Tag Archives: health

How much did my face cost?

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And I am DONE. This morning I had my final visit to the surgeons at Cornell and they took ultimate snaps of my marvelous American smile. It is probably the last time I will see Dr Dreamy and it was an emotional moment (possibly for both of us?– we will never know). After complimenting my mouth and being mightily pleased with his first ever patient and her textbook bite, we shook hands with vigor and wished each other the best of luck in the world.

And his number???

Nope I didn’t get it. But I did get the before and after images of my face so we can all gasp in awe at the transformation. So perhaps that is enough.

But what does it feel like after 15 months of living with train tracks in my mouth? Well I am free now and in addition to having a glorious Hollywood smile, I am also able to eat comfortably and my mouth is no longer cut to pieces with the sharp metal that rubs and rubs. While eating, I don’t have small pieces of food scuttling out of my mouth after they become dislodged from their brace-y resting place. I still don’t have feeling in my bottom lip and chin, and I was assured there is time yet for that sensation to return (fingers crossed), but as of now I am trying to enjoy the new reflection in the mirror and the ability to chew unhindered.

Now on to my reflection. I have had two or three moments of discomfort regarding my new face over the past 10 months. I think the first was post-op day 3 when my face blew up like a wonky balloon and I was reliving my mumps diary days with my sister photo-cataloging every new swelling. After that, once the mouth stent was removed and my face was back to almost normal size, I got to see the result of these two refitted jaws. That was a lot to take in. It took a few days of adapting to my new look and accepting a somewhat unrecognisable reflection. And now, this week, with the braces removed, my lips are able to lie comfortably and my true face is revealed. No longer must I hold a permanent pout as the braces push my cushiony puckers out into the ether. My face has changed again and I am reluctant to regard myself for too long for fear of disappointment. I am vain now. I admit it.

With so much focus on my face for so long, I have learned to critique every aspect of my look. My miniature nose embarrasses me sometimes as it settles into the new form. My cheeks feel too lean (a symptom of now being 10 lbs lighter) and the new dimples I have acquired amuse me as I wiggle my mouth around and about in front of the mirror.

It is a long time, 15 months, when you are at the beginning of it all. Back then, it seemed like forever. A ridiculous and unnecessary task to have braces at 28 and to have one’s jaw smashed and re-jigged for the sake of aesthetics and possibly a little bit of improved function.

Worth it?

Definitely.

I would do it all over again in an instant.

And here is the proof!

I am here today to unveil the before and after shots. If you are squeamish look away now.

BEFORE

Teeth before 1

Teeth before 2

Teeth before

AFTER (ta da!)

Teeth after 1

Teeth after 2

Teeth after 3

I would caption these but hey. They speak for themselves. Haha pun absolutely intended!

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Golden Tan Conundrum?

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Spray-tanning may be the answer?

Isn’t it lovely to have a golden tan? After a couple of summers in almost constant sunny weather, I am well kitted out in the light dress garment. So, despite the steamy humidity of New York City, I am able to flounce about in next to no material, and in a variety of shapes and colors. With my hazel eyes, however, my Northern Hemisphere skin tone, my British looks; I probably should be covering up. I know that of course. This knowledge has been imparted many times over and I cannot feign ignorance. I am a cancer biologist working in a cancer hospital. So on a level, I do make a concerted effort to protect myself. On the tennis court, I roughly layer my face in Factor 60. I spray my shoulders and give a quick rub on my arms and neck. On weekend wanders, I cover my cheeks, for the superficial fear of wrinkles, but throw that cardigan in my bag soaking up the UV light on my back.

I am 29 years old this week and just days ago I was lying on my tummy in the dermatologist’s office having pinprick biopsies taken of several unsavory features scattered across my back.

I remember thinking, over and over again in my youth, I am never going to get sunburnt again. Never. I remember the searing pain as the dried out, raw skin was layered with cool plain yoghurt (unknown brand). My school friends and I, released after final exams for our first unsupervised trip abroad, returned to our villa, after Day 1 in Rhodes, with painful red patches all over our backs and arms and legs. It was Lucy who returned with the useless advice (we would consider anything at this point). Spread yoghurt, any brand, all over the burns. She had been told it worked wonders as her sores had motivated sympathy and suggestions from her beach-y peers. It will cool the skin and moisturize the burns. We did it. We bought a bucket load of plain, flavorless yoghurt and we caked ourselves in it. The smell was quite unbearable, the giggling was definitely memorable but the pain remained unresolved.

After the first couple of days of our summer holidays this year I thought, ooh my skin is a bit tender. It looks more pink than tan and so tomorrow I will cover up with a t-shirt. But the vain pull of the golden tan won out. And sun cream was applied without zest and I allowed my skin to darken. A few more freckles appearing on the exposed parts.

According to the Skin Cancer Foundation there are an “estimated 2.8 million cases of basal cell carcinoma (BCC) diagnosed in the US each year. In fact, it is the most frequently occurring form of all cancers. More than one out of every three new cancers are skin cancers, and the vast majority are BCCs.

Cancer is a scary word. It is a routine word in my daily work but it is always referring to patient A and never ever reflected back at me. So today I am scouring the clinical websites for information. Not my usual academic journal pool. Working on the molecular level, the intricate detail of the cell and its genetics won’t help me understand what is coming up next for me.

I tap away at the keyboard. Basal cell carcinoma is mostly non-malignant. In fact, the Skin Cancer Foundation website tells me that “BCCs are abnormal, uncontrolled growths or lesions that arise in the skin’s basal cells, which line the deepest layer of the epidermis (the outermost layer of the skin). BCCs often look like open sores, red patches, pink growths, shiny bumps, or scars. Usually caused by a combination of cumulative UV exposure and intense, occasional UV exposure, BCC can be highly disfiguring if allowed to grow, but almost never spreads (metastasizes) beyond the original tumor site. Only in exceedingly rare cases can BCC spread to other parts of the body and become life-threatening.”

Well that is a relief. I keep hearing “it is better to be safe than sorry” and of course I agree wholeheartedly but I am already sorry. I am sorry I ever nurtured my skin to that unnatural tan I have always so craved. I am sorry for that and as I sit back on the sterile, paper covered examination bed, waiting for my ruthless dermatologist to return, I find myself slightly flushed with the worry of what is coming next. And mainly, dear readers, it is entirely the dent to my vanity. I know she is going to cut these unsavory growths out. She is going to cut nice and deep to be “safe” and “not sorry” and she is going to sew me back up and then onto the next. I pride myself on a strong racquet sports playing back (well I do now. Now that I have had a little think about it) and I definitely don’t want any more war wounds to count. Appendix removal left an unsightly blemish, hockey injuries pockmark my legs and knees and general clumsiness, as the overzealous child I once was stumbled about grazing and scratching and sometimes slashing my smooth skin.

When it is over. When the local anaesthetic begins to wear off and my shoulder aches a little bit, more biopsies taken for good measure, I am feeling very determined. Is it worth it to have a gloriously brown glow to take you into the white winter months? Does anyone really care but me? I know the answers of course and once this is finally over, in a few stabbing weeks or months (if she removes one every two weeks we could become quite the bosom buddies), I will be viciously vigilant in my sun protection regime. I promise. I promise myself.

Run Forrest Run!

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So I did it. No one is surprised right? Well you better not be.

I wandered up to my starting point, at the back, and jiggled my legs about in an attempt to appear organised in my warm up protocol.

1 mile down. Easy. 2 miles check. Loving it. I am cruising. Now where is 3 miles? Turns out the distance between the mile signs were playing tricks on me. I almost gave up on sightings of mile 4, 5 and 6 signage and at this point it was quite clear that with only half of the first lap of Central Park completed, my main obstacle was my doubtful mind. A mile is quite far. So 13. 1 in a row is like.. really far.

I had expected rolling hills throughout, after all I had been warned by people in the know (including the race website), and yet by mile 7 and nearly one full run through of the course, I felt like I had spent most of the first hour freewheeling downhill. I like a bumpy course I think. No flat roads to force me to propel myself. I enjoy the hike uphill because I know it will be closely followed by the inevitable drop at the other side. By mile 8, I was happy as a clam. The legs were on autopilot and I was only occasionally wiping the “glow” from my brow.

By mile 10 I could almost taste victory. But entertaining myself was becoming more tasking with every stride. I had seen a man running barefoot, I had watched oncoming traffic of horse-drawn carriages leaving their stinky mark on my path towards triumph, and I had been lapped by the speedy front runners who look like they have done this before. I am bored and I can distinctly feel a tightening in my legs. I have just over 3 miles to go and I need a better target than simply THE END.

I set my sights on light blue shorts. I noticed light blue at around mile 4 I think. We were similarly paced, her Cambridge-esque light blue kit caught my attention, if only for comfort, as we journeyed together around the Park. So this was the key. Sit behind light blue and then jog past her to roaring cheers (in my head). But now I am at mile 11. She is holding strong and my quads are starting to fail me. I am positive I have sent pulses of information to the muscles indicating my desire to run forward, and yet they are slowing down. I must not stop. It will be the end of me. What I need now is a long winding downhill. What I need now is a cheer from the crowd to encourage me. Tick and tick. Off I go. Pick the feet up, move the legs forward. Let Newton’s gravity do the job and pass my secret opponent. Mile 12 and I am not feeling any love for the sport of running.

I have defeated my arch nemesis (should have found dark blue shorts in hindsight, but she served her purpose) and now all I need to do is bring it home. The final strip is lined with spectators. I hear my name and I have an almost minute burst of speed until my legs remember they are not happy with me and go back into a grump. I fear I have not hydrated well. At the first two water stops, way, way back in the early days of this Sunday morning I had gulped and not sipped. It was not a good tactic and it scared me to drink anymore. I had upset myself, in particular my sensitive tummy. Now, with exhaustion and the dizziness of thirst I have 200 yards to go and I am probably going to be sick. Not an optimal choice of venue as my exit path is blocked by an applauding audience. I must…. continue. I can’t stop now. Who walks the last 100 yards after running the previous 13 miles? Losers, that’s who. If I have 13 miles in me, I can find something, somewhere. I hit the final banner and immediately crawled into a corner to avoid vomiting all over someone’s illuminous yellow Nike shoes.

No, not a good idea. They pounce on me. Wheelchair is rushed over and I am lifted against my will into the rolling seat. Please no. I ran this whole thing I can definitely walk to my friends.

Don’t be embarrassed miss.

Too late mister!

After convincing them, with my absolutely lucid speech, that I was just feeling just a bit motion sick and they could send me on my way with a bottle of water and a bag of salt, I found my wonderful and encouraging friends and we hobbled to brunch.

In summary, salt in water tastes awful. Grilled cheese sandwiches (otherwise known as “the toastie”) taste marvelous. If only I could depart my seat in this UWS resto and make my way home.

I think I am going to pay for this in pain tomorrow.

Worth it? Definitely.

The Superficial Checklist

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Central Park circa 5pm this evening.

From the rooftop of the MET I faced tomorrow’s challenge. Must admit, it looks pretty big from up here, and that is just the bottom bit.

I was feeling contemplative as I sunned myself this evening. Reminds me of a time in my youth when I decided, surprisingly with no opposition from my parents, despite my less than fit, chubby state, to run a mile. One solitary mile around Bamburgh Castle. Seems trivial now, but at the time I distinctly remember the sheer unadulterated pain as I paced up the steep incline overlooking the North Sea. To my family, eagerly waiting at the finish line, running parallel to the cricket ground, I was lost. Or having a long, luxurious rest at the very least. Until a time when finally my bright red round cheeks appeared along that final straight. My younger sister, desperate to help her elder survive this terrible ordeal, jogged, with ease, the last few yards in support, probably keen to spend the last few moments with her flailing sibling before she departed this earth.

Fortunately, I dragged myself heavily to the tape. I was not a fit young thing back then. I was carrying some puppy fat, except this puppy was one of those British Bulldog types. Those really chunky monsters. That was me. And I was probably slobbering by that point so the metaphor works on a couple of levels.

 

I may have been round but I was darn cute!

 

Tonight, however, as I place all the necessities for tomorrow’s 13.1 mile “jog” on the table, I reminisce about my running experiences to date. That one mile run and that other time when I really really wanted to catch the train. No, only kidding, I have done a half marathon before, but that was slightly shorter than Central Park twice-and-a-bit-more, and it was almost entirely flat. Having read the course description for my stateside attempt, for the first time this week (erroneously), I become fixated on one section:

Almost all of the course is run over curving roads and undulating terrain, except for one straight, flat half-mile stretch along the East Side that you’ll run twice. Major uphills are at approximately 1.5, 3, 4, 7.5, 9, and 10 miles.

Have I done any hill running yet? I certainly have not. I tend to find running up hills a bit exhausting and painful and have chosen to avoid them at any opportunity.

It may be too late to prepare in any appropriate way so all I have left to do are the superficial check list items: have a hot bath, eat a truck load of pasta and hydrate away. My shoes are now adorned with the timing strip that I will probably ignore so that I can lie through my teeth “Paul Ryan style” when anyone asks me how long it took me to complete. Furthermore, being a New York marathon qualifying race, I propose that digestive biscuits and orange squash will not be on the menu. I predict that my peers will have done some hill running and won’t be taking tomorrow’s “stroll” lightly. And I suppose I am going to suffer a great deal.

But I will do it. I have been talking to myself all day on the matter. I will drag my slightly less rotund butt around that manmade green space and I will earn some running respect. From whom, it is unclear. But by that stage I will be quite delirious and expecting some knight in shining armour to carry me home (maybe I am already delirious. It certainly sounds like it).

Wish me luck!

The Half

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In order to get back on exercise track after, you know, “the op”, I took myself and my jaw on a light jog around my island. I learned two things on this brief, red faced, slow-paced hurry.

1) My jaw seemed alright and in tact at the end of the short circuit and potentially would sustain near future exercise when I got my breath back and

2) I am rubbish at running.

So now that I am certainly back to full fitness I decided a couple or 3 months ago that running should be an aim of mine. Something I would do regularly to supplement  my game playing and gym bunny activities. So how come I have not even cantered to the shop since this vow!?

I think it is because my legs and I despise running. In fact I know that is what it is.

How then would I get my butt into gear and get out there on the roads? Like a really cool Nike ad. I probably needed to enter a half marathon. A convenient half marathon that would cost me enough that I wouldn’t back out but also would scare me sufficiently that I would pound the roads for weeks to ensure survival. Right, so as of last Thursday I am entered into a “not fun” half marathon, under the banner of “for proper runners”. Error. Now I have to run in my spare time but without the end reward of those more famous halfs. The ones where bands entertain you on the way round. The ones where at every other minute someone is offering you a digestive biscuit or some orange squash. The half marathons where Geordies line the streets giving quality banter and enthusiastic AND sincere encouragement. Where Northern legends blast music from their open windows to drag the many crowds through their individual pain.

Oh no wait that is probably just the Great North Run then.

Yep, I successfully clicked a few buttons online, provided my bank details and managed to get myself a spot in a proper run around the hilly Central Park course, which takes place in just over 3 weeks!

THREE WEEKS?! What? Why did I do that? I have run not a mile and in just over 3 weeks I will have to run 13.1 of them and mostly on a sort of agonising gradient. Good move Beth. Good move.

On Friday I began in earnest. Well I had to. Any dilly dallying on this score and I was in even more trouble than I already am. I managed a good 5.5 miles. Impressed? You certainly should be. I was. I even made myself a chocolate torte as a reward.

Now it is Sunday. And on Saturday I did not run. So Sunday sort of had to include a run at some point if I was to keep the momentum moving forward (literally). And guess what I did? I checked out where the tennis courts were relative to my apartment on Google directions and allowed it to plot me a course by foot. Yeah I ran there. I RAN to tennis. IN Brooklyn. Man I’m good. It was sunny too and I didn’t stop once. Oh no wait I did stop a couple of times actually. Just quickly though because my phone is not working very well and needed me to be stationary to skip a slow paced John Legend track. Luckily this next song came on just as my heart was beginning to lose interest:

So apt. Thanks Jackson. Really helpful. Thanks a bunch.

What I can and cannot do two weeks out

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I thought since I have non-trivial pain in my face today (symptom of trying to wean myself off codeine) I would indulge in a few moments of blogging to lighten the mood.

So I am 2 weeks out today. I no longer have elastic bands holding my jaws together. They were removed 3 weeks prematurely with the proviso that I DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES CHEW! I promptly indicated to the surgeon that despite having food envy on an almost constant basis, the mere consideration of chewing made me feel ill and so he had my word that no solids would pass my excellent botox-imitating lips (the bonus of swelling).

I have no real insight today however. No philosophical musings on health, life or family (although I am missing my primary care givers- mother and sister Jo since their departure on Sunday), and no extensive adventures in recent days apart from a delightful trip to the New York City Ballet. But I am more concerned with my face presently having a constant reminder of its presence with a putting ache that sometimes puts a little too vigorously and makes me feel like I should reacquaint myself with the opiates!?!

So how to make this blog remotely amusing/worth reading? I think a picture or two would hold your attention briefly don’t you think? And to make things easier I will list in a pictorial manner what I am currently denied in my present state and then to cheer myself up I will conclude with a list of annotated images that I CAN enjoy and will continue to do so until my mouth is fully restored to its former glory.

I CANNOT:

box with my fellow New Yorkers – sad face

Crusty bread. This is a dilemma. Bread and cheese for that matter are a current craving. EEK

Spotted Pig better watch out when I am released back into the culinary sphere. In fact burgers globally. Beware.

Chocolate cake and sponges of all varieties. I am coming, slowly. But I assure you I am on my way!

I CAN:

I can eat this but I don’t want to (not a great example. I don’t feel cheered)

After my dalliances with soups aplenty I have come to the conclusion that tomato is my top favourite of all time. Go Cream of Tomato. Although shout out to broccoli and stilton, lentil and sausage, leek and potato and spicy black bean.

PANNA COTTA I love you. Yes this is going to be my treat when the food envy washes over me. Panna cotta. You cheeky, squishy dessert. Bravo.

So my mouth is watering now and panna cotta is nowhere to be seen. I think I will go hunt some down (no mean feat I assure you. It is quite a specific foodstuff)

Swelling under control, mouth opening sufficiently to fill it, painkillers on their way out and creative food ideas keeping me amused. This was not the drama I had expected.

Guess I will just have to drum up drama in some other manner.

Major Facial Reconstructive Surgery (way to go. I really feel relaxed about this now)

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I thought I would write this as I am just coming out of the worst days so far, probably gives my blogging a little more edge, as the last couple of days have been my worst and I am back on cloud 9 (lying at 45 degrees for swelling purposes) as the codeine again performs its magic.

Last Tuesday morning I arrived at New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell Medical Center on the Upper East Side at 6am. Immediately kitted out in flattering scrubs I was quizzed on my DOB and a consent form again thrust into my grasp. Apparently I still had an option to back out. Right. It is getting real here I thought to myself. Do I really need someone to smash my face? I like my face after all and who really needs to chew food effectively? I have managed to survive successfully so far haven’t I?

Scrubs and those totes socks

No, toughen up Ashbridge you are well past the point of no return, as I am marched without my glasses, away from mum and Jo and into the bowels of the operating room corridors. At the door of my allocated torture chamber I am greeted by my nurse and one of the many doctors who would contribute to my reinvention. My table of torment was narrow and as I lay down, surrounded by whitewashed walls and mysterious machines flashing their medical related lighting, I was welcomed by the anesthetist. IV time and then I would be away with the fairies. So Dr resident trainee, please hurry up. With every minute you miss my sneaky veins, I am closer to fleeing, blind out of this room. Two deep intakes of O2 as the anesthetic pumps through my body and I am out.

A good 6 hours later and my top and bottom jaws have been broken, altered, pinned and the mess stitched up (this took 2 hours in itself). I am wrapped in what was humorously nicknamed my “head diaper” and tubes collecting the blood and saliva from inside my mouth pouring out into bulbs of plastic. In the recovery room I am in and out of consciousness as the nurse suctions out the excess fluids. I oblige her of course but remember nothing. My sister takes pictures as I open my swollen eyes. I see them standing over me. I feel pretty good. Sleepy. They go.

Recovery Room horror show

Enjoying the humidifier

Sleeping was a common theme

“The head diaper”

Later on I move to my ward for the night. Sharing a room for two it is going to be a long night. Mum and Jo are back eager to see my improvement. I must be on some pretty heavy painkillers as I am blissfully happy despite my broken face. Apart from the fact that I can’t talk or feel anything in my bottom lip and chin I could be lying in my bed at home without any pins in my fractured jaws. My chin and lip are completely asleep. The doc warned me about this, I remember now, and it could be months before those nerves get over the shock and wake up again and that is a relatively large lip to just be hanging there useless. I cross my fingers hoping my face wakes up sooner rather than later as it is a strange sensation having a part of your face not feel like it belongs there. I don’t much like it.

The first and only night in hospital was almost philosophical. My neighbour R is a very sick woman with colon cancer. She has been battling her illness for almost 12 years and my family got to know her and her husband until they go home for the night (I was not much use in the way of conversation). The nurses came to see me regularly as I drifted in and out of sleep. I was struggling to get comfortable as I am instructed the next few days I will have to sleep at 45 degrees, upright in my bed, not a favourite sleeping position of mine. My legs are wrapped in inflatables to prevent blood clotting and so every 30 seconds or so they fill up with air, squeezing my calves and waking me up from my dosing. R is struggling. I can hear her moaning but I can’t speak to her. I am so close but my mouth is full of tubes and blood. At about 2am the alarm next to her bed goes off. I can hardly keep my eyes open as nurses rush in. Her doctors are called as her heart rate soars for no reason they can decipher. I can feel the panic. The nurses and doctors are confused, worried and I don’t think she is going to make it. I can hear her say she has no pain. She feels a bit odd and doesn’t know what is going on. Her husband arrives, eye mask resting on the crown of his head, as he is summoned from the family room. He sleeps there every night. Goes to work the next morning. They manage to get her heart rate back down. The young doctor is beside himself with worry marches in and out of the room, calling on his mobile phone for help. R is calm. Now it is 2:45am and I have hours before the clinic will come and collect me to clean me up and remove the tubes. I have hours before my mum and sister return to entertain me. I feel so guilty. I have willingly put myself in this position. Agreed to have my jaws realigned so my teeth will touch, so my smile will be American. And next door R fights for her life. If she could be at home with her family now she would, she hates the hospital she says. I am weak, I can’t get out of bed. I get dizzy, they are going to take the catheter out soon so I am going to have to manage but I am as weak as I have ever been and it is all my own fault.

I distract myself for the hours I have left. I try to work out a time pattern for the inflatable leg thingys. I must keep drifting off to sleep in the middle of my counting as I never get to the bottom of that. At 4am I am feeling determined. I want the doctors to arrive with me sitting up in my chair and so when the nurses come to check my blood pressure again I ask them to help me. Unplugged I sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t feel dizzy I say. I can make it to the bathroom I say. I am going to recover quickly from this. I am not going to bother anyone I am going to be independent again soon.

The next few hours pass painfully slowly. The television has only one watchable channel so I am restricted to a few boring news stories on loop. CNN really needs some better viewing at 5am. I practice getting in and out of bed and soon enough Dr Mark arrives with a wheelchair to roll me back to the clinic and clean me up.

My face is a mess. I have a “diaper” around my head. My mouth is overflowing with blood and saliva and my cheeks are swollen. Dr Mark and Dr David are not too much older than me. In fact Dr Mark is probably my age. They are both very attractive young men and here I am at 6:30am in the clinic with one cleaning out my nostrils and the other removing the tubes from my face and suctioning the excess fluid from inside my mouth. My hair has bits of diaper fluff in it. It is sticking up in all directions, knotted from the events of the previous day. You have to laugh. But also I have gone from reflecting on the fragility of life to being most concerned about the state of my face in front of good looking doctors. Urgh. I blame the anesthetic.

Fat face Ashbridge

Once cleaned up my face proceeded to swell over the next couple of days so that it looked like I was reliving the mumps. That very afternoon I went home and with the magical combination of drugs I was on fire. We would go wandering, drinking/dribbling soup along the way. I was home and dry or so I thought. The first 2-3 days are supposed to be the worst they said. Dr David warned me I would hate him for the first week. I assured him I wouldn’t (wink wink).

Then Saturday arrived. I was having trouble with my bowel movements and it was probably due to the codeine. I decided to cut out the codeine from my drug diet. It was a compromise I was willing to take to get my body back on track. After all there had been no pain. So far it had been an easy ride.

Laughing in the face of pain.

Right Sunday and I am out of it completely. I can barely stand up. I am feeling the worst I have physically felt in my life. It feels like someone has smashed my face… oh wait. And furthermore my tummy is in agony. But I have come this far. I need to ride out the pain to get back in the zone and then I could always retake the heavy painkillers. I think to myself.

It’s Monday morning. I have not slept as much as I would like. I burst into tears visiting Dr Dreamy (bad move Beth) as once those floodgates open. Erm. Sorry I just can’t stop the tearful flow. He has sorted me out though. I have more drugs (yippee!!?!) and I am back on the codeine. It is amazing what an opiate can do for the mood. And really it was a good experiment of sorts. Codeine works.

So that’s it for now. I am feeling highly motivated again. Can’t speak much but the swelling has deflated. My bite is straight and the doctors are delighted with my X-rays. I am excited to see what another week will bring in the saga of the smashed face. I am STARVING though and I need to learn how to get more down and quickly. I am vanishing fast and it is not a good look. But let’s be honest. If anyone is to adapt to eating food effectively with two broken jaws. You would put your money on me, right?