Bargain body parts!
Jane Major's new look!
Monday 22nd September 2008
Forever dropping not-so subtle hints, pointing at wedding dresses whenever we passed
a bridal shop… You know how it can be. But it wasn't me obsessed with marriage. It was my boyfriend of 12 years, Paul Flack. I wanted to marry him, too, but there was just one problem. My body.
It was June 2004, and as I stood in front of the mirror, I could hardly look at the monster that stared back.I had three sons, Tony, 20, Billy, 17, and Michael, 14, and after giving birth to Paul's son, Shaun, 10, back in 1994, I'd gone from 19st to 11st. Problem was, now, I had saggy skin on my stomach. My 36D boobs had gone south years ago, too. I was so ashamed, I couldn't even bear to talk to Paul, 45, about it, so I confided in my sister, Pauline Yuxley, now 51, instead.
'There's no way I'm getting my body into a wedding dress,' I moaned to her.
'Don't be daft,' she reassured me. 'Paul would be proud to call you his wife.'
'Maybe one day,' I sighed. 'If I ever sort this mess out.'
To make matters worse, it felt like I couldn't switch on the telly without seeing someone having surgery to get a new body.It's all right for them, I'd think. We'd never afford that.
Not with me working nights at Sainsbury's, and Paul's job as a postman.I tried to make jokes about it, but in April 2001, I'd begged my GP for help. He'd referred me to an NHS surgeon at St Helier Hospital, Carshalton, but all they could do was put me on a waiting list.
Now, I'd got used to tucking my flab into support pants, just so I could do up my size-12 jeans. As for getting naked with the lights on. No chance! Thankfully, Paul was really patient about it. One Sunday, we were reading the papers, when he shoved an article under my nose.
'Look at this,' he said excitedly.
'It's about women who go abroad for plastic surgery.'
'We can't afford that,' I sighed.
'That's the whole point,' he explained. 'It's cheaper abroad.'
I started reading. It sounded too good to be true. I had to find out more.
The next day, I called Let's Face It — Together, the company that helped people find cheap surgery abroad. Just two weeks on, Paul and I were sitting in the office in London. My body trembled as I pulled down my knickers and my pouch flopped out.
'I need a tummy tuck,' I said, too embarrassed to look down.
'Would you consider a breast lift too?' the surgeon suggested.
'Too right!' I grinned.
But then, my heart sank.
'How much will it all cost?' I asked.
'The surgery's £4,500, plus £180 for the flights to Johannesburg, South Africa, and a hotel room.'
It was still a hell of a lot of money. But I knew the same operation in the UK would cost at least £7,000. But if I worked extra shifts and put the rest on our credit cards…Excited,
I booked it there and then. As soon as I got home, I called work, and took all the extra shifts going. For the next six months, Paul and I worked all the overtime we could.By the time he dropped me off at Heathrow airport in June 2005, I was exhausted, not to mention terrified.
After a 10-hour flight, I was driven to The Rosebank Hospital, where, the following day, I had the two-hour op.When I came round, I had stitches across my stomach and boobs, where the surgeon had cut away the sagging flesh, and repositioned my nipples.
My boobs didn't hurt, but my belly was a bit sore. I was wrapped in a white elastic belt, which I had to wear for three weeks. I couldn't tell how successful the surgery had been, because I was so swollen. In fact, it wasn't until five months later, in May 2008, that Paul really noticed my new shape.
'You look fantastic,' he grinned, as I got changed one morning.
'My body's OK now. Shame about my face!' I joked.
Every time I looked in the mirror, all I could see were my droopy eyelids. There was only one thing for it. That November, I called the clinic again. They found me a deal in Antwerp, Belgium. At £2,400, it was more than £600 cheaper than it would have been in the UK, and
I knew I could do a lot of overtime over Christmas.
So, I volunteered for every bit of extra work and, two months later, in January 2006, I flew to Antwerp to have an upper eye lift and lines around my mouth lasered. I was left with black eyes and raw skin on my cheeks. This is what it takes to be a beautiful bride,
I told myself.But Paul didn't feel
the same.
'Why are you doing this?' he sighed.
I couldn't hide it any longer.
'So we can get married,' I admitted. 'I want to feel like your princess on our wedding day.'
'Don't be daft,' he smiled. 'You're my princess now.'
'I just can't think about us getting married until I look right,' I babbled.
Thankfully, Paul understood, and this January, I was washing up when he came out with it.
'We should set a date,' he grinned.
'OK,' I smiled.
I didn't tell him what I was really thinking. That my body wasn't quite finished. I needed a facelift first. A week on, I called the clinic. It cost £4,600, so I'd have to work my guts out at Sainsbury's again and put the rest on my credit card.
Paul shook his head in disbelief when, in June this year, I flew to Larnaca, Cyprus, to have a facelift, my lower eyelids done, a chemical peel and Botox in my forehead.
'This is it, right?' Paul pleaded, taking in my black eyes and red-raw skin at Gatwick airport 10 days later.
'Yep,' I smiled. And it really was.
It's taken me 36 months, 7,793 miles, and £11,680, but now, three months on, I'm finally happy with how I look.And we've set a date for the wedding! It'll be next June.
So to Paul's relief, instead of calling the surgeons, I'm on the phone to florists and caterers.
I wonder if I'll be able to get a bargain there, too!
Contact Let's Face It — Together at www.lfit.co.uk or 01708 526 805