On Enforced Downtime
Last summer, a friend I’d sort of drifted from a little over the years reached out and asked if I wanted to start running with her, and I, ever thirsty for friendship and needy for pals, jumped at the chance. During our first run (and, I say ‘run’, but really, it was, and remained, more a slow jog whilst we chatted) she mentioned she’d wanted to start running to contribute to a qualifier for breast reduction surgery on the NHS.
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ I’d said. ‘I’ve been thinking of having this surgery for a while, too.’
It’s true, I had. At first in a throw away sort of way. A daydream of sorts. If I had endless funds, I’d do it, yes I would. And then, when I’d somehow saved up the money and it became apparent that my boobs weren’t going anywhere, and that all that ever really happened when I lost weight was that they lost their plumpness and looked like oranges in socks, those thoughts became a little more substantial. The if started turning into a when. When I’ve looked into it and researched plastic surgeons. When I’ve plucked up the courage. When the time is right.
Well, I’m forty this year, and that feels like as good a time as any for perky boobs.
I’ve never had perky boobs.
And truthfully, I’d never really considered NHS treatment as an option to get them; they don’t divvy it out to anyone who asks. There are many, many qualifiers, all of which you have to meet for a long time, and many of which I didn’t and never would. For me, my friend and I coincidentally being on the same page at the same time for what is a large and quite scary procedure was a big part of the push I needed to have it done at all. We both ended up booking consultations with plastic surgeons, and those consultations turned into dates for surgery, and last week, a month after my friend, I had my op. Goodbye, too-large-for-my-frame bosom, hello new-boobs-for-the-summer.
When my April round up post went live, I was dosed up to my eyeballs on a merry cocktail of painkillers and lugging around two disgusting drains wherever I shuffled, which was mainly just to the toilet, or to the window to look at the deer and pheasants outside (well, it was Winchester, after all) or, once or twice, up the corridor and back.
And I really thought I’d be able to use my enforced downtime to work on my next book. Pad out some of the plot, draft a few chapter plans, maybe make a mood board, but hoo boy was I wrong about that. Barely a coherent thought entered my head, probably due to all the morphine. I thought I’d at least be able to read. I stuffed my Kindle with the new Emily Henry; Funny Story, a book in French to help with my language-learning, Can You Keep a Secret by Jo Lovett, and Bad Blood by John Carreyrou, because I’m obsessed with the Theranos scandal and love a bit of white collar crime.
But I was wrong about that as well, and all those books remain unread. I just couldn’t really concentrate, you know? I’d never had an anaesthetic before last week so didn’t know what to expect after coming round, but what I ended up doing was staring at the wall and doom scrolling whilst time elasticised around me.
The room goes wobbly, by the way, as the anaesthetic takes effect. Not spinny, but wobbly. The anaesthetist asked me if I like rosé (How did he know? Did I have the look of a rosé gal as I was lying on the gurney in a hospital gown, Sharpie-marked and nervous? Because he was dead right.) and I said yes and invited all of the room to come with me to the French Riviera where we’d drink Whispering Angel in the sun, and then I was out. Poof!
I’ve been home since Friday. My boobs are startlingly bruised and still quite sore, despite wearing tubigrip around my upper body, like makeshift Spanx, 24/7. Actually, it’s quite comfortable as far as compression garments go. Might keep it around when all this is over and I’m healed. Either I have a crap pain threshold (something I am beginning to think might be the case despite proudly telling the anaesthetist all about my two unmedicated births) or this “not very painful” surgery is, in fact quite bloody painful after all, and my ideas for my new book remain, on the whole, in my head.
Still, every day is a little better, and maybe I should just use my enforced downtime to rest?
Querying update:
1 new rejection.
1 new full request.
1 agent say they never received my submission despite the submission receipt and could I resend? But of course!
1 new idea formulated.