alleviate fluid build up around the incision (vomit). They hurt constantly, and getting them taken out. Well fuck me. Take the strongest possible pain relief you can beforehand (legal or illegal, we won’t judge). I can’t even continue talking about them, I’m having flashbacks.
- Sponge baths. Learn to love them. Not being able to get your healing wounds wet means a washer and soap are your new best friends.
- My man/your man/husband/de facto/boyfriend/sugar daddy/whatever!! They get worried. They think you’re going from you to Beyoncé. My man thought I’d change, or not be me anymore. Relax buddy, I’m just getting five kilos of skin removed. I’m not getting a personality transplant, although I know a few people who could do with one of those.
- Pain. You will get a lot of this, learn to accept help and take the medication when needed.
- Nurses. They fall into two categories. Really good or really bad. Luckily for me I only experienced really good, I hope you do too. Shoutout to the angels at Kareena Private Hospital, I salute you.
- Your surgeon, pick a good one. One you like personally and professionally. Ain’t got time for some dick weed slicing and dicing you. Pay the money, get a good one.
- Overseas. Pass. Just a big fat no. What if something happens? You get a post op infection? You lose a limb or worse. Your luggage? You’re stuck, incapacitated in a foreign country. I’d rather shoot myself.
- Results. I saved the best for last. Whilst I was waking up from my fleur de lis extended tummy tuck in recovery the nurse, who was simply the best (like Tina Turner) asked me if I’d like to see my new flat stomach. I said yes. She lifted my gown and undid my compression binder. I cried the most happy tears I’ve cried since giving birth. The flap of skin that hung off me was gone, my new body had been given to me. What a gift. The point is 1 – 19 are shit. Recovery is a horrendous and fucked up ordeal that I wish nobody had to experience, not even my ex mother in law and she is full tilt mental. Not the point. It’s worth it, the tears, the pain and even the drains (I’m a poet now). Your surgeon changed your life. Now love yourself. Go out there and dominate life. Wear a bikini, put makeup on, wear a tight dress or whatever makes you feel beautiful. Because baby, YOU are one sexy mother fucker and you better believe it.