Cupcakes and Cocktails

On Saturday I attended a Cocktail and Cupcake class with the Katie Piper Foundation.  Run by The Cocoa Box, this event is as fabulous as it sounds!


Amongst the pink glitter and sugar-bow frivolity there was a serious purpose to the meeting.  It brought together a group of people of all ages who had one thing in common; they had all suffered burns.  Initially, no one discussed their experience as the cupcakes were far too exciting.  Yet over the following few hours stories began to unfold and people shared the details of their past.


One of the things that struck me was a human's capacity to survive and then thrive.  It seemed for most people the more their injury had thrown at them, the more they had fought back.  The majority of people (myself included) had incorporated their injuries into their everyday look, so a casual observer would never know if the struggle they had, or were facing.


There was a great feeling of community at the event and a little friendly competition over perfecting the art of icing!  It's the first time I've met anyone else who has had a burns accident so it was really helpful to chat to people.  Thank you Katie Piper!

https://twitter.com/KatiePiper_/status/217900362764533760

I need a PA!

My life has become a juggling act of work, occasional play and appointments.  I barely know where I'm meant to be at any one time.  This week I have 5 medical appointments (GP, physio, stitches out, compression vest measurements and psychotherapy) plus a hairdresser booking, two social engagements and a man booked in to look at our broken fridge.  Somewhere a midst this organisation-tornado I have lessons to teach too.

As I arranged for the fridge man to work his magic, I opened a letter for laser surgery in August, another for steroid injections and another update with the plastic surgeon.  I'm pleased I'm getting all this treatment as it means my scars will show more improvement over the long term.  However, it does feel as though I'm Tasmanian  Devil tearing from place to place, never focusing on the present, only on the next place I need to get to.

My diary is a mad scrawl of timings and locations.  When anyone asks me if I'm free I haul it out and start flicking manically through pages.  'Yes I can fit you in......how does February 7th 2013 sound?'  I've double booked, even triple booked and had to cancel at late notice.  Some days I've lived in my car with only sat-nav for company, driving from appointment to appointment, experiencing the life of a truck-driver first hand.  (Coffee in the holder...crumpled food-to-go wrappers on the floor, the general litter of car-based living.)

In the early days I attended burns outpatients at the hospital once or twice a week but that frequency had begun to diminish until I barely thought about the place.  Eventually, I was only going every 3 months.  Yet suddenly, I am back in the thick of it, on first name terms with the staff.  I am looking forward to the days when I only have yearly appointments and my diary is free for fun and games. 

Sod off, spidey-sense!

A vague but powerful sense of danger based on intuition. ~ Urban Dictionary

We all have a sixth sense that warns us of danger and tells us when to change our behaviour to avoid getting hurt.  This sixth sense hypes itself up in some more than others, sometimes as a response to an accident but sometimes for no reason at all.  It's important to register your 'spidey' sense.  Lonely, dark, furtive alleyway?  In kicks the voice; AVOID!  AVOID!  RUN AWAY! And sometimes it will be right.  Yet quite often, it's over-dramatic and it's possible you should just kick it right back and ignore it.

My therapist mentioned the concept of sensory memory to me as I often have flashbacks of my accident prompted by feeling the sun warming my skin.  This isn't because of the burn.  This is because immediately prior to the burn I was standing in direct sunlight, admiring the blue, blue sky and appreciating the heat of the sun on my skin.  So now, whenever I feel the sensation of direct sunlight, I am instantly transported back to that moment in a spin of deja vous, the horror of Groundhog Day.  Now, when I experience that same sensation my spidey-sense goes on red alert, ready for danger, warning me that the coast is NOT clear.

Sensory memory allows us to build our memories not only as a narrative, but to link sensations and physical experience to them.  In many cases this can be pleasant.  Everyone has had a moment where a scent evoked a sudden recollection and 'took you back.'  However, in other cases it may not be so pleasant.  Someone who was at risk of drowning might find that they react negatively to the feeling of water splashing into their face.  Apparently a sensory memory is more likely to be formed if you are paying great attention to the stimulus, as I was, when basking in the searing summer sun.

This has become more important to me because I am going to be attending an event held at the site of the accident.  I am going to be feeling the same ground under my feet, taking in the same view and possibly, feeling the same degree of sunshine warming my skin.  My senses are going to riot.  I am going to panic inwardly while smiling outwardly at the bustles of people enjoying themselves.  All I will be able to see will be myself, on fire.

Still, this is something that I have to do.  I need to rein that spidey-sense in, remind it who's boss.  Say, 'why thank you for warning me but no, we're not going to run away and hyperventilate in a shadowy corner, there's no danger here.'  By the time another year has passed and another summer has swung round I would like to feel the sun on my skin and think nothing but, 'ahhhhh, that's nice.'

Unleash the Beast!

After my rant about not being a Drama Queen I had a 'moment.'  The beast that has been lurking within decided it had enough of laying low and burst out with impressive force.

Yesterday I didn't rest enough.  I hate feeling weak and feeble so I continued with life nearly as normal.  I didn't lift heavy things but there was no sitting on the sofa like an invalid.  By 5pm it was time to begin the 50 minute drive home from my Mum's and I was feeling quite tired.

I soon discovered it is really hard to drive when you've just had your arm operated on.  I had to use my left hand to do pretty much everything and I'm not left handed.  Turning a wheel with the power of only one arm is exhausting!  I was physically sweating with exertion and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

Finally! In the car park.  I swung my car round into my narrow parking space - between a concrete pillar and a Fiat - and heard a low, metallic scrape.  I stopped immediately, reversed, but it was too late.  I had either under or over-turned the wheel and caught my beautiful, new car.  At this point sweat began to pool under my compression vest and I started to feel dizzy, light-headed and sick.  I pulled randomly (and badly) in a bay opposite and got out to assess the damage.

And then it started.  The dam gave way.  The tears exploded from my face like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon and my lungs heaved as though I was blowing up a hot air balloon by mouth.  I couldn't believe it.  I just couldn't believe I'd pranged my car all because of my stupid arm.  After about 5 minutes of wailing I called my man who panicked and came home, mostly because I sounded as though I was hanging off a cliff by my fingernails.  By the time he reached me my face was scored with fat black mascara lines and I was snuffling in the corner of the lounge.

He came to assess the scrape and told me not to worry, it was easily fixable.  He had thought from my reaction it was going to be much worse.  But to me, it doesn't have to be any worse.  It's enough that I did it in the first place.  I was desperate to keep up my facade of normal and be straight back to work, back to real life.  Now I can't go to work, I can't even drive.  Today, firmly instructed by Mum, Man, Friends and Others I will be doing nothing but drifting around my rooms like a romantic-novel woman, too weak and feeble to go outside.  And with any luck, tomorrow, I can get back to life and back on the road without fear of over-steer causing a pile up.

Revision and excision - a nip/tuck tale.

PREP - OP

You'd think that 50+ trips to the hospital in one year would desensitise me to the experience - but no.  Even as we search for a parking space my heart begins to race and waves of sickness rush over me.  That doesn't stop me advancing so my body tries palpitations instead.  When it realises I'm still heading towards those airport-style revolving doors I break out in a sweat and feel lethargic, completely exhausted.  I'll perk up once that has passed, it's just one of the many little tricks my subconscious employs to avoid the hospital 'experience.'

Even before my operation came around I'd had a couple of meltdowns.  The biggest one took place when I received my paperwork.  I merrily tore into the envelope, anticipating my 'minor' operation appointment.  I scanned the fat pack of instructions and my heart sank.  Let's be more specific; it plunged to the floor and smashed on the tiles.  The reams of paper covered preparation for my operation, including my general anesthetic and tracheal tube.  It was a bigger procedure than I had thought.  I was horrified.  The pre-assessment date was 3 days away and I couldn't make it and I had to have the operation asap, before the weather got any hotter.  I was STRESSED.

I managed to rearrange and attend the pre-assessment clinic where they swabbed me for MRSA and told me to visit the hospital pharmacy to purchase my antibacterial wash.  I needed to use it for 5 days prior to the operation, including washing my hair.  Then we moved onto my operation...

Me, accusingly : 'I thought I was only having a local so I'm quite surprised that I'm now having ANOTHER general anesthetic.'

Nurse, falteringly : 'Yes, um, hold on, um, yes it says local here.  You're having a local.'

Me, irritated : 'Well it says on my paperwork that I'm having a general and this other weird thing....'

Nurse, brightly : 'Oh don't worry about that.  Whoever sent this has sent you the wrong paperwork.  You're definitely having a local.  Look it says here, 40 minutes. In and out. That's good isn't it?'

It wasn't her fault.  So I pasted on a smile, grabbed my coffee and made my way out into the real world, where people check paperwork before they send it.

PRE-OP

When we arrived at the hospital I was fairly calm.  I'd chattered inanely to my Mum the whole way there for distraction.  I was ready, although hungry, as breakfast was at 7.15am and there was no food allowed until it was over.  The appointment was at 12.30 and I whispered comfortingly to myself the phrase I had bravely told everyone else, 'it's minor.  It's nothing.  In and out.  In and out.'

I attempted to sign in to the 'quick-check-in' which was anything but.  And failed.  So we followed the letter's instructions and went to the Day Surgery Outpatients.

'Oh, you're not here.  You need to go to St. Andrew's Burns Unit.'


St Andrew's Burns Unit, 'Oh, you're not here.  You need to go to Day Surgery.  What?  You've been there?  Let me call around.  Ok, you're in Theatre Admission.  It's third floor, B133.  Just get in that lift there and you're there.'


Lift, third floor.... no B133, only A103.  Wandered around. 'B133 is another part of the hospital....miles away.....'  Went to A103,  'TADS,' just in case.  Thankfully, I was expected here.  But by this time, my cool at been lost, somewhere at ground floor.

'You need to take a seat.  Once checked in, you go on a list.  Anytime between 12.30 and 19.30.' 


It was midday.  I'd arrived thinking 12.30 was my appointment!  I hadn't eaten since 7am and I could be waiting until 19.30?  Over 12 hours?  Luckily it wasn't busy today and by 14.30 I was bundled up in hospital gowns, extensive questionnaires completed and ready to be lead into surgery.  In and out.....in and out......

DURING OP


As I laid upon the narrow gurney they stretched my right arm out upon a table ready for disinfecting with pink stuff and covered my body in a green operating sheet. I had the impression that the surgeon was presented with just an arm, easy to forget it was attached to a person as I was entirely covered up.  Then came the needles.  At least 10, deep, slicing, anesthetic needles in the sensitive, new skin of my graft.  By the 5th needle my knees were literally knocking together under the green sheet and my eyes were swimming in tears.  Instructed to 'breathe', I cried as silently as possible through the pain.  At intervals the surgeon pressed a pin in me and asked if I could feel it.  Mostly I couldn't.  Twice though, I felt something intensely sharp and cried out.  More needles.

'Can you try to stop shaking?'  They asked, as though I was doing it on purpose.

Finally, everywhere, numb.  I expected to feel nothing at all.  Surprisingly, local  anesthetic works by taking the pain away but not the sensation.  I could feel the scalpel slicing through my skin, tugging and pulling at it's fibres.  At one point I could feel him lifting skin away, literally peeling it from me.  Then the stitches, the needle dragging and jerking through.

Once the 2 areas had been excised (removed by cutting) and 1 revised (Z-plasty, a technique where a Z-shap is made in tissue to improve the function and cosmetic appearance of a scar. Triangular flaps are raised on the opposite sides of two ends and then reversed creating a 'Z'.)   it was time for the steroid injections.

It took an hour and a half.  Not quite in/out.  More in - time passes slllooowwwllllyyy - before finally, mercifully, out.

POST OP

I was in recovery, regaining my composure.  The nurse got my notes from the surgeon and completed the 'recovery' box.  I noticed she had written under the box indicating 'calm any anxiety from patient/explain procedures,' that I had 'no anxiety displayed.'  Despite sitting silently in a wheelchair, border-line bursting into tears (again) and feeling like I had fractured inside, I was deemed 'not anxious.'  This was because I wasn't screaming, crying, wailing, etc.  It really annoys me that in this world, if you're not Little Miss Drama Queen, everyone assumes you're fine.  I can't believe that I have to dissolve in sobs in order to 'prove' that I've just endured a traumatic experience.  This goes for the whole burn/graft/recovery scenario.  Just because I haven't cried at every occasion, got clinically depressed or behaved irrationally people assume I am an iron woman.  Actually, I just think my emotions are my own business and I'd rather not have to 'prove' how horrific this has been.

Seething tearfully, I slathered toast with butter and jam and put away some coffee, got dressed rapidly and waited to be sent home as soon as I could.  The Nurse found some amusement in my desperation to leave.

Finally, I was dismissed with extra bandages and instructions to come back in a week for a check-up, a couple of weeks for physio to check the scars aren't contracting (this AGAIN??? I thought I'd got past this worrying issue) and 6 weeks to Burns Outpatients.  Other instructions included:

1. Don't lift or twist.  (Can't get my own seatbelt on, dress myself properly etc etc.)
2. Don't get arm bandages wet.  (So no showers for a week then.)
3. Wear compression vest.  (OUCH.)
4. Come back immediately if there are any signs of infection.  (The symptoms are quite revolting.)

I can see the site underneath the bandages, where the line of blood curves against the white plaster.  It's about 2 inches long by one inch wide on the bottom of the graft. The part between my arm and underarm seems only about 1 inch in diameter, a circular wound.  Luckily, there isn't much discomfort, unless I move. Which I have discovered is difficult not to do!

Although I've had much worse done, it's still hard to accept the consequences of an operation.  Not being able to move properly, dress, shower or exercise is irritating and something I never wanted to have again; it brings back terrible memories of being incapacitated last year.  Equally, I am back with the 'unknown.'  Hopefully it will look fabulous - for skin grafts - once healed.  But the uncomfortable truth is that skin is unpredictable.

There is a lot of discomfort but not much pain unless I move too vigorously.  Humans take both comfort and easy movement for granted.  When you are uncomfortable for long periods of time (compression vests, injuries) it drives you slightly mad.  You can't sleep properly, you fidget and you just can't concentrate on the task in hand.  I can't wait to be comfortable in my own skin again.  If the stitches pull then boy, do I know about it!  I guess at least I won't have to cook/wash up/food shop for a week or so......every cloud!

So, here's to next week's big reveal....it had better be worth it!  I'll let you know...

Amazing Make-up Tutorial by Cassandra Bankson

19 year old Cassandra Bankson released an 11 minute make-up tutorial video that went viral with millions of views.  (Link below)

Suffering from cystic acne, Cassandra transforms her skin from blemished to flawless in a matter of minutes.  With naturally pretty features, her skills with make-up have allowed her to work as a model.

Personally I feel it is very brave to show her insecurities in her 'uncovered' state and I'm sure she has helped millions of others who have acne, birthmarks or facial scarring.

Prepare to be impressed before rushing down to Smashbox to stock up on the essentials......

Click on the links below.

Cassandra Bankson Foundation Routine Flawless Skin (Full Coverage Foundation Routine Flawless Skin (Full Coverage Tutorial) Cystic Acne & Scarring


Article in 'The Sun' 


Cassandra's blog - DiamondsandHeels

The Body of Summers Past.

'Nobody's perfect, no, no...'  Sings Jessie J.  Something we all know right?    No bodies perfect.  Yet none of us listen.  I often read opinion pieces at the back of magazines telling us we should appreciate ourselves for who we are and accept our bodies but they are nearly always preceded by several classified pages promoting perfection.  (I've just had my breasts done but the biggest difference is my smile....)  Frankly I find it patronising, feeding us a line yet drowning us in conflicting material.

Here comes Summer.  We've had a few tastes of sunshine over the last few weeks and hopefully there's more to come from that overcast sky.  It's time to unleash the reams of white, translucent skin; dredge out the bikini and read hundreds of promising articles about how to 'get the perfect bikini body.'  This is the first year that I will take my clothes off feeling my body is not at it's best.  As a runner and conscious eater, I may not have been perfect but I knew my body wasn't going to be any better than I had made it.  For me, that was enough to stride around confidently in all my glowing-white glory.

This year is the first year that I wistfully wish I had the body from my past.  Along with hundreds of women, I feel I've lost control over it.  It's been through the wars, it's gained weight, it sat on the sofa for months on end.  Huge areas of my skin have been compromised and now I really am an English rose, both white and red.  It bothers me to a degree; I would be lying if I said it didn't.  But is it going to stop me from wearing a bikini?  No.  Will it stop me from enjoying my holiday?  No.  I'm going to spray tan, adorn myself in a glamorous kaftan and recline under my parasol like Jackie O.

Recently I frequented a rather lovely spa with my Ma for her Mother's day gift.  The spa usually has spot-on service so I was quite unhappy when they didn't have any robes clean for over an hour.  I was forced to stride through the changing room with all my secrets on show and perch by the poolside feeling like my arm was a beacon attracting curious stares.  In reality, I quickly realised that no one looked twice.  I felt a bit silly.  The women were all older than me and their bodies were no longer young, clean canvases.  They bore their experiences on their skin: the stretch of babies; the soft curve of good living; the lines of time and laughter.  People would have been more likely to stare if I had a six-pack and muscled thighs; instead I was just one of them.

It's not our fault; we live immersed in a world of media and social networks, making us intensely vain.  We assume that people want to look at us, that they are going to judge us.  Really, the whole world doesn't care what you look like in a bikini.  Believe it or not, they have better things to do.  (Like worry about their own appearance!)

So although I will lament the Body of Summers Past and possibly throw a strop or two when I can't find anything seasonably suitable to wear, I will try to remember that it's not all about me.  Nobody's perfect and trying to be so is exhausting.  There's too much else to do: daiquiris to drink; beaches to bask on and experiences to enjoy.  So go out and enjoy, enjoy and enjoy.  Then....enjoy some more.