Well there goes my pie-in-the-sky plan to get plastic surgery on my eye bags and basset-hound cheeks. I had a teeny-weeny skin cancer surgically removed from my shoulder yesterday and I was a gibbering mess. The plastic surgeon’s assistant had to keep telling me to breathe – I forgot every few minutes because I was so strung out about being attacked with a scalpel.
The surgeon wasn’t the chatty type and his assistant wasn’t much of a conversationalist either – other than telling me to “breathe” a lot – so I had no-one to nervously blather at. Always a dangerous situation for me, because it means I start silently blathering to myself.
As I lay there, I thought there is no fricking way I could have someone do this – extensively – to my face. Not unless they put me into an induced coma and woke me a few weeks later when all the swelling had gone down and the stitches were removed. Hmmmm, induced comas … could they be the facelift innovation of the future? Might reduce scarring … But how would you feel about losing a few weeks of your life to a cosmetic coma? Would you feel guilty about deserting your family for vanity purposes? Some people go to Thailand and combine their holiday with a nip and tuck, but I can’t imagine enjoying the holiday with a face like Rihanna’s after Chris head-butted her. But maybe if you drank lots of Mai Tais, no make that Black Russians, you wouldn’t notice the pain and funny looks.
See, not a good idea for me to think too much …
The plastic surgeon put a special shield around my shoulder while he was operating so I couldn’t see the gore. Then he proceeded to tug and scrape and poke with very little explanation about what he was doing. It was disconcerting. When he was finished, he waved around a blood-soaked piece of gauze and I almost lost my breakfast. My blood … gauze … woozy …
Then I thought, you’d probably be asleep for a facelift and there’d be no need for panic or conversation, but that comes with its own set of problems. General anaesthetic makes me vomit like nobody’s business. I can’t imagine you’d want to vomit like nobody’s business with a face full of stitches.
Thinking too much again …
So I may have the desire for a facelift, but I don’t think I have the stomach for it.
After my minor surgical procedure, my parents treated me to lunch at a nearby cafe. I ordered a club sandwich. My hands were shaking so much I could barely lift the bacon-and-mayonnaise-filled heart-attack-on-a-plate to my mouth. My dad had to cut it into bits so I could hold it. All because of a little slicing and dicing. Pathetic. I felt slightly better after two cans of Diet Coke – one was soooo not enough – but I was still pretty wobbly.