They’re gone.

They were removed sometime between 5pm and 8pm on Tuesday evening while Jeff waited anxiously at the Vallarta Medical Center. When he finally was alIowed to visit me, I was groggy, he was tired. And it was late by the time he left the hospital to return home to El Gato and Chance. Therefore, he wasn’t privy to the handiwork until the next day.

But seriously? Hubcaps? They weren’t even that nice, having been ravaged on the cobblestone roads and countless topes of the streets of Puerto Vallarta.  And instead of stripping our little rented Chevy of all four hubcaps, the robber only took two. The ones from the front tires. The ones that would be noticed. Is it just me, or does the incident seem just a wee bit symbolic?

But this post isn’t about the hubcaps. It is about my breasts. The ones that deceived me. The ones I was eager to get off my chest in order to regain a healthy life.

I think that no matter how much we research, one can never really be prepared for such a physically traumatic experience. As I mentioned in a previous blog post,  I have had breast surgery before (implant and explant). But those surgeries were outpatient, and not nearly as invasive.  I was understandably nervous going in this time, but I had confidence in my surgical team. In truth, I was more afraid of the COVID-19 virus and the risks it posed. But I was assured that the hospital I was in had no cases, and by the looks of things, all necessary precautions were being taken.

When I awoke from surgery, I immediately asked for pain meds. Not because I was hurting, but because I like the sensation of being in the altered state that I get from the good ones. And I needed to be in an altered state to deal with what I had just endured. Tubes were inserted throughout my upper body, and my chest was bound tighter than a size 16 girl in size 4 jeans. The whole thing was extremely uncomfortable.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not a drug addict, although I was certainly given ample opportunity to become a prisoner to opioids when I had failed tendon surgery on my hand three times in one year back in the states. The doctors pushed them on me every chance they got. After the second surgery, I gained an outrageously high tolerance and went without a bowel movement for, like, 87 days, so I wised-up. (And finally pooped.)

My experience with (legit) Mexican pain control is that it is markedly insufficient. Remember, back in the fall I had extensive, intensive dental work. All I could beg off the oral surgeon was Tramadol. That’s what I give my dog for arthritis. For this surgery I was given…Tramadol. And a few other NSAIDs. Combined, they help, but don’t completely alleviate the pain. They do, however, constipate me.  SHIT!

This hospital stay was my first foray into the use (or attempt) of a bedpan. Any females out there ever tried to pee laying down? I requested Depends adult diapers after my failed struggle. Since the staff didn’t speak English, and my Spanish, especially after anesthesia, was laughable (try to pantomime putting on a diaper and peeing), one particularly cute and accommodating (or was he just frustrated) nurse accompanied me to the toilet where I pee’d a river. We both got lectured after my doctor found out I had gotten up, so I held my bladder in humiliation for the next 10 hours.

I will say that the level of care and kindness I received from the staff was outstanding. The hospital I was in was not one of the fancy-schmancy ones that gringos are typically referred to. Yes, it is a private hospital, but one typically used by Mexicans that can afford more than the public healthcare, and/or have insurance. My Doctor preferred this facility, and was able to admit me for an amount substantially less expensive than the ones that charge typical gringo prices. Besides the intake people and my physicians, no one was fluent in English. But everyone, from the doctors to the cleaning people, always greeted me with a warm smile.

23 hours after I was admitted, I was released to return home. ( I believe this was to keep from having to pay for a full night’s stay in the hospital.) Within that 23 hours, my surgeon came to check on me five times. He was patient to answer my questions and reassure Jeff and me. We were given instructions on bandage changing and tube emptying, and told to see the doctor in five days.

So now I’m home, and adapting to this new, temporary state of being. I am relying on Jeff way more than I’d like, as I pride myself on my independence. For example, he is in charge of washing, drying, and scratching my back. One of the weirdest sensations post-op is no sensation post-op. I was given a nerve block to help manage pain, and it works. But I get these “phantom itches” in my armpit and breasts, which drive me crazy, but when I scratch the itch, I am completely numb.

And these drainage devices! Holyshit and whatthefuck?? When I had my implants ex-planted, I had tubes. They were bulbs the size of a child’s fist. A pain, but do-able.  I could tuck them away  under bulky sweaters easy enough. But these things? These drains are the “accordian-style” ones, roughly the size of a portable television hanging off the end of seven-foot long clear tubes that hang down to the floor, and then some. Their purpose is to drain fluid and blood from the wounds to promote healing and prevent infection. So they are implanted into my chest and underarm. The subcutaneous portion is about eight-inches long, looking like a small snake has taken residence in my chest. There is no stylish way to camouflage these things, and I look like a refugee from the Goodwill free bin.  Don’t even ask about the twice-daily maintenance. And no, I’m not posting pictures.

I’m certain that with my bald-ish head, bloody red tubes draining from my body, 2 portable televisions coming out from under my shirt, and ambling around like Frankenstein, any passers-by would run like hell in the other direction, possibly inflicted with lingering PTSD. Nightmares at the very least. Maybe it’s a good thing we are currently on lockdown.

So there you have it. I remind myself a thousand times a day that this, too shall pass, and all this mess and inconvenience is temporary, hopefully the last big step toward renewed health, telling cancer to fuck-off and leave me the hell alone. It’s gonna be good. I’m gonna be good.

And I hope that somewhere in Puerto Vallarta, somebody just got a good deal on a pair of slightly used hubcaps.