an act and forced myself to smile. But as soon as I got in the car with its tinted windows, I collapsed back into the seat. I was in absolute agony from the surgery and my arm was still numb. I could hardly move it at all. It was freaking me out.
Back at the clinic I again told the nurses about my arm. ‘Look, I can’t move it,’ I told them as I lay on the bed. And this time they could clearly see that there was a problem and phoned Garth. It was around eight in the evening by the time he arrived. It was such a relief to see him. He examined me but couldn’t see any reason why there should be a problem with my arm. He told me that he would have to operate again so he could take a look at what was going on inside. Instantly my heart sank. This would be my third anaesthetic in less than a week and I knew that wasn’t good. What’s more, Garth wanted to operate right away.
I was on so many painkillers by then and in such pain that my memory of that time is quite hazy, but I can vaguely remember getting into Garth’s car and being driven to his clinic. It was closed and he had to open up. It was weird as I saw no one else in the building except for us. I had called Pete and he was on his way. I felt very vulnerable and wanted him with me. He arrived just as they were about to give me the anaesthetic. I wasn’t joking around and laughing this time. I was really scared.
I was out for three hours while Garth investigated the cause of my numb arm. He couldn’t see that there was any reason why my arm was numb. It was most likely because of the position I was lying in for the breast surgery. My arm had had to be stretched out above my head for five hours. He was certain that the feeling in it would return very soon, that it wasn’t serious. It was a relief to hear that, but meanwhile my arm was still numb, and I was still on painkillers and feeling out of it, and now I had a third anaesthetic to recover from.
That was probably enough for anybody to deal with, but I had also decided to have surgery on my prolapsed womb. I have a tilted womb which makes you more susceptible to having a prolapse. Having a natural birth with Harvey and him weighing in at over eight pounds hadn’t helped. And even though I had Caesareans with Junior and Princess, just being pregnant puts a great strain on the womb. Garth had recommended a gynaecologist who saw me and said it was a straightforward procedure to fix the prolapse and only took forty-five minutes. I wasn’t having a designer vagina. Medically this was something I needed to have done or I would need a hysterectomy eventually.
This time I didn’t let them film me going into surgery, but I did allow them to film the doctor explaining that this was an operation carried out for medical reasons. After the op I was back at the clinic once more. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I remember thinking optimistically that I was now sorted from head to foot – I had new boobs, a new belly button, and I was fixed down below. I didn’t need anything else except my Botox and fillers, which I’d have done just before I flew home.
But instead my situation went from bad to worse. I was now in excruciating agony from all the surgery. And the more pain I was in, the more painkillers I was given, which made me feel completely out of it. I lost all track of time, the days merging into each other in a blur of pain. My memory of this time is full of blanks. Jamela told me that she would be talking to me one minute and the next I would have fallen asleep. I would text friends but my messages would be complete rubbish. At one point I asked my mum how a pregnant friend of mine was doing. ‘She told you she lost the baby the other day,’ Mum said in surprise. And I had no memory of it. I cried because I felt awful for my friend all over again, and I felt frightened because I couldn’t remember something so important.
I had already said that there was no way I could be filmed as I was in such
Back at the clinic I again told the nurses about my arm. ‘Look, I can’t move it,’ I told them as I lay on the bed. And this time they could clearly see that there was a problem and phoned Garth. It was around eight in the evening by the time he arrived. It was such a relief to see him. He examined me but couldn’t see any reason why there should be a problem with my arm. He told me that he would have to operate again so he could take a look at what was going on inside. Instantly my heart sank. This would be my third anaesthetic in less than a week and I knew that wasn’t good. What’s more, Garth wanted to operate right away.
I was on so many painkillers by then and in such pain that my memory of that time is quite hazy, but I can vaguely remember getting into Garth’s car and being driven to his clinic. It was closed and he had to open up. It was weird as I saw no one else in the building except for us. I had called Pete and he was on his way. I felt very vulnerable and wanted him with me. He arrived just as they were about to give me the anaesthetic. I wasn’t joking around and laughing this time. I was really scared.
I was out for three hours while Garth investigated the cause of my numb arm. He couldn’t see that there was any reason why my arm was numb. It was most likely because of the position I was lying in for the breast surgery. My arm had had to be stretched out above my head for five hours. He was certain that the feeling in it would return very soon, that it wasn’t serious. It was a relief to hear that, but meanwhile my arm was still numb, and I was still on painkillers and feeling out of it, and now I had a third anaesthetic to recover from.
That was probably enough for anybody to deal with, but I had also decided to have surgery on my prolapsed womb. I have a tilted womb which makes you more susceptible to having a prolapse. Having a natural birth with Harvey and him weighing in at over eight pounds hadn’t helped. And even though I had Caesareans with Junior and Princess, just being pregnant puts a great strain on the womb. Garth had recommended a gynaecologist who saw me and said it was a straightforward procedure to fix the prolapse and only took forty-five minutes. I wasn’t having a designer vagina. Medically this was something I needed to have done or I would need a hysterectomy eventually.
This time I didn’t let them film me going into surgery, but I did allow them to film the doctor explaining that this was an operation carried out for medical reasons. After the op I was back at the clinic once more. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I remember thinking optimistically that I was now sorted from head to foot – I had new boobs, a new belly button, and I was fixed down below. I didn’t need anything else except my Botox and fillers, which I’d have done just before I flew home.
But instead my situation went from bad to worse. I was now in excruciating agony from all the surgery. And the more pain I was in, the more painkillers I was given, which made me feel completely out of it. I lost all track of time, the days merging into each other in a blur of pain. My memory of this time is full of blanks. Jamela told me that she would be talking to me one minute and the next I would have fallen asleep. I would text friends but my messages would be complete rubbish. At one point I asked my mum how a pregnant friend of mine was doing. ‘She told you she lost the baby the other day,’ Mum said in surprise. And I had no memory of it. I cried because I felt awful for my friend all over again, and I felt frightened because I couldn’t remember something so important.
I had already said that there was no way I could be filmed as I was in such
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