As I emerge from the murky, drug-cushioned haze that defines the aftermath of major surgery, I’m still finding that simple tasks — such as writing — are an effort. So if this story is not the spiffiest piece of journalism you’ve ever encountered, please forgive me and my muddled brain matter.

Eighteen days ago, I had cosmetic surgery. Specifically, I had sagging skin removed from above my eyelids and a small amount of fatty tissue removed from beneath my eyelids. I had an overabundance of wrinkly skin — which I referred to as my turkey wattle — removed from my neck and I had a small chin implant put in place.

So let me just say this about all that.

When a friend studies my resurrected face and announces that she never realized I had blue eyes, I find myself smiling. When my daughter comes home for a long weekend and tells me I have a beautiful neck and jaw line, I am so pleased. When my husband says I still look like the woman he married, but rested and rejuvenated, I am amazed.

Still, I must admit, something funny is going on. And I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I am tired and feel that the world is getting away from me while I recuperate. I am weary of bruising that has turned my face into a Technicolor movie these past 2ƒ weeks. I am ready for my head to feel like a normal body part, rather than the large raw egg which I am carefully carrying around on top of my shoulders.

I just want to feel normal again.

Of course, my doctor promises me that in due time I will feel exactly that — normal. The surgery went well. The bruising will go away. The swelling will recede. The numbness and tightness that I feel underneath my jaw and around my ears will lessen.

But in my lowest moments, I wonder: What the heck have I done here? What the you-know-what was I thinking?

Waking up after almost five hours of cosmetic surgery is not for the faint-hearted. My entire head was swaddled in dressings. My eyes were covered with ice packs. I looked like I had been at war. But for what? Certainly not anything as honorable as my country. Oh no, only for something as silly and self-centered as the appearance of my face and neck.

I felt bad. I felt loopy. I felt not altogether here, there or anywhere.

So, I succumbed to the world around me. A tube did my peeing; morphine and an assortment of wonderful nurses did everything else. I floated, feeling, as I said, loopy.

I never did cry.

Oddly enough, I tried ever so hard to recall the words to an old song, “Beautiful,” by Carole King. Bits and pieces of the song from her “Tapestry” album came back to me, but never the beginning of it.

Twenty-four hours later, a nurse told me it was morning and the doctor would be in to take my bandages off and I would be ready to go home. Sweet, I thought.

So maybe the great irony of cosmetic surgery is that if you think you looked pretty rough before the surgery, wait until right after, when you look positively nightmarish.

The drive home from Atlanta to Hartwell was quiet. Once home, a warm shower and a big bed were delightful. A dear friend kept us in good suppers and lunchtime soups for several days. My son, a teenager, was attentive. My husband, Michael, was wonderful.

And somehow, 18 days have come and gone. Slowly but surely, my face is healing and I am returning to normal activities. Like writing this story.

Readers of my first story, published in the Independent-Mail on Feb. 17, have been curious and supportive.

“God bless surgeons and the skin they yank offa us!,” wrote one reader. “I promise — once the pain and bruising is over — you will be glad and will never regret having the lift.”

From another reader’s e-mail: “I had cosmetic surgery several years ago and it was the best money that I have ever spent. I have never, not even for one minute, regretted my decision. I was very insecure about the way that I looked and even though my family and friends told me not to go through with the surgery, I did it for me. I was tired of feeling so self-conscious and insecure. So, you go girl!”

And another reader wrote: “Just finished reading your article. I am 52 and scheduled tomorrow at 8 a.m. for my face lift surgery. I needed your story. I have gone over and over the same questions and justification for spending the money. I will keep you in my prayers and ask that you do the same for me. I am nervous as well as excited.”

As for me, I am, every day, a little stronger and a little less unsure of why I went through this process.

My neck and chin had long been a source of great chagrin to me. I wanted — yes, even needed — to feel better about myself. That the process of cosmetic surgery is a purely selfish endeavor does not make me proud, and is even somewhat embarrassing. However, I am learning to live with this one big thing I have done for no one but myself.

My surgeon, during a check-up visit last week, said I was about halfway through the recovery process. He said there is still a significant amount of time left in the healing process.

So be it.

And by the way, here are the opening lyrics to Carole King’s song, “Beautiful.” I find it uncanny that I was trying so hard to recall these words after cosmetic surgery:

“You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face

And show the world all the love in your heart

Then people gonna treat you better

You’re gonna find, yes you will

That you’re beautiful as you feel.”

Salley McInerney, a former columnist for the Independent-Mail, can be reached at salley@hartcom.net.