Saturday 21 January 2012

VICTORIA BECKHAM, MADONNA, MICKEY ROURKE and me.



I have joined an exclusive club. If ever I find myself next to Victoria Beckham, Madonna or Mickey Rourke at a cocktail party in Beverly Hills or Kildare Town, we will have so much to talk about. Yesterday I went through with my first cosmetic procedure. I went under the knife.  It wasn't my eyelids, cheeks, knees, breasts or lips that were surgically enhanced. I didn't go for a Demi Moore 'Knee Lift' but instead, had a whole network of large and wobbly varicose veins removed from my left leg (I am quite sure that Victoria, Madonna and Mickey Rourke have had the same procedure but let's face it, varicose vein removal is never going to make the front pages of the National Enquirer).





The problem that I faced was that having trained as a nurse in the eighties, varicose vein removal was the one procedure that made me faint when I watched it in the operating theatre. Back then, I made a mental note never to allow myself to get varicose veins and wore support tights for ten years. Four babies later, out they popped. My veins became 'incompetent'. Up and down my left leg like two boa constrictors. They had to go. The time had come for me to reclaim my legs.



As I lay on the operating theatre table, waiting to be anaesthetised (a local anaesthetic was all that was needed for the 90 minute procedure) a nurse whispered "You'll be fine. The surgeon plays classical music during the operation......". It was at this point that the the terror set in. What kind of sick man was this doctor who was about to rip out my veins? He came towards me in his blue gown, mask and rubber gloves. Any minute and he'd be reaching for a scalpel and slicing away at my legs and I'd be awake for the whole thing listening to Carl Orff. This was turning into a sick horror film. 


                                       


"I CAN'T DO IT!" I shouted out, the nurse looked at me. The surgeon peered down at me through his glasses. "Do you want a general anaesthetic?" asked the anaesthetist impatiently, "We do ten of these procedures a week and nobody ever complains". "N-N-N-No" I could feel my self shaking. "I just c-c-c-can't listen to your classical music for ninety minutes....". Everything went silent.  They all looked down at me with their masks on. I was starring in my own Hammer House of Horror movie. 





The silence was broken as surgeon reached for something. Was it an axe? This was it.  He really about to KILL me. "How are you feeling?" I looked up, the tears welling up. "I feel FINE" (Fragile, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional). "Here." He handed me his Iphone. "Choose something you would prefer to hear". My fingers were like jelly. With every single member of theatre staff looking down at me, I scrolled as quickly as I could, scanning the names. Trying to find something, ANYTHING that wasn't classical. With each second that passed, I regretted that I had said a firm 'no' to the offer of a 'Mainstream Mystic' relaxation CD from a friend.






"I'm going to have to hurry you...." the surgeon was washing my leg with a orangey yellow liquid.  Still I clutched at the Iphone, the names whizzed past on the screen. Bach, Bizet, Chopin, Debussey, Elgar, Grieg, Haydn, Liszt, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Offenbach, Puccini. Surely there was something that wasn't classical. All I wanted was light relief, the B52's or a bit of R Kelly. The anaesthetic leaned over me and slowly injected something white into my veins "Annie, you may start to feel sleepy". Was this the 'milk' that Michael Jackson was so fond of?






"GOT IT". I found something. The drugs were in my system, I had to be quick. With my thumb, I manically pressed 'play'. The operating theatre filled with the sound of music. Rock music. The only darn album on the Iphone was 'QUEEN'S GREATEST HITS III'. That would do even if I am not a Queen fan. Moments later Freddie Mercury's voice filled the room, I sang along under my breath.

"Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone, and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey, I'm gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust"





I was beginning to feel confused, blurred vision, drowsy. I clutched onto the surgeon's phone desperately pressing it firmly against my ear. He gently asking me questions about my life in Ireland. The words came freely at first. "I've lived here for 13 years" he nodded, "I trained as a nurse in England", he nodded his eyes smiling down at me. "I left nursing because one of my patients introduced me to her husband and would you believe, I ended up marrying him.......". Oops. That came out wrong. The 'milk' was floating around my body. It wasn't true. I married my patients son not husband. His eyes widened "Isn't that illegal? Immoral?" My tongue felt heavy like I had drank a bottle of Captain Morgan's. I tried to explain, "No, ssssssshe was delighted,  we've been tooooooogether  for years......". There was no point fighting the drugs. I drifted off to sleep.




Time flew. Ninety minutes later I woke up. It was all over.  I recalled the sensation of tugging and pulling as the veins were pulled out but it felt like a lovely dream like, not at all the torturous nightmare that I had anticipated. My leg was double wrapped in layers of bandages up to my thigh. I came home four hours later and slept off the wonderful, gloriously relaxing 'milk'.




So now, ahead of me, five days of full bed rest as the leg recovers. Five days of peace whist someone else does the school run, cooks the meals, helps with homework, cleans, goes grocery shop and takes care of the general household management and feed the rabbits. Because I cannot move, someone else will have to act as peacemaker when the kids are fighting and someone else will have to find the missing scissors, sellotape and vital piece of Lego. 





Ahead of me, five full days of watching old movies and reading forgotten books and sleeping. I shall enjoy the company of friends popping in with grapes, magazines, cake and gossip. A few weeks from now I'll have vein free, ache free legs and I cannot wait for summer and to wear skirts again after eight years. Recovering from my surgery is proving to be the perfect little mini break and bang on trend. After all, aren't 'Stay-cations' are all the rage?  Tummy tuck, knee lift, Botox here I come.......


































Thursday 12 January 2012

I've Got The Moves Like Jackson....





Next week, like James Stewart in 'Rear Window', I shall be at home, my left leg in full bandages, spying on my neighbours from the comfort of a sofa, hoping that one of them commits a murder. I shall be resting after getting my veins stripped out in a small hospital in the town of Clane, thirty miles away from Dublin. I had intended to watch the whole box set of Danish murder mystery 'The Killing' as I recover but couldn't wait. Instead I finished all twenty hours of it last night and am left feeling obsessed with murder, fishing jumpers and Copenhagen. For those who have not seen 'The Killing', simply put, it is the best thriller ever made in the history of the universe. 



"Shall I bring round the Downton Abbey box set?" my old pal Patsy phoned offering help. The problem is that I nod off the moment I see a parasol: period dramas are not my thing. After The Killing, I know that the only thing that will aid my recovery will be to solve a gory crime from my sofa. I saw my neighbour bring in the wheelie bin last night and am convinced that she was disposing of a body. I shared my evidence with Patsy. "I have not seen her husband for at least two days.  I'm going down and interviewing her......".  She snapped me out of my paranoia, "You just need something to look forward to after the operation, something to take your mind off it all". She was right. The chances are that none of the neighbour will commit a murder and, in reality, there's nothing but sheep to look at from my rear window. Patsy still tried to cheer me up.  "I KNOW! Let's do an evening class after your operation!" 






The town of Clane, as it happens, is also the home of adult education in the county and this week, the much anticipated 'Clane Evening Class' brochure came out. Patsy was first in line for a copy and read out possible classes down the phone. "Flower arranging? French for Beginners? Knitting? Ooooh, what about Origami?" I was hoping for something a little more exciting than paper folding to aid my recovery, something about murderers. "No, wait. I have it here! Sweet mother of Divine, I HAVE FOUND THE PERFECT COURSE FOR US!" She was screaming in my ear like she had won the Lotto. 




She sounded like she had found something amazing. But what? Perhaps she'd found something intellectually stimulating or ground breaking. Maybe a new skill, something that could make a difference in our home, community, country, or even the world after we'd completed the course. "Here we go, course number 6011, are you ready?" I was so excited that I could hardly breathe. "What about a Learn Michael Jackson's Thriller Dance Class". I almost dropped my tea. "It's a ten week course. Each class an hour long. You learn the whole original dance and it says here, once you have learnt it, you'll have it for the rest of you life!'. Imagine that?"





A Thriller Dance class? Someone must be a serious Michael Jackson fan at the evening class booking office. I'd rather learn the Beyonce 'Single Ladies' dance but beggers can't be choosers. Following the surgery I have to rest for 5 days. After that, the Thriller dance routine could be just what I need to get the circulation going again in the left leg. If I keep the bandages on, I'd even have half a costume and I'll be covered in bruises so no need for stage make up. "You don't even need a costume," Patsy corrected me, "it says here, 'Dress up provided'. Wow, they've thought of everything!" Probably a good idea on the teachers' part- if Patsy and I were left to our own devices God knows what we'd end up looking like. 



I thought about it. I could only ever do a dance class if there were at least another 50 people doing it.  I'd need a crowd to hide behind.  It would be a nightmare if it ended up being just me and Patsy in Lycra leotards, sweatbands and leg-warmers, a floor to ceiling dance mirror and Kildare's equivalent to Louis Spence.  I have no sense of rhythm and a very short attention span and Pasty needs a cigarette every ten minutes or she gets violent. 






"They need enough people to join the class otherwise it will be cancelled" Patsy continued. That means that we'll have to go on a mission and recruit as many friends as we can to come along too and  sign up for the Learn Michael Jackson's Thriller Dance Class. I'll start in the morning at the school gate. But are there really that many people in Kildare who want to dress up like zombies? It isn't that hard for me as the zombie fashion and trance like stare isn't far off my everyday look. But could I ever be taught to dance like the King Of Pop, Michael Jackson? I'm 42 and have I've no sense of direction whatsoever. 






Patsy is right, I will sign up with her. It will be something to look forward to as I lay on the sofa dozing in front of the Downton Abbey box set. I just hope that surgeon is gentle with my new found dancing legs as he rips out the veins on Tuesday. Little will he know that in a few months time Patsy and I will be available to hire as Ireland's only Michael Jackson Thriller tribute act.