Gramma
It has been eight weeks since the lower face lift. My chin/neck waddle is shrinking. Unfortunately, I had to have my drivers license picture taken without the final result. I am waiting on my passport. I still have a few months left on that.
I can sleep on my ears again without pain. Until now, the stitches behind them pulled and pinched. I think all the stitches have dissolved. My face is thinning. I go back to Dr. Jess in six weeks. She will use an injectable to soften the lines around my eyes, what is left of the jowls and the lines on the sides of my nose. I don't have money for this, but I will find it somewhere.
I am taking the renter to small claims court. For the two-thousand five hundred limit on the expressway to small claims I will file there. It will take less time to get in and time is of the essence. I could claim enough damage to go to the next level of fifteen thousand, but this will be a longer wait and more difficult to collect.
She has removed the shades, the crank-outs for the windows, painted rooms without permission and not returned them to a neutral color, There is damage to the carpet where she tried to iron out a large puddle of candle wax and it smells like cat. She had this obese woodtick looking cat that dropped poop whenever it walked, There is wax dripped into the four-thousand dollar Steffes heat storage unit. It will need to be replaced. Then there are the doors and the pantry shelves.
She has left a piano behind. I have a good mind to have it dropped in her mother's driveway. I wish I had known the Sherriff was in the yard to facilitate picking up the pod. I would have reported the stolen door all the way in the back of it. Lucky for me I was dressed so I could follow Jodi to her mother's house and get the address for filing.
The basic replacements and repairs will easily reach the first limit. Jodi will probably lose her job at the hospital or quit after the call I made to report her marijuana use. So I will offer her another reduction of five-hundred dollars if she will pay up before court. She can borrow the money from her mother or sister. I will do the repairs myself and use the rest for my face. I hope the stolen door is worth it to her.
Meanwhile, I am working on my gunt, the gut that hangs over the girl stuff. My diet includes hard boiled eggs, fruits and vegetables, mostly celery. I keep the sugar down, but it is necessary for my sanity. I had a steak and two eggs yesterday, along with a Snickers bar. I am down another two pounds overnight for a total of eight pounds. I am halfway to where I thought I was fat before. I gave birth at lower weights. I am shooting for one size down, a ten. The tough part is doing without beer.
Showing posts with label facelift. Show all posts
Showing posts with label facelift. Show all posts
Monday, April 25, 2016
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Sunday
Gramma
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
Friday, April 15, 2016
Home Alone II
Gramma
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Home Alone
Gramma
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
How Much Was That Gun
Gramma
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
The Day After
Gramma
As a side sleeper, laying on my back for three weeks with my head elevated was not to my liking. The body wants what it wants. Painkillers and sleeping pills were my friends for now. Every few hours I washed the sutures with hydrogen peroxide followed by a coating of Bacitracin.
My face felt every pothole on the way to the unveiling appointment. There was a miscommunication with the appointment time. After waiting twenty minutes in the community entryway, I called Dr. Jess's cell phone to see where she was. I could have used the extra half hour of sleep.
She carefully removed the bandages. I was relieved to have the stabbing pain of the drainage tubes gone. My face was swollen, but bruising was minimal. Nothing like the black eyes I had after an eye lift done in Mexico ten years back.
Dr. Jess bantered with Dave about how well things looked. Dave couldn't see any of the stitches and staples that pinched and hurt. Everything felt tight, stiff, not unlike plastic. I tried not to smile. Excessive smiling and laughing were frowned upon in the aftercare instructions. Inside I was ecstatic to be crossing this off my bucket list.
"I will see you in three days," chirped the ever-smiling Dr. Jess. I wrapped a scarf over my matted red hair. Putting on sunglasses was a no go. I hated squinting. It makes wrinkles.
The original plan was to drive myself to appointments, but I was not allowed to turn my head without turning my shoulders at the same time. This was an accident waiting to happen and the reason I needed to be healed by the start of bike season. Four weeks of this robotic movement was indicated. Dave could take me on Saturday. Then I was on my own.
As a side sleeper, laying on my back for three weeks with my head elevated was not to my liking. The body wants what it wants. Painkillers and sleeping pills were my friends for now. Every few hours I washed the sutures with hydrogen peroxide followed by a coating of Bacitracin.
My face felt every pothole on the way to the unveiling appointment. There was a miscommunication with the appointment time. After waiting twenty minutes in the community entryway, I called Dr. Jess's cell phone to see where she was. I could have used the extra half hour of sleep.
She carefully removed the bandages. I was relieved to have the stabbing pain of the drainage tubes gone. My face was swollen, but bruising was minimal. Nothing like the black eyes I had after an eye lift done in Mexico ten years back.
Dr. Jess bantered with Dave about how well things looked. Dave couldn't see any of the stitches and staples that pinched and hurt. Everything felt tight, stiff, not unlike plastic. I tried not to smile. Excessive smiling and laughing were frowned upon in the aftercare instructions. Inside I was ecstatic to be crossing this off my bucket list.
"I will see you in three days," chirped the ever-smiling Dr. Jess. I wrapped a scarf over my matted red hair. Putting on sunglasses was a no go. I hated squinting. It makes wrinkles.
The original plan was to drive myself to appointments, but I was not allowed to turn my head without turning my shoulders at the same time. This was an accident waiting to happen and the reason I needed to be healed by the start of bike season. Four weeks of this robotic movement was indicated. Dave could take me on Saturday. Then I was on my own.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Don't Make Me Look Fast
Gramma
Dave was just getting up as I was leaving. "See you later," I said, sounding as if I would be back good as new in a couple hours. Check-in was at 6:30. Bleary eyed, I read through several documents requiring my signature.
Two anesthesiologists introduced themselves. They would be tag teaming during the five hour surgery. Procedures were explained. It would have been nice to know in advance that I was going to be cathed. I would have prepped for this. At least it would be done while I was under.
Girlfriend was interested in having a lift and sat with me while I waited for the doctor to arrive. She watched as Dr. Jess parted my hair into little sections secured with rubber bands. "Incisions will be made in the hair line, behind the ears and under the chin," she explained. Drain tubes would be inserted behind my ears.
"I didn't know this was going to take five hours," I said. "I thought I would be home by early afternoon."
"No. It takes time to make hundreds of tiny stitches. It's not unusual to go over five hours." Good thing Dave was working late. "Don't make me look fast," I said, pulling my face back as if I was in a wind tunnel.
Surgery did go long. In the recovery room, Dr. Jess held a mirror up to my swollen face. "Everything went well," she smiled. Mummy bandages framed my face. Blood drained from the tubes behind my ears, staining the gown. Zombies had nothing over on me. My first thought was that I should be in bed when Dave got home. My release was complicated by high blood pressure. By the time we headed home, the sun was setting.
Dave took one look at me laying on the couch and said, "I hope you didn't do this for me."
"Nope, I did it for myself."
Dave was just getting up as I was leaving. "See you later," I said, sounding as if I would be back good as new in a couple hours. Check-in was at 6:30. Bleary eyed, I read through several documents requiring my signature.
Two anesthesiologists introduced themselves. They would be tag teaming during the five hour surgery. Procedures were explained. It would have been nice to know in advance that I was going to be cathed. I would have prepped for this. At least it would be done while I was under.
Girlfriend was interested in having a lift and sat with me while I waited for the doctor to arrive. She watched as Dr. Jess parted my hair into little sections secured with rubber bands. "Incisions will be made in the hair line, behind the ears and under the chin," she explained. Drain tubes would be inserted behind my ears.
"I didn't know this was going to take five hours," I said. "I thought I would be home by early afternoon."
"No. It takes time to make hundreds of tiny stitches. It's not unusual to go over five hours." Good thing Dave was working late. "Don't make me look fast," I said, pulling my face back as if I was in a wind tunnel.
Surgery did go long. In the recovery room, Dr. Jess held a mirror up to my swollen face. "Everything went well," she smiled. Mummy bandages framed my face. Blood drained from the tubes behind my ears, staining the gown. Zombies had nothing over on me. My first thought was that I should be in bed when Dave got home. My release was complicated by high blood pressure. By the time we headed home, the sun was setting.
Dave took one look at me laying on the couch and said, "I hope you didn't do this for me."
"Nope, I did it for myself."
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Countdown 2
It's the day before my facelift. Soon I can cross this off my bucket list. Hopefully it will be good for about ten years. I am planning to be off this planet by then. I will be seventy-two and I don't see the point in hanging out much past that.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Guessing Game
Two days before surgery Dave continued badgering me about what the surprise was. "No, I'm not getting my stomach flattened. No, we are not getting another animal."
"Will I like it?" he asked doubtfully.
"Probably not. But I don't care."
"Is it a pedicure?" On our anniversary one year, I had dragged him along with me to get pedicures. As there was free beer involved, he somewhat enjoyed it.
"Are you doing something to your face?"
"OKAY. YES, "I relented.
He seemed relieved. I pulled my neck skin up towards my ears. "I'm getting a neck lift," I said minimizing this by not giving any details.
He returned to watching garbage TV while looking at guns on his laptop.
I could now get a good night's sleep without feeling panicky over invented scenarios involving his reaction to my endeavors.
"Will I like it?" he asked doubtfully.
"Probably not. But I don't care."
"Is it a pedicure?" On our anniversary one year, I had dragged him along with me to get pedicures. As there was free beer involved, he somewhat enjoyed it.
"Are you doing something to your face?"
"OKAY. YES, "I relented.
He seemed relieved. I pulled my neck skin up towards my ears. "I'm getting a neck lift," I said minimizing this by not giving any details.
He returned to watching garbage TV while looking at guns on his laptop.
I could now get a good night's sleep without feeling panicky over invented scenarios involving his reaction to my endeavors.
Friday, April 8, 2016
Countdown 1
Gramma
I answered a rash of questions from by Dr. Jess. "Yes, I have been to the ER for faux heart attacks." My symptoms generally manifested after doing some particularly heavy activity, such as pulling a camper trailer uphill by myself or rearranging railroad ties by hand. My pulled muscle pain mimicked heart attack symptoms. Now I needed to get a pre-op that included an EKG. This could stall out the whole process. I was panicky that I would not get to check "face-lift" off my bucket list.
I had been planning this event for years and in earnest for several months. I did not realize how far out these things are scheduled. I needed this surgery to be healed before motorcycle season began and it wasn't looking good. During the recovery I would be unable to move my neck back and forth without using my entire upper body to turn in a robotic motion. I could not drive with this loss of visual acuity. Housework would be suspended for at least two weeks. Lounging is not something I do well. But, there would be pain meds to create the necessary condition of not giving a shit. And, there was always pot.
A chance cancellation allowed me the desired time frame for healing. I would only miss the Defrost Your Nutz Run in early April. It was usually cold and rainy, or snowy, or icy. There would still be road salt and grime. My bike is nice. I do not want this slop on it anyways.
A friend planned to drive me to the surgery center at five in the morning. The problem with this was that I would have to leave before my love left for work. He would therefore know something was up. I could tell him I was taking girlfriend for a procedure. She always has something going on with her health. She urged me to just tell him the truth. Dr. Jess also strongly suggested I tell him, as the surgery would be five hours long and things can happen.
A few weeks prior, I told Dave that he needed to take off work the day after surgery because there was going to be a surprise. As girlfriend had to work, I needed him to drive me to the post-op the following morning. Dave doesn't like surprises. He badgered girlfriend relentlessly while I was on vacation. She is having an extended stay with us, as her husband is a fucking cock-sucking bastard dick-faced prick.
I answered a rash of questions from by Dr. Jess. "Yes, I have been to the ER for faux heart attacks." My symptoms generally manifested after doing some particularly heavy activity, such as pulling a camper trailer uphill by myself or rearranging railroad ties by hand. My pulled muscle pain mimicked heart attack symptoms. Now I needed to get a pre-op that included an EKG. This could stall out the whole process. I was panicky that I would not get to check "face-lift" off my bucket list.
I had been planning this event for years and in earnest for several months. I did not realize how far out these things are scheduled. I needed this surgery to be healed before motorcycle season began and it wasn't looking good. During the recovery I would be unable to move my neck back and forth without using my entire upper body to turn in a robotic motion. I could not drive with this loss of visual acuity. Housework would be suspended for at least two weeks. Lounging is not something I do well. But, there would be pain meds to create the necessary condition of not giving a shit. And, there was always pot.
A chance cancellation allowed me the desired time frame for healing. I would only miss the Defrost Your Nutz Run in early April. It was usually cold and rainy, or snowy, or icy. There would still be road salt and grime. My bike is nice. I do not want this slop on it anyways.
A friend planned to drive me to the surgery center at five in the morning. The problem with this was that I would have to leave before my love left for work. He would therefore know something was up. I could tell him I was taking girlfriend for a procedure. She always has something going on with her health. She urged me to just tell him the truth. Dr. Jess also strongly suggested I tell him, as the surgery would be five hours long and things can happen.
A few weeks prior, I told Dave that he needed to take off work the day after surgery because there was going to be a surprise. As girlfriend had to work, I needed him to drive me to the post-op the following morning. Dave doesn't like surprises. He badgered girlfriend relentlessly while I was on vacation. She is having an extended stay with us, as her husband is a fucking cock-sucking bastard dick-faced prick.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Fountain of Vanity
Gramma
Upon return from California, I hit the ground running towards the Fountain of Vanity. Less than a week left before the big incision revision. Two years past, I found this highly esteemed lady plastic surgeon on the internet. She was plastic surgeon of the year in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine Best Of issue. So that you don't end up looking like a Picasso, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of doing your homework before you let someone rearrange your face.
As I spend all summer riding motorcycle and digging in the dirt, I had eons of sun damage, including some precancerous spots. Dr. Jess suggested I do a laser burn on my face. "You'll look ten years younger," she said. "It can be done in my office," she said. "It will be painful, but you will save a couple thousand dollars by not using a hospital," she said. "You will probably hate me for a little while, but the results will be worth it."
Dr. Jess showed me some before and after photos of clients who had experienced this procedure. "It will be painful and you will hate me for awhile," she said. Ten years younger was the hook.
"You can't hurt me. I have given birth and gotten divorced," I replied.
I cannot emphasize enough how painful this was. As I was screaming at one point, Dr. Jess opted not to laser my nose. Afterwards, my face looked like it had come into close contact with a UFO. It hurt worse than road rash. Afterwards, you must have a fairly sterile environment to come home to. Every few hours there is face cleaning of debris (dead skin), and reapplication of Aquaphor, which gets goo in and on everything. Unless you are into sado-masochism, I highly don't recommend it. At one point, I could not quit throwing up. Poor Dr. Jess was on the phone 40 miles away listening in horror as I re-enacted scenes from The Exorcist.
Dr. Jess assured me that a lower face lift would be a walk in the park compared to the laser treatment. And so it was that two years later I had enough money in my "Emergency Facelift Fund" to go through with it. The sagging of my neck and lack of definition in my jawline was a constant source of psychological torture for me. I played with my face nearly every day, pulling the wrinkles tight in perverse ways that made me look "Fast". Yes, I am pathetically vain and make no secret of it. I often referenced my "Emergency Facelift Fund" in relation to whatever catastrophe depleted it or a Craig's List sale that added to it.
Upon return from California, I hit the ground running towards the Fountain of Vanity. Less than a week left before the big incision revision. Two years past, I found this highly esteemed lady plastic surgeon on the internet. She was plastic surgeon of the year in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine Best Of issue. So that you don't end up looking like a Picasso, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of doing your homework before you let someone rearrange your face.
As I spend all summer riding motorcycle and digging in the dirt, I had eons of sun damage, including some precancerous spots. Dr. Jess suggested I do a laser burn on my face. "You'll look ten years younger," she said. "It can be done in my office," she said. "It will be painful, but you will save a couple thousand dollars by not using a hospital," she said. "You will probably hate me for a little while, but the results will be worth it."
Dr. Jess showed me some before and after photos of clients who had experienced this procedure. "It will be painful and you will hate me for awhile," she said. Ten years younger was the hook.
"You can't hurt me. I have given birth and gotten divorced," I replied.
I cannot emphasize enough how painful this was. As I was screaming at one point, Dr. Jess opted not to laser my nose. Afterwards, my face looked like it had come into close contact with a UFO. It hurt worse than road rash. Afterwards, you must have a fairly sterile environment to come home to. Every few hours there is face cleaning of debris (dead skin), and reapplication of Aquaphor, which gets goo in and on everything. Unless you are into sado-masochism, I highly don't recommend it. At one point, I could not quit throwing up. Poor Dr. Jess was on the phone 40 miles away listening in horror as I re-enacted scenes from The Exorcist.
Dr. Jess assured me that a lower face lift would be a walk in the park compared to the laser treatment. And so it was that two years later I had enough money in my "Emergency Facelift Fund" to go through with it. The sagging of my neck and lack of definition in my jawline was a constant source of psychological torture for me. I played with my face nearly every day, pulling the wrinkles tight in perverse ways that made me look "Fast". Yes, I am pathetically vain and make no secret of it. I often referenced my "Emergency Facelift Fund" in relation to whatever catastrophe depleted it or a Craig's List sale that added to it.
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