Saturday 21 January 2012

VICTORIA BECKHAM, MADONNA, MICKEY ROURKE and me.



I have joined an exclusive club. If ever I find myself next to Victoria Beckham, Madonna or Mickey Rourke at a cocktail party in Beverly Hills or Kildare Town, we will have so much to talk about. Yesterday I went through with my first cosmetic procedure. I went under the knife.  It wasn't my eyelids, cheeks, knees, breasts or lips that were surgically enhanced. I didn't go for a Demi Moore 'Knee Lift' but instead, had a whole network of large and wobbly varicose veins removed from my left leg (I am quite sure that Victoria, Madonna and Mickey Rourke have had the same procedure but let's face it, varicose vein removal is never going to make the front pages of the National Enquirer).





The problem that I faced was that having trained as a nurse in the eighties, varicose vein removal was the one procedure that made me faint when I watched it in the operating theatre. Back then, I made a mental note never to allow myself to get varicose veins and wore support tights for ten years. Four babies later, out they popped. My veins became 'incompetent'. Up and down my left leg like two boa constrictors. They had to go. The time had come for me to reclaim my legs.



As I lay on the operating theatre table, waiting to be anaesthetised (a local anaesthetic was all that was needed for the 90 minute procedure) a nurse whispered "You'll be fine. The surgeon plays classical music during the operation......". It was at this point that the the terror set in. What kind of sick man was this doctor who was about to rip out my veins? He came towards me in his blue gown, mask and rubber gloves. Any minute and he'd be reaching for a scalpel and slicing away at my legs and I'd be awake for the whole thing listening to Carl Orff. This was turning into a sick horror film. 


                                       


"I CAN'T DO IT!" I shouted out, the nurse looked at me. The surgeon peered down at me through his glasses. "Do you want a general anaesthetic?" asked the anaesthetist impatiently, "We do ten of these procedures a week and nobody ever complains". "N-N-N-No" I could feel my self shaking. "I just c-c-c-can't listen to your classical music for ninety minutes....". Everything went silent.  They all looked down at me with their masks on. I was starring in my own Hammer House of Horror movie. 





The silence was broken as surgeon reached for something. Was it an axe? This was it.  He really about to KILL me. "How are you feeling?" I looked up, the tears welling up. "I feel FINE" (Fragile, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional). "Here." He handed me his Iphone. "Choose something you would prefer to hear". My fingers were like jelly. With every single member of theatre staff looking down at me, I scrolled as quickly as I could, scanning the names. Trying to find something, ANYTHING that wasn't classical. With each second that passed, I regretted that I had said a firm 'no' to the offer of a 'Mainstream Mystic' relaxation CD from a friend.






"I'm going to have to hurry you...." the surgeon was washing my leg with a orangey yellow liquid.  Still I clutched at the Iphone, the names whizzed past on the screen. Bach, Bizet, Chopin, Debussey, Elgar, Grieg, Haydn, Liszt, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Offenbach, Puccini. Surely there was something that wasn't classical. All I wanted was light relief, the B52's or a bit of R Kelly. The anaesthetic leaned over me and slowly injected something white into my veins "Annie, you may start to feel sleepy". Was this the 'milk' that Michael Jackson was so fond of?






"GOT IT". I found something. The drugs were in my system, I had to be quick. With my thumb, I manically pressed 'play'. The operating theatre filled with the sound of music. Rock music. The only darn album on the Iphone was 'QUEEN'S GREATEST HITS III'. That would do even if I am not a Queen fan. Moments later Freddie Mercury's voice filled the room, I sang along under my breath.

"Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone, and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey, I'm gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust"





I was beginning to feel confused, blurred vision, drowsy. I clutched onto the surgeon's phone desperately pressing it firmly against my ear. He gently asking me questions about my life in Ireland. The words came freely at first. "I've lived here for 13 years" he nodded, "I trained as a nurse in England", he nodded his eyes smiling down at me. "I left nursing because one of my patients introduced me to her husband and would you believe, I ended up marrying him.......". Oops. That came out wrong. The 'milk' was floating around my body. It wasn't true. I married my patients son not husband. His eyes widened "Isn't that illegal? Immoral?" My tongue felt heavy like I had drank a bottle of Captain Morgan's. I tried to explain, "No, ssssssshe was delighted,  we've been tooooooogether  for years......". There was no point fighting the drugs. I drifted off to sleep.




Time flew. Ninety minutes later I woke up. It was all over.  I recalled the sensation of tugging and pulling as the veins were pulled out but it felt like a lovely dream like, not at all the torturous nightmare that I had anticipated. My leg was double wrapped in layers of bandages up to my thigh. I came home four hours later and slept off the wonderful, gloriously relaxing 'milk'.




So now, ahead of me, five days of full bed rest as the leg recovers. Five days of peace whist someone else does the school run, cooks the meals, helps with homework, cleans, goes grocery shop and takes care of the general household management and feed the rabbits. Because I cannot move, someone else will have to act as peacemaker when the kids are fighting and someone else will have to find the missing scissors, sellotape and vital piece of Lego. 





Ahead of me, five full days of watching old movies and reading forgotten books and sleeping. I shall enjoy the company of friends popping in with grapes, magazines, cake and gossip. A few weeks from now I'll have vein free, ache free legs and I cannot wait for summer and to wear skirts again after eight years. Recovering from my surgery is proving to be the perfect little mini break and bang on trend. After all, aren't 'Stay-cations' are all the rage?  Tummy tuck, knee lift, Botox here I come.......


































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