My Tummy Tuck Tale

The best thing about having a tummy tuck is that when you are all better – like 16 weeks later – you can tuck your shirt in.

The ONLY good thing about having a tummy tuck is that when you are all better – like 16 weeks later – you can tuck your shirt in.

Pre-Op

To prepare for my tummy tuck 4 years ago, the first thing I did was get VERY fat.  While pregnant.  I was convinced I was birthing a linebacker, so I ate Double Cheeseburger combos from McDonald’s and fried ice cream for dessert at Monterrey’s (yes, I ordered DESSSERT at a Mexican restaurant). 

She weighed 7 pounds.  After I had her, there was some work to do:



The Object under the baby's head is not a pillow.



During my second pregnancy I did not blow up as grossly, but the damage was done.  Because fair skin like mine just can’t go-back-right after such mistreatment.  So I got skinny again, and made half-hearted attempts at exercise, but there was this little puddle of yuck skin that would not go away.  I’d already had two c-sections and I KNEW what pain was so why not just have this crap cut off?  How bad could it be? The decision was made.

I reached around in the sofa cushions and rounded up some quarters.  Then I emptied out my savings account and gave it to the doctor.  We scheduled the surgery.  Then I had to tell people.  I told my law partner (we have a two-lawyer firm, housed in a 100 year old house, it’s really cool).  Even though I’ve known him my whole adult life I was humiliated to tell him what I was doing to myself so I did what every grown up does - - I emailed him.

Then I had to get ORDERS OF PROTECTION.  For those of you who are not privileged enough to practice litigation law, an Order of Protection is an ORDER, from every court in which you practice, GIVING YOU PERMISSION TO NOT WORK.  Isn’t this awful?  If you go on vacation, you must get permission.  If you admit yourself in a loony bin, you must get permission.  And when you ask the Court (ie., every judge in every courthouse you appear) for permission, you must notify ALL THE LAWYERS IN ALL YOUR CASES.  Because these lawyers could object.  And if they object, you could be hauled into court for an emergency hearing of some sort even though you’ve just had your prescheduled frontal lobotomy.

But my tummy tuck is none of your business.  So after drafting and re-drafting my letter for protection, here is what I came up with:

                Dear Judge Judy:

On April 1^st I am having a “medical procedure.”  My doctor says I will not be able to work for 4 weeks.  I am a badass though, so I am only requesting that I be protected for 2 weeks.  If you agree that I am a badass, and you also agree that I can have a “medical procedure” and have 2 weeks to recover, please sign the order attached.  By copy of this letter, I am notifying 150 lawyers of this request.

Cc:  Every lawyer in 3 counties.

Here’s the problem with the letter.  Even though several times a week I want to pull out the nosehairs of another lawyer, even though we go in courtrooms and try to decapitate one another, even though I have told a few of them to back-the-fuck-off, or, a personal favorite, to call me when they are “capable of having a professional conversation”, even though they claim I am a bitch of monumental proportions and they would not piss on me if I were on fire . . . . these lawyers love me.

And I love them.

So I fired off the letter, and the stream of emails and phone calls and worried looks commenced.  Are you, uh, dying?  Are you, um, having electric shock therapy?  (Because you did mention you needed it).  Are you, um . . . ok??

So I just told them.  And I told them it wasn’t a secret.  Go ahead and tell everybody.  What the hell.

Post Op

I woke up in the recovery room.  My doctor, a giant man who played football somewhere.  A man with a loud voice and cold hands, was high-fiving the anesthesiologist.  He was fist pounding with nurses.  He was chesting thumping and singing his fraternity fight song.  The doc was proud, he had “cut so much off you young lady I had to sit you up on the operating room table to sew you back together.”

Ouch.

So they put my ass in my parents’ car and got me out of there and drove me home.  No cushy recovery in a Hollywood-style-spa-like-rehab facility.  No, I was headed home immediately to be deposited in the lazy boy recliner I had borrowed from my inlaws.  And, in addition to cutting off half my body, he had installed these nasty drains.  These nasty coils of plastic that emptied into these really super nasty plastic bottles.  God, it was so gross.  And it hurt worse than I could have possibly imagined.  It was pain so bad I wept. 

But I had some GOOD drugs.  Frat-boy-doc had hooked me up with pill-form-heroin, muscle relaxers, xanax, valium, medical marijuana, cocaine, crack, crystal meth, cans of stuff to spray fumes in the air for me to “huff” and little shards of aluminum foil so I could cook some stuff with my cigarette lighter and a spoon.  I was comfortable with all this because I watch Intervention.  He did tell me to lay off the Chardonnay however.

2 days into my drug induced coma, I learned my boy baby had broken his arm on the swing out back.  I learned my precious angel had to be put to sleep so the orthopedic surgeon (a REAL doctor) could put his arm back together.  I learned that when my baby boy woke up from surgery he asked his Daddy, “What is wrong with Mommy?  Why isn’t she here to be with me during this?  Why did she get this stupid plastic surgery?  Didn’t you tell her I love her even though she has a little pile of skin on her belly? Did you tell Mommy I believe her priorities are out of whack?  Does she know Aunt Ginny is so mad at her that she can’t look her in the eye?”



I did not feel AT ALL bad about this.



A week later I had had enough.  I weaned off the drugs (except the heroin, I still have some of that left for later).  I practiced standing up straight and walking.  I tried on my skull-knocking suits and heels.  I went to my follow up appointment and when Frat-Boy-Doc said he’d see me again soon to address “other areas” of my body, I told him to back-the-fuck-off.  I was clearly ready to go back to work.

Except for the nasty drain.  Frat Boy had removed two.  One was still there.  And even with a safety pin and some ill fitting pantsuits, I could not hide that sucker.  I noticed it wiggled a little bit.  Then I noticed it came out a just a little bit.  So I pulled on it.  And it came out some more.  And then it came out just a little bit more.  Then the tubing changed colors from white to red, which let me know it was almost out. 

It wasn’t almost out. 

And here is another reason I am not a doctor.  Because I nearly fainted with gross-outed-ness.  But I pulled that somebitch out and I went to work. 

With my shirt tucked in.

Two years later, I had a hysterectomy.  Here we go again.  This time I cut to the chase:

                Dear Judge Judy:

I am having a hysterectomy.  Yes, I am keeping my ovaries.  No, I will not go into menopause.  Yes, it is something called endometriosis.  No, that is not why I am a full-on bitch most of the time.  I will probably still be a bitch.  The doctor says I could need up to 6 weeks off, but I am a badass so I am taking 2.  If you agree I am a badass, and you agree I can have 2 weeks off, please sign the Order attached.  By copy of this letter, I am notifying 150 lawyers of my request.

Cc:  Every lawyer in 3 counties.



All better.