Morning. All I can think is - I’m not even sick yet and look what I have endured!!! As she waddles off for the fourth time around six am with a 10 suspicious, no scratch that - it’s obvious what it is, dribble, emerging down her pasty legs.
Lunch time. The time for the op is here. I’m worried. Am I doing the right thing? Everyone says I look fine as I do already. EVERYONE. But I’m not happy and I know there might be a way for me to look and feel better (and have better functionality of my jaw - superficial haters). They ask me one last time am I ready. Yes. To be more than honest I’m freaking out about the massive drip the even massiv-er black guy is about to ram into my arm. Bubba he don't look gentle. Too late it’s in. I’m too flustered to care any way. Friendly father figure anaesthetist guy says "whaddya drink?”. "BEER" comes the woozy answer. "A couple of strong ones coming up luv...."
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I wake up. The feeling is reassuringly familiar. Feel sick as a dog. Bad ass dry throat. Banging headache. Last night must have been a cracker. A gentle hand takes my arm and urges me to sit up. Say's something... can’t quite remember what... but it all come flooding back... the operation!!
I am moved from one bed to another, I barely have the strength to lift myself. It’s horrible. This is worse than any hangover... and worryingly I can’t feel my face. All youse out there pay heed! Being able to feel you face without the use of your hands, or a damp flannel - as you will see later - is a great privilege. I throw up two bowls of blood. Somewhere in the foreign recesses of my mind it actually reminds me of the time I was sick red aftershock in "bar flava" when I was 16. I philosophize now that I had this thought as coming round from the op was such an alien experience for me that I was searching for experiences to liken it to. Not sure what I think of the memory banks that chose being hung-over and being sick.
My parents arrive a couple of hours later when I am back on the "specialist" ward. I recognise me ma's heels coming down the hospital corridor. My Dad's face is funny when he first sees me. I can tell he loves me and he cares but something has perturbed him. I am aware there must be muchos swelling of my face but I've been too dazed to think about it.
"Your face looks a little..... rounder" he says. "The mirror!!!" I demand – a la some kind of Frankenstein show from the 1930’s - I can’t believe I have not cared to look at what I look like until now. Well. All I can say is it’s a bloody good job I’ve got a sense of humour. What I see could have destroyed other mid-twenties aged girls obsessed with looking like Megan Fox (although would rather have a border line eating disorder than go to the actual gym to do owt about it). MY FACE IS FAT. My jaw is fixed. But my face.... my face is fat man- and I don’t mean just chubby, like. I mean 3 chins and jowls fat. I try to crack a smile. It hurts.
My parents visit is lovely, although passes in a haze of my conscious interjecting every mumbled conversation with.... "YOU'VE GOT A FAT FACE!". I communal text everyone that I'm ok and have not died and there is no need to inform my mum I wanted "Smack me Bitch Up" played at my funeral just yet.
I try to sleep but secretly look forward to what I know is coming. (What else do I have to look forward to - I have a fat face). The nurse bring the pain killer trolley round like some kind of narcotically loaded airhostess from morphine heaven. She attempts to give me codine, orally, as I have to get used to ingesting orally. Now. I'm a up for it gal, I’ve been ingesting orally since I was 15. I’m not missing out on some hard core intravenous action. I throw a fit and insist she is trying to kill me by forcing me to take drugs orally. Now hook me up to the morphine. There. That’s better.
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