Shedding surgeons

I went to see my plastic surgeon for the first  time since a drug-blurred conversation the day after surgery. It wasn’t just the surgeon today though. It was a veritable smörgåsbord of medical types. The surgeon, the nurse, plus two insanely young looking medical students. I think it means I’m officially old when I say things like that.

So they all wanted to see my boobs. They are public property after all. Lots of humans have had a part to play in their existence. People I don’t even know and will never meet have had hands on them.

I departed for the room with the bed in and slowly peeled off each layer of compression clothing. I had taken the micropore tape off (fancy masking tape) earlier but I hadn’t got all the leftover glue so my compression knickers were a bit sticky in all the wrong places.

As usual I got the open mouthed gasp from the nurse as she supervised my undressing. For good reasons. They’re always super impressed with the surgeon’s skill and also my healing wounds. To them my belly button is especially lovely looking. To me it’s a Franken-button. I wasn’t exactly sure why they cut out my belly button and sewed it back on. Apparently they pulled out the whole stalk. Yes, belly buttons are on stalks, like really gross sunflowers.

Then they took my tummy flap and stretched the skin down and cut a new hole for my belly button. So that meant my tummy was big enough that they could pull it down far enough to remove the old belly button hole. Sorry, I’m not sure why I’m obsessing over this. There was so many other big things being done to my body that I hadn’t paid proper attention to the fate of my belly button. Felt right to give it some consideration now.

I was lying on the bed and four people were peering at my wounds and scars and new boobs. This didn’t phase the plastic surgeon though. He asked permission for every touch and focused on me and my questions. Not once did I feel like a mannequin displaying his work.

One part of my left boob is still not entirely healed and the skin is red. But it’s not hot, doesn’t hurt, isn’t tight. So probably not an infection. Both boobs have parts that are harder and he theorised that some fat had been left behind on the skin and had died. It’s called fat necrosis and with a bit of massage should break down.

Aside from that it’s all good.

Bonus is that today is the day I get to shed my compression skin. Off come the knickers. Off come the socks.

My next appointment with him is in March 2018. Another year, another calendar needed. For now it’s all about massaging my bits and definitely not thinking about top up surgery or adding nipples.

No more hospitals, no more surgeons.

For a while.