You know that scene in Jaws when the shark is strung up, slit down the gut, and its abdominal contents spill out on the dock? You know the one, when the license plate and whatall come crashing out? Well, that’s pretty much what I’ve been experiencing these past couple weeks. Okay, maybe not the strung up part. Or the license plate part. Well, truth be told, I wasn’t caught by fishermen, either. Just a particularly sadistic surgeon bent on creating her very own version of Frankenstein’s monster. See? The drama just spews out, doesn’t it? It’s not really her fault I’m a stitched together freak, there were other scars before she slit me down the gut and stitched n’ stapled me back together.
The upside of all this is that the worrisome thingies weren’t malignant, and I won’t be dropping dead in the next little while (well, I could, but not of some metastasized cancer that’s eaten up all my insides). Very relief making, that knowledge was. Very public nod to Mitch in that I need to revise my earlier death talk contribution; I still think that people are far more willing to talk about death than you do, BUT they don’t seem willing or able to do so in the concrete (someone I love may be dying in the next few months to five years), only in the abstract (everyone dies someday, far off in the future). There was some stress and fear. But all that went away when the mad doctor sliced me open and spilled my contents into the cancer-detector. Yay!
So I’ve been doing all I’m supposed to do and was doing fine . . . until I ran out of percocet. Can we just pause here and hail the fabulous narcotic? [pause] [hail] If you ever have the chance, you really should try these pain pills, can’t recommend them highly enough. Not that I want you to have the chance; quite the contrary. Prior to the disastrous end of my percocet supply, I was doing fine, sleepy, but fine. I was doing my daily checks of the stapled train track running down my once smooth tummy (making sure there was no maggot infestation or perhaps some gangrene setting in). Then the she-devil doctor took out the staples (okay, some office lackey did it, maybe the janitor), denied me a percocet refill, and sent me shuffling on my way. Well, actually, she spritzed me with hydrogen peroxide first. Lovely.
Then I just tried to stay as still as possible waiting for my body to leap into healing action and fix the mess she made of my (did I mention it used to be smooth?) tummy. Slow going. Like watching paint dry. Sigh. This whole thing pretty much sucks. It’s taking longer than I thought, it’s not painless, and it’s ugly. Waaahhhh!! Oh, and did I mention the episode of X-files that was on last night? The one about the killer flies that bore into open wounds? Shudder.
I’m doing super well now (rolls eyes at feeble attempt at stoicism) and will be back in top snarky form in no time (yeah, if I don’t get eaten up from the inside by those flies). I’ve been blogging in my head when I’ve not been hysterical about my situation, and I had this whole thing about the darkside of blogging—those horrible immature people who treat this like a giant junior high school. I mean we all know someone who has or someone who knows someone who has faked their own death on here or who has periodic drama queen/king freak outs (i.e., shuts down their 360 “forevah” . . . um, again. Only to be “begged” back by an adoring—if ever shrinking—throng) or people whose blogs are just one long soap opera of trauma and drama (looks innocently around . . . hey, I’m allowed one trauma and drama blog). Have you noticed that the people who go to weird extremes (supposedly) to avoid drama are the ones who always seem to create and thrive on it? Anyway, while that’s all well and good for some people, with some personalities, it’s not . . . me. Ooops, guess I just blogged it.
Let’s see, what else? How about some helpful tips for people undergoing surgery:
–It’s important to weigh the immediate gratification of ice water against the long, painful shuffle to the bathroom
–Percocet + rum raisin ice cream = happy, fun-foggy good times
–Flowers really are happy making (perfume is joy bringing)
–Reading whilst on narcotics is a pointless waste o’ time
–You use your stomach muscles far more than you realize
–Nurses see far too many sick people (and forget that each patient is an individual human being who doesn’t experience surgery/recovery on a daily basis)
–Those patient-operated pain medication machines are genius
And finally, just some stuff that became meaningful:
–Taking care of yourself is important, even if it seems selfish to someone else; if you wind down, you won’t be any use to anyone anyway
–Tell the people you love that you love them; do this often
It’s not very comfortable for me to be at the computer as yet (I’ve written bits of this at various times over the last couple of days, so if it makes no sense and/or has no continuity, that’s why), so no marathon blogging sessions in my near future, but please know that I miss this mad glad world we share on 360. Thanks
for all the notes and comments and well wishes; you guys are the best. Truly.
And in case it got lost in the above melodramatic rambles, I’m on the mend; (actually) doing very well.