I can’t remember whether they called my name or if I simply woke up on my own, but I do remember the very first thing I said.

“I’m alive! I survived! I survived?”

The male recovery nurse nodded reassuringly.

I repeated myself in more or less the same words, several times. They’re probably used to this kind of reaction because nobody even blinked. They simply let me process the overwhelming relief of realising I’d made it through.

A little while later, the nurse put an oxygen mask over my face. For some reason, it immediately made me feel as though I’d done something wrong. Was I breathing badly? Had I shouted my dramatic survival speech a bit too enthusiastically? Whatever the reason, the mask only stayed on for a few minutes.

He then asked whether I was in much pain because he could give me something for it.

I remembered the anaesthetist’s advice before surgery: “Ask for the good painkiller in recovery. You’ll need it.”

I didn’t spend too much time wondering whether my pain was quite severe enough to justify it. I simply nodded.

Now that felt nice.

Warm. Calm. Floaty. Wonderfully peaceful.

Naturally, I had to ask what the magic potion was.

“Fentanyl.”

I recognised the name from one of those YouTube documentaries about America’s darker side—the ones interviewing deeply troubled people living on the streets, completely consumed by addiction. Proof that even a good thing can become devastating in the wrong circumstances.

I rested there for a while, half asleep, trying to comprehend what had happened over the past… hours?

Had it really been hours?

It seemed impossible.

I’d only just fallen asleep.

At the same time, I was intensely curious—and slightly terrified—about what was waiting for me underneath the blanket.

I could happily have stayed in recovery, but before long they wheeled me back to the surgical ward.

Oddly enough, they hadn’t used a catheter, so one of the nurses told me I could get up and use the bathroom.

I assumed she’d help me stand, but instead she cheerfully assured me I’d manage on my own. “It’s not far.”

Slowly—but surprisingly successfully—I got myself up and shuffled to the bathroom, dragging my two little glass bottles behind me. The drains disappeared into tubes leading back into my body.

The moment I closed the bathroom door behind me, vanity took over.

Using the toilet could wait.

I had to see.

I nervously pulled open my hospital gown and peeked underneath the surgical bra.

And…

Nothing looked particularly shocking.

My breasts looked remarkably similar to how they had before surgery. Maybe slightly bigger—although I didn’t realise until later that most of that was simply swelling. There was one strip of dressing on each outer side, but otherwise everything looked surprisingly familiar.

The overwhelming feeling was relief.

Although, if I’m completely honest… there was also a tiny part of me that felt mildly disappointed they hadn’t upgraded them just a little while they were in there.

Relief definitely won, though.

I’d have happily unpacked everything for a proper inspection, but I had neither the strength nor the permission, so I quickly dealt with the original reason I’d come to the bathroom before making my slow journey back to bed—preferably before I fainted.

This ward was noticeably less attentive than recovery.

I waited hours for my medication, and by the time it finally arrived, any chance of getting back to sleep had disappeared. There was constant noise, bright lights, unanswered call bells, endless trips to the bathroom with my little bottles in tow, and the awkwardness of trying to sleep flat on my back while propped up by pillows.

Every time I forgot about the drains and shifted position, the tubing tugged painfully. More than the pain, it terrified me. I was convinced I was about to yank one out.

Right then and there, I decided I was going home the following day.

At home, at least, there would always be someone around to help.

Despite barely sleeping all night, the morning became a parade of visitors.

The ward doctor.

The nurse.

The physiotherapist.

The breast care nurse.

And finally… my surgeon.

I was particularly pleased to see him because he could finally fill in the blank space where several hours of my life had disappeared.

He explained how the operation had gone and then casually mentioned that thanks to my “super-hypermobile joints,” they had actually needed to reopen the wound after finishing the reconstruction.

As part of their routine, they had briefly sat me upright before closing everything.

Apparently, one of my implants immediately decided it preferred living in my armpit.

I found this image rather amusing.

I’m fairly certain he didn’t.

The physiotherapist showed me the daily exercises I would need to do, along with lymphatic massage techniques to help reduce the risk of lymphoedema.

Everyone else offered advice as well, although I probably retained about half of it.

Thankfully, they seemed to anticipate that because I left with an impressive collection of leaflets explaining everything again.

Lunch was surprisingly posh.

After fasting the entire previous day, it tasted absolutely glorious.

By then, I wasn’t really in much pain.

I was receiving regular painkillers and antibiotics, and the only real discomfort came from my armpit. It felt as though someone had scraped it with a sharp tool. A little heart-shaped cushion tucked underneath my arm made a remarkable difference.

Overall, it was far more manageable than I’d expected.

The only thing that really frustrated me was that I couldn’t lift my arms properly.

That felt incredibly strange.

By the afternoon, I’d successfully persuaded everyone that I was ready to go home.

What a relief.

Hat.

Coat.

Two drains.

One enormous bag full of medication.

A hospital porter…

…and just like that, I was on my way home.