gunt. noun. (plural gunts)

1. (slang, vulgar) The bulging between the waist and the genital areas in an obese person.
2.  Synonym: FUPA

I did the thing. The tummy tuck. I got to 158lbs down and I was sick of having to stuff my stomach into my jeans. Dr L – plastic surgeon extraordinaire and the lovely lady she is, pointed at my vadge during our first encounter and declared with a sigh “I *think* I can do something about that”. Given him indoors had taken to referring to it as my “Growler”, I’m unsurprised at this response from a veritable stranger. 

Surgery day came around and, well, I was shitting myself. Fortunately a jovial anaesthetist kept the proceedings going and then I was eased off to sleep. Ten hours and seven-and-a-bit pounds of removed excess skin later, I woke up in recovery and promptly told my husband to “fuck off” while still off of my tits on anaesthesia. I was transferred back to my room, and then spent a little while telling everyone I loved them – even my Husband – which given my previous performance entertained everyone.

I woke up the next morning a bit sore and very stiff, but with a fentanyl button. All was OK in my world. I looked down and burst into tears, and the nurse was very, very confused. I pulled back the sheet, pointed downwards and through my snot said “I haven’t seen it in two decades!”. 

I’ve been very lucky for my support village, people sending flowers and messages and notes. My friend bringing foot cream to the hospital because last time post op fentanyl was in my life I developed itchy feet: this time was itchy tits. Not for the faint of heart let me tell you. I’ve been even more lucky for the friend who has flown from the UK for four weeks to help. Luckier further that him and my gorgeous gal have been legends. The doctors and nurses involved in my care have been patient and kind.

I got released and got home and was very grateful for the recliner and the 629 pillows propping me in the exact position for optimal comfort. My gal held my hand as we watched a film, adjusted my pillows when I asked and we ate dinner from our laps chattering about her day.

Then I got constipated. 

He deserves nothing more than an imperial of Mouton Rothschild and a fortnight in Vegas with the boys to recover from the trauma of having to put things in my bum to fix this.

I’m now 8 days post op. On no pain killers, and watching cartoons in my PJs at 2pm because I have to rest. It’s all going rather well, apart from when I got a bit of toast stuck in the compression garment causing intense pain and thinking I’d ripped a stitch.

I’m not good at resting. I’m in my own personal hell, so I’m doing what I do best: annoying my loved ones. Lucky bastards.

Peace x