Thursday, 1 June 2017


Home sweet home


To welcome me home after surgery, my lovely stepdaughter Fiona had sent me what she called a 'care package'.  In it were three tins of pre-mixed alcoholic drinks and loads of Galaxy, my favourite chocolate.  She knows me so well.

I did find myself dipping in and out of the care package far more than was probably good for me (I ignored the alcohol though).  I decided to hide the remainder of the chocolate behind the cereal packets so it was out of sight.  That way I wouldn't be tempted.  The only trouble was, I knew where it was hidden so in moments of desperation I simply moved the cereal box out of the way and dived in.  Hmm, slight flaw in my thinking there. Or perhaps my willpower is just rubbish.  (At the time of writing, I still have two big bars of Galaxy left so I reckon my willpower ain't that bad.)



All shook up

I was sore and my boob and my armpit were covered in steri-strips and bandaged up.  I also had the drain hanging out of my side.  I looked like I'd been in a knife fight.  


The next week or so involved doing very little.  I was bored stiff and repelled in equal measures by watching Jeremy Kyle (repelled) and This Morning (bored).  I did try to go out for a short walk every now and again but it knackered me out, plus I was worried about someone physically bumping into me. 

Two days after surgery, I almost passed out in the shower, which really scared me.  I also began to get burning nerve pain in my right arm where the surgeon had had to cut through nerves.  No amount of pain killers made any difference.  

I was terrified of pulling the drain out.  I did have a couple of accidents when I accidentally pulled the plastic bottle off the drain and a tiny bit of the contents spilled out from the end of the tube onto the floor.  Eek!  

It was only when I went back to the hospital four days later to get the drain removed did I find out that it was held in with a stitch and the length of tube inside my body was almost as long as the Dartford Tunnel.  It then dawned on me that I was never in danger of pulling it out.

With a little help from my friend

I discovered that, when trying to get dressed, crop tops are the business for sore boobs and arms.  Top tip though - you have to remember to step into them and not put them over your head whilst you're healing. I know this because on more than one occasion, I ended up trussed up like a fresh turkey and couldn't disentangle myself without shouting a strangulated 'Help!' for my husband to come and rescue me.

The boy from County Armagh

My husband was a star (still is) after I was discharged.  He put his underpants on over his tights and made me meals, helped me get dressed, did the washing, drove me around and sorted out other domestic type stuff.  

On one occasion though, I accidentally punched him in the face whilst he was helping me get my crop top on. We narrowly avoided engaging a divorce lawyer that morning (joke).

Next time...

I'll blog about my surgery results.


PS: 

You can follow me on twitter: @luvvacurry

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