“I’d like to make an appointment for a liposuction, fat injections and a labiaplasty consultation,” I tell the receptionist who answers my call in January 2017. And so I book a consultation to test the waters.
I get an appointment on 14 February at 1pm. The irony doesn’t escape me that it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m lost when it comes to love. The fact that I have to wait a whole month makes me assume that this plastic surgeon must be a sought-after expert. Green flag.
I found Dr S by googling. He has his own operating theatre on the East Rand. His experience looks impressive, especially in the area of female genital work. I don’t know anyone who has had lipo or a labiaplasty, nor do I know any expert or authority other than Dr R, who did my boobs when I was 21. I trust him, dare I say, with my life.
I have no other means to compare doctors, and it’s impossible to get testimonials or referrals from their patients. I know Google Ads and fancy websites with lots of testimonials are the work of a fancy marketing agency and by no means actual accreditations, but this guy looks like the real deal.
On the day of my appointment, it’s raining. I feel euphoric as I drive to the surgeon’s rooms. I’ve finally managed to pay off my business overdraft of R55,000. The wheel of fortune has started to turn in my favour; as a result, I’ve paid myself a tidy little bonus. It’s time to treat myself to a makeover — a surgery makeover. I so effing deserve this.
After years of blood, sweat and tears, barely eking it out from month to month, picking up the pieces of staff no-shows, monumental customer demands, cash-flow issues and even more staff issues, I’m finally seeing the light.
I can’t deny that I’m a little nervous. This is a pretty big deal. I’ve been planning it for months, trawling through “real self” forums and reviewing pages and pages of “before” and “after” pictures. I’ve endlessly asked Google: “What side-effects can you expect from liposuction to the torso?” I’ve looked at pics of swelling, pockmarked skin, distorted symmetry, bruising, numbness, infection, internal punctures, pain, scarring — all pretty much post-op recovery symptoms.
I can stomach all of the above if the results are a perfect torso — okay, maybe not the punctured organ or infection, but that won’t happen to me. I am going to a top surgeon!
When it comes to doing labiaplasty research, most cases look like simple nip-and-tuck procedures involving the trimming of the inner labia by a few millimetres.
“Come right this way,” the immaculately dressed young receptionist says as she ushers me into the surgeon’s office. I follow her across the threshold of a massive room with a majestically oversized solid oak desk. The room is almost cosy. Dark wood panelling gives it an alpine, masculine edge. It’s the kind of office Donald Trump might have used in The Apprentice.
The middle-aged Dr S sits at the desk. His university degree certificates are proudly displayed behind him. They immediately reassure me. He offers me a seat. My nerves ease. He seems approachable and friendly. Green flag.
“How can I help you, Michelle?”
I am armed with a shopping list of queries about various procedures. I’ve decided to use the R800 consultation to the full. “I’ve always had an issue with my stomach and want to get liposuction. I want to chat to you about the pros and cons, but I don’t want to look like Tara Reid afterwards!”
This is my biggest fear. Tara was a celebrity who had stomach lipo. Too much was taken away, which resulted in an uneven wavy after-effect on her stomach, basically from under her boobs to her lower stomach, which made the skin there look like bubble wrap. My mission today is to fact-find until I know how not to end up looking like her.
“You see, the success of liposuction is an art. It’s down to precision and the combination of many factors,” says the doctor. “The elasticity of the skin is the canvas. If the elasticity is too lax, then the canvas is flawed. Younger and more taut skin is ideal. It also depends on the strength and texture of your skin. The thicker, the more pliable. Your skin is great from what I can see. Let’s see, how old are you? Thirty-eight? Yes, good.”
My heart soars. I am a perfect candidate. I feel like I am The Chosen.
Dr S goes on to explain more about the skin, proportions and the symmetry of what sounds like a great art form. I ask a few questions here and there, but I mostly just listen as he imparts his wisdom with great enthusiasm. He clearly loves what he does. Finally, he invites me to cross to the other side of the room for a physical examination. A full-length mirror stands in all its glory. I am wearing an elasticised black and white skirt and my work golf shirt. I am sure he can sense my anxiety.
“Lift your top for me.”
I’m embarrassed to show him. What is he going to think of my stomach?
Thank God this loose-fitting skirt isn’t sticking into my muffin top. The last few months have seen too many days of excessive drinking, leading to so much overeating in the knowledge that I’m going to have it all sucked out. Oh, how I wish I had a stomach like an ironing board — but that’s why I am here, to get rid of all this unsightly blubber.
I gingerly lift my top. “How much work am I going to need?”
He examines me and agrees that I could do with less fat. “I would take from here, here and here.” He points out places on my torso. I watch myself as though the woman in the reflection is someone else.
“You are top-heavy and could benefit from a bit of contouring. The stomach is the most robust area for lipo, and less risky due to the thickness of the skin.”
This sounds like good news.
We return to his desk and begin discussing the next point on the shopping list: fat transfers into my face. Because of my oval face, I have started to obsess about the loss of sebaceous tissue. Hannah [best friend from school] has amazing cheekbones, which I have always envied. So does my mom. What happened to me? Was I at the back of the queue when they gave out cheekbones?
Fat injections: these could solve all of my problems.
I voice my concern about my face blowing up or becoming disproportionate, like Friends actress Courteney Cox. I guess there is no hiding one’s face; if anything goes wrong, the mistake will be on full display.
Once again, the doctor walks towards the mirror and I follow. He maps out my face and shows me which areas he would pump fat into. It’s the key areas of ageing: the temples, the chin and jawline, the cheekbone hollows and even my lips.
Again, I get butterflies in my tummy — perhaps I can be beautiful!
Swelling and bruising
I check into my room at the upmarket clinic. My friend Joe sits beside me while we wait for further instructions.
I’ve told my staff I am going to a retreat at Melody Hills in the Magaliesberg. I’ve dropped off my dog, Gertrude, at a friend’s place. I am going to stay at Joe’s place for the remainder of the week to recover in secret. I feel like a Hollywood celebrity!
Dr P cheerfully enters the room and looks at my in-patient credentials. “You ready for your big day?” he asks.
“Yes!” I truly am.
“Please lift up your gown.” He starts marking my torso, stomach and inner thighs with a permanent marker, as seen in all those plastic-surgery TV shows. (Having lipo on my inner thighs had not been part of the original plan, but when he suggested it during our last appointment, I impulsively agreed. It was trendy to have a tiny gap between one’s thighs when wearing jeans and tight pants.) After the prep is done, I wait. A sedative is administered. I continue picking at a scab on my head that’s been there for months as I watch the clock. It ticks towards takeoff.
There is no fear, no nerves … only happiness and relief. In a few hours, I will emerge into a whole new life. The perfect me.
“Dr P is the best.” My anaesthetist smiles at me reassuringly as I start to feel the effects of the drugs. The sedation is starting to work its magic.
In a haze, I’m wheeled into the OR. Everything is happening in groggy fragments. People appear and disappear; voices come and go. A nurse touches my arm and reassures me everything will be fine. Her voice sounds far away. Dr P slurs something; nothing is making sense. A mask is placed over my face — sleeping gas. I try to withstand the power of the anaesthetic for as long as possible.
When I wake up, I’m back in my hospital room.
My vagina is in agony. The pain is immense. My ribs feel like I’ve been in a brawl. It’s all good, I tell myself. No pain, no gain! I remember my boob and jaw ops. I also woke up feeling awful then.
The only hospital visitor I am expecting is Joe. Despite the pain, I am still on a high, one step closer to my perfect life. None of my family know that I have just undergone general anaesthetic and a life-threatening operation.
I gingerly reach for my phone and check for any emails. Even the slightest movement causes intense pain in my body. I try to answer a few emails and check my sales for the day. I message Joe to tell him I’m out of surgery. He messages me back almost immediately and tells me he is coming through.
I slowly reach down inside my huge Bridget Jones hospital panties. In my post-op haze, I am hoping to feel a perfect vagina. My entire index finger comes back a sticky, bloody mess. No wonder I am in such agony. Again, I reassure myself that unless there is pain, there is no gain.
I drift in and out of consciousness. Dr P floats in at some point. “The procedure went well. Everything went according to plan. You will experience some pain and discomfort for a few weeks from the swelling and bruising — this is normal. We will issue you with a compression garment, and once your bandages come off, you need to wear it every day. It will alleviate the swelling and speed up your recovery. I think you’ll be a medium. Denise will sort you out.”
I am reassured by his matter-of-fact tone. Green flag.
He continues with his post-op advice. “Application of Retin-A cream on the incision areas is imperative to reduce scarring. We’ll give that to you at your post-op visit, to apply after the removal of the bandages.”
I try to take it all in, but it feels like I’ve been hit by a ten-ton truck. “Here is a cream for the bleeding you are currently experiencing. This will reduce infection, so apply it as needed.”
I groggily notice he doesn’t refer to the actual body part by its name — “labia”. (Or what I will soon discover were my “labia”.)
I manage an awkward, “Thank you so much, Dr P.” Right now, he is my saviour. The God of my labia and torso!
Joe arrives a few hours later. He tells me he has stood up a girl he was interested in to be with me. He’s my knight in shining armour. The cocoon of our secret shrouds us in the little hospital ward.
“Is she not upset with you for not going tonight?”
“Yes, but I wanted to be here.” He smiles. I see a flicker of pride in his eyes.
I am bursting to go to the loo but can’t muster the energy to get up. He immediately comes to my side to assist. I whimper with every step I take to the en-suite bathroom and promptly plonk myself onto the toilet seat. A yellow and red fluid cascades out of me. It burns like a battalion of bee stings.
Now I examine myself for the first time. It feels like a lot is gone. I experience a slight sinking feeling but quickly tell myself there is nothing to worry about. I dab toilet paper on the open, oozing wound. It feels strange and extremely sensitive.
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