A Woman's Prerogative

I had two C-sections and lots of ups and downs with my weight after having my sons (I gained 80 lbs with the first one - he was overcooked). For many years my husband bugged me to have a tummy tuck.

"No way! Why would I want to have unnecessary surgery?" I argued.

It was a valid argument because, in addition to the C-sections, I had a few other surgeries over the years along with other non-surgical health "events". But, after my weight peaked at a nice round number (200lbs) and I damn-near killed myself every day trying to diet and exercise, some things changed (prompted by one of those surgeries) and I began to loose the weight, quickly.

I couldn't keep myself in clothes as I lost the weight. The first 25 lbs came off within two months, inspiring me to adhere to the low-fat gall bladder diet my doctor recommended. Mysteriously, I was no longer in love with chocolate; I didn't even enjoy the taste anymore. From June to November of 2003 I lost 45 lbs. During that time I began to take stock of what I saw in the full-length mirror.

I had ordered one pair of size 16 slacks and had some sweats that still worked, but my size 20's (really had gotten up to a 22 but refused to buy them) fell right off, to my amazement and delight. The sixteens fit in the front because of my gut, but there was way too much room in the seat. As I stood in front of that mirror I began to manually tug at the other areas that were disappointing while trying to suck the gut in - a wasted effort. I still had three chins and my breasts were in their usual lop-sided, saggy state since the days of nursing. I was thinner, but didn't feel a whole lot more attractive. Hubby kept chanting, "Tummy tuck!"

I told my husband, "Tell ya what, I'll take you up on your offer if I can get a couple of other things done."

"Like what?"

"A breast lift and a face lift."

"How much is that gonna cost me?"

I had done the research and based my estimate on the rates of nearby cities.

"Twenty thousand bucks."

He considered this for a few minutes and said, "Go for it. You're worth it."

That statement was amazing in itself for reasons that would take up another story, but I made an appointment with a plastic surgeon's office (one that I researched as best I could, even paying to search some sort of online database on malpractice suits) right away. I truly believe that the woman who became my surgeon was sent from above because her personality alone makes patients wish she were a PCP.

When I told her why I was there, she showed me why I was an excellent candidate for a tummy tuck, having me do a situp on the table with my hand on my gut.

"You could do a million crunches and it would never do you any good," she said. "Feel that?"

She led my hand to the area where my muscles should have tensed as I slowly rose in the crunch position. She explained that my stomach muscles were pretty much destroyed, splayed open like the over-stretched strings on a guitar. That was why I couldn't hold my gut in.

This wonderfully pleasant woman agreed that a breast lift was a good option for me. I didn't want implants and she did confirm that implants would almost certainly require subsequent surgeries for repair or replacement and I did not want more surgeries, if possible. Besides, I had always been a B-cup pre-pregnancy and was tired of my breasts being in my way. But when we moved on to the area that was most sensitive to me - my face - I was surprised by her recommendations.

When I told her I was there to get a face lift, she said, "What's wrong with your face?"

I started tugging at the skin here and there, moaning about this and that.

"Your eyes are fine. We can do a neck lift, but a face lift is for deep folds in the sides of the face and you're not there yet."

She described what they would do for all the procedures and I immediately went to scheduling. I was amazed that the total cost of all the procedures, done on one day 3-months out, would cost $7500. All I had to do was keep the weight off for that time period, which I did.

In February, 2004, I had the 5-hour procedure and was sent home the next day, wrapped up like a mummy with a chin strap, special bra and girdle with bandages underneath, and drainage tubes in my stomach along with post-op instructions. My husband was there through it all, which amazed me because he had not always been around for medical procedures I had had done. I was in excruciating pain - not so much from the neck or breast lifts, but from the abdominoplasty and tubes. The tubes were removed (a very strange sensation) at the one week post-op visit. I had many subsequent visits, all included in the cost.

Tummy tucks are different in every case. The cut required can be straight across (in the least drastic) between the hip bones, or extend from the outer sides, above the hips and curve down to the bikini line in the most extensive procedure. Mine was the latter and it took me two months to be able to get out of that girdle and into control-top pantyhose.

The girdle (garment, as the doc called it), which my husband hand-washed every night, along with my special bra, had cut-outs in the crotch and had to be worn during all hours except at night after the first week. Its purpose is to keep everything snug, in place, so the skin can re-attach itself, but it also provides support. Whenever I had to remove it to shower or sleep, I was very uncomfortable (that's how medical professionals would describe the feeling, I say "It hurt!"). The drainage tubes had to be emptied and the contents measured daily, which my husband also did. To hear this, he sounds like a saint. But at home the night after the surgery, he screamed at me, as I lay, there bound from head to thigh, because he didn't like my response to his concerns about the pain meds.

"I need them," I told him simply. But that set him off in a tirade in the quiet of the night, kids in their rooms nearby.

I didn't forget that tirade and how it scared me. I could not have left, called anyone or done a thing. I was literally a captive audience. For the next two months of my recovery, I continued some research on the internet (TGFL - "Thank God for laptops") that I had previously started and weighed my options for the future. That, after all I wrote here, is way too much to continue with right now.

Oldest Living Recent Grad Seeks...

I was kicking myself for the first year and a half after I went back to school to get my BS in IT. I had barely been back in the workforce for six months when I decided I needed a degree to improve my circumstances. I had spent two decades devoting my life to my marriage and kids, giving up a career along the way to be a stay-at-home mom for 11 of those years, and had loved being able to do that. But when the marriage ended and I couldn't get the type of work I had done in the past, I took what I got and made lemonade.

The job was the antithesis of what I was used to: chained to a desk, strapped to a phone, required to ask permission to pee... I was used to at least being able to pee when I wanted. But, I mastered even that job and acquired the responsibility of managing the departmental database (no one else wanted it) and developed a new love. But they didn't pay me any more to do it. Hence the need for the degree.

Three years and 3 computers later (almost 4, but I changed my mind before I pitched the one out the window during my C++ programming and first Oracle classes), I'm done! Yay! Fifty-two years old, and I finally got my bachelor's. The only reason I still have my laptop to write this (as opposed to it being at the bottom of the Delaware River) is because I was too busy pulling out my hair building my senior project. When it was done and handed in, I, like the other students, sat wringing my hands for a week waiting for the professor to give the promised feedback and let me know if the project lacked anything. Due last Sunday by 11:59pm, I got an email from another student telling me to check my grades - that his was posted and the professor had never even "collected" his documents from the dropbox nor did he make any of the promised comments.

I checked and my outbox and gradebook were in the same condition: the documents didn't appear to have been touched, there were no comments, and the grades were posted. Both of us got 100's, but my friend was upset that he didn't get any feedback for all his hard work. I had been corresponding with him throughout the semester and speculated that, maybe, the teacher was just hot-seating us. I had taught drafting for a couple of years, and had first-hand experience grading large projects; I didn't see how the professor could truly "run our code" and otherwise scrutinize our projects as he had insisted he would be doing.

"Maybe it's his way of teaching us the lesson in thankless jobs or lack of acknowledgment that we can expect in the workplace," I told my friend. He grumbled that I was probably right. I was so sick of the project all I could do was laugh.

He may think he was teaching us all a lesson, but I am a woman, mom and former wife. Thankless jobs are my specialty. Doing something well and never getting recognition for it? Aw, poor baby!

I slept for two days, drove over to the campus and enrolled in grad school. Guess who's the oldest living grad student?

Lost and Found