This has been an interesting month. When my friend Not Supermom encouraged me to sign up for NaBloPoMo, I admit I did so a bit grudgingly. I knew I needed a push to post more consistently (I've never done particularly well without deadlines), but I also doubted whether or not I could keep it up daily. But I did. And I am better for it.
Sure, I copped out on more than a few days, posting humorous pictures and the like just to fill up space. No doubt I'm not the only one of the 2000+ November NaBloPoMo bloggers to do so. And I'm secretly proud of the fact that I didn't have to resort to using one of the daily writing prompts to get me started. Still, the discipline of a deadline helped and I somehow managed to post each and every day this month--sometimes within minutes of midnight, but daily nonetheless. In the process I have learned a little more about what works for me and what doesn't when blogging, which is valuable information. Also, I have gained 4 new followers over the course of the month, won a Liebster award, and have now had over 4,700 page views. That's quite a significant increase from the the molasses-like creeping towards the 3,000 mark of only a month or so ago, and it boggles my mind.
Hopefully I will be able to take this exercise and use it to my advantage. I'll probably never blog daily--that's pretty demanding, and you never know when something unexpected is going to crop up--but I hope to use this impetus to keep me blogging at least 2-3 times a week instead of once a month.
So thank you, Not Supermom, for encouraging me in the first place and for Liebsterizing me, and thank you BlogHer for providing me a platform in which to share my thoughts and experiences and to trade them with all of the other amazing women bloggers out there.
Pretty cool, when you think about it.
30 November 2011
Goodbye, NaBloPoMo...
This has been an interesting month. When my friend Not Supermom encouraged me to sign up for NaBloPoMo, I admit I did so a bit grudgingly. I knew I needed a push to post more consistently (I've never done particularly well without deadlines), but I also doubted whether or not I could keep it up daily. But I did. And I am better for it.
Sure, I copped out on more than a few days, posting humorous pictures and the like just to fill up space. No doubt I'm not the only one of the 2000+ November NaBloPoMo bloggers to do so. And I'm secretly proud of the fact that I didn't have to resort to using one of the daily writing prompts to get me started. Still, the discipline of a deadline helped and I somehow managed to post each and every day this month--sometimes within minutes of midnight, but daily nonetheless. In the process I have learned a little more about what works for me and what doesn't when blogging, which is valuable information. Also, I have gained 4 new followers over the course of the month, won a Liebster award, and have now had over 4,700 page views. That's quite a significant increase from the the molasses-like creeping towards the 3,000 mark of only a month or so ago, and it boggles my mind.
Hopefully I will be able to take this exercise and use it to my advantage. I'll probably never blog daily--that's pretty demanding, and you never know when something unexpected is going to crop up--but I hope to use this impetus to keep me blogging at least 2-3 times a week instead of once a month.
So thank you, Not Supermom, for encouraging me in the first place and for Liebsterizing me, and thank you BlogHer for providing me a platform in which to share my thoughts and experiences and to trade them with all of the other amazing women bloggers out there.
Pretty cool, when you think about it.
Sure, I copped out on more than a few days, posting humorous pictures and the like just to fill up space. No doubt I'm not the only one of the 2000+ November NaBloPoMo bloggers to do so. And I'm secretly proud of the fact that I didn't have to resort to using one of the daily writing prompts to get me started. Still, the discipline of a deadline helped and I somehow managed to post each and every day this month--sometimes within minutes of midnight, but daily nonetheless. In the process I have learned a little more about what works for me and what doesn't when blogging, which is valuable information. Also, I have gained 4 new followers over the course of the month, won a Liebster award, and have now had over 4,700 page views. That's quite a significant increase from the the molasses-like creeping towards the 3,000 mark of only a month or so ago, and it boggles my mind.
Hopefully I will be able to take this exercise and use it to my advantage. I'll probably never blog daily--that's pretty demanding, and you never know when something unexpected is going to crop up--but I hope to use this impetus to keep me blogging at least 2-3 times a week instead of once a month.
So thank you, Not Supermom, for encouraging me in the first place and for Liebsterizing me, and thank you BlogHer for providing me a platform in which to share my thoughts and experiences and to trade them with all of the other amazing women bloggers out there.
Pretty cool, when you think about it.
Doctor Earnest, Body Pictionary and the Sparkle Salvo
A week ago today, merely 3 days after my surgery, I hobbled off to see my new primary care physician. I would have simply rescheduled given the circumstances, but I didn't have much choice since I'd completely run out of my blood pressure meds the day before. The hubs had to stay home from work to drive me to the doctor's because I still wasn't allowed to drive myself, what with the being all hopped up on drugs and everything. Every bump was torturous, particularly when I wasn't given enough warning to brace my ouchy stomach against the impact. It's a little pathetic that it took me 16 months to find a doctor down here that was both accepting new patients and my insurance, but there you go.
Mercifully the waiting room was not busy, so I only sat 5-10 minutes--just long enough to see who won Dancing With the Stars (like the war hero was ever NOT going to win)--before heading back to run down my stats and meds with the nurse, after which I was taken to an examining room and told to sit on the table. Yo, Nursie--that's a little easier said than done just at the moment. I stood there contemplating the little step and the distance to hoist my patootie up onto the seat, then climbed up on the step. At this point I was at a bit of a loss, so I ended up turning in circles two or three times like a dog before finally figuring out how to scootch onto the seat with as little pain as possible. Mission mostly accomplished.
Having successfully (more or less) navigated the examining table, I quickly became bored, having foolishly forgotten to bring a book. I looked all around the room, just like I always do, observing all the little jars and contraptions on the counter and all the pictures hung in the room, as well as the inevitable ugly wallpaper. If I'd been less physically compromised, there is every possibility that I would have snooped in the drawers as well, being the curious sort of person that I am. Don't worry, though. I don't look in your medicine cabinets or bathroom drawers (most of the time, anyway). So there I sat, bored and distracted, till I noticed one of the fake "sparkles" on my t-shirt had fallen on the floor. And, just so you know, it was that shirt--the one that got me busted by TSA and resulted in a groping free-for-all, minus dinner first. I brushed my hand against the shirt and a couple more rhinestones popped off. I probably should have just quit at this point, but of course I didn't. After all, it was something new to do. Before I knew it, I'd spent a good 10 minutes sitting on that table, flinging cheap bits of glass and plastic all over the room. Clearly months of laundering had loosened the sparkles because I could get them off both by brushing my hands firmly over them and by alternately slackening my shirt then suddenly pulling it taut so that the sparkles shot across the room like they'd been ejected from a Gatling gun. The more that shot off, the more I wanted to shoot off. I started aiming for things--the chair, the trashcan, the window...I'm pretty sure I even heard a ping in the sink once. By the time I was done, easily half the little black and silver sparkles left on my shirt lay scattered across the floor and step. Clearly I cannot be left unsupervised for any length of time.
When I heard rustling in the corridor outside my door, I rapidly wiped the sparkle remains from my pants and shirt and the table and tried to sit looking as innocent as possible in spite of the refuse peppering the examining room floor. The new doctor came in and got right to business. Let's call her Dr. Earnest, because while she seemed thorough and efficient enough, her whole demeanor screamed bland concern and excruciating earnestness. Frankly, I was slightly put off, being the smartass that I am. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Earnest's sense of humor (if she even has one) would have floundered were I to start dropping F-bombs like I did with the Minor Med and ER doctors. In that respect, at least, I preferred the F**K doctors. Of course, I've also now just made them sound like experts in fornication. Whatever. They're guys. They'd probably like that.
Dr. Earnest looked over my forms, intrigued that I'd just had an appendectomy 3 days before. I really wanted to say it was her own damn fault, considering her office had refused to see me on the Friday before my surgery, but it would have been too much like kicking an overly forlorn puppy. So I didn't. Naturally she wanted to check out Dr. "Don't Call Me" Shirley's handiwork, so she had me lie back on the table. She gently and carefully inspected my abdomen, requesting permission to peel up the fresh bandage I'd put on the day before after my shower. She continued to stand there looking concerned and exceptionally earnest, then said she was worried about the big red spot on my stomach below my navel. I looked down. Red? Please--it was pink at best. I told her I'd just assumed it was razor burn from the nurses shaving off my strip of belly hair, adding that my skin tended to be extremely sensitive; for example, the adhesive from my C-Section dressings caused an allergic reaction, leaving stippled red marks all over my stomach. She replied that she had noticed a reaction to the bandage she'd just peeled off, but was still earnestly concerned about it and said that while they were very good at "bagging the appendix on the way out" (Ewww--so didn't need to hear that) to make sure it didn't contaminate anything, sometimes it could still cause infections. I must have made a face at this point because she immediately put her hand up and rushed to assure me that she didn't think I had any infection INSIDE, but maybe just on the skin outside. She seemed very put out that I hadn't been sent home with antibiotics. I still wasn't particularly fussed about the pink skin; heck, I still had a big red circle on the side of my boob from where they'd put the EKG patch. Even today you can still see the outline where it damaged my skin. Nothing like having an extra areola lying around. Clearly she wasn't inclined to let it go, though, what with all her tutting and fretting. Then she asked if she could draw on me. Um, what? "Okay, suuuuuure." She took her ballpoint pen and put a line around my pink spot, telling me that I should watch to make sure it didn't go past that line, and that if it did, I should immediately contact them to have a prescription for antibiotics called in. She also told me that if it washed off in the shower, I should redraw it. Great. First the extra areola, now this. I'm starting to look like people have played Pictionary on me. Reminds me of when I used to let my daughter draw all over my legs with her gel pens.
Dr. Earnest told me to go ahead and sit up and then stared stupidly at me lying there till I told her it just wasn't gonna happen without her help, considering my ab muscles had recently been sliced and diced. She dutifully (if confusedly) helped me up then gave me prescriptions for my meds, both a 30-day one which I could immediately refill since I was out, as well as a 90-day one so I could finally use the mail-order pharmacy on our insurance. Sweet. Then I went home and spent the next three days being paranoid over whether my pink spot was spreading past the lines or not, ignoring the fact that I was usually looking after I'd just been holding my stomach down while I coughed or sneezed, thus making it redder. In the meantime, my stomach kept itching, so I finally took the Band-Aids off. The big one I'd had around my belly button had rippled on my skin like Band-Aids do, leaving a blister in each ripple pocket. Great. I peeled off all the Band-aids, cleaned everything, put on antibiotic cream, then replaced the big Band-Aids with smaller, "non-stick" ones. I still have scabs leftover from those stupid blisters. Two days later, my stomach was once again itching incessantly and burning (and not just because they had to shave me); I thought that if I didn't get the big bandage off immediately I was going to scream. I ran to the bathroom, peeled it off, and instead of blisters it had rubbed my skin so raw this time that some of the skin came off with the bandage. Awesome. Now the assorted red marks from my various dressings comprise more surface damage than the lappy appy itself does. I seriously need to get myself some of those clear, waterproof dressings that they use in the hospital. Those didn't damage me at all. Needless to say, I loaded up on antibiotic cream once again and stopped wearing bandages altogether.
Here I am, a week later, mostly recovered from my surgery and doctor visit. Scabs are starting to fall off, I can once again lie on my stomach, and I'm only hopped up on blood pressure meds (I stopped the Lortab a week ago) and Allegra. You'll also be relieved to know that the pink patch faded back into a normal skin tone, having never crossed the line. I finally got to drive yesterday and even made it through my penultimate chorale rehearsal before our concert next week. The only thing I still struggle with is a cough and dry throat courtesy of Dr. Jolly ("It will only be sore one day" my ass) and whatever germs I inhaled in the hospital. So much for the zealous protection of my voice and throat during my cold 3 weeks ago...still, it could be worse. It could have gone to bronchitis, but hasn't yet. At least if it does I know that Dr. Earnest will be happy to give me all the antibiotics I want. Every day I move a little more freely and hurt a little less, though I still largely have the stamina of a gnat. But it's coming along. It really has been quite the bizarre year for me, medically speaking, and I fervently hope there are no repeats of it next year. On the plus side, I can only get appendicitis once. Done.
Mercifully the waiting room was not busy, so I only sat 5-10 minutes--just long enough to see who won Dancing With the Stars (like the war hero was ever NOT going to win)--before heading back to run down my stats and meds with the nurse, after which I was taken to an examining room and told to sit on the table. Yo, Nursie--that's a little easier said than done just at the moment. I stood there contemplating the little step and the distance to hoist my patootie up onto the seat, then climbed up on the step. At this point I was at a bit of a loss, so I ended up turning in circles two or three times like a dog before finally figuring out how to scootch onto the seat with as little pain as possible. Mission mostly accomplished.
 |
| "Come here and I will taunt you a second time..." |
Having successfully (more or less) navigated the examining table, I quickly became bored, having foolishly forgotten to bring a book. I looked all around the room, just like I always do, observing all the little jars and contraptions on the counter and all the pictures hung in the room, as well as the inevitable ugly wallpaper. If I'd been less physically compromised, there is every possibility that I would have snooped in the drawers as well, being the curious sort of person that I am. Don't worry, though. I don't look in your medicine cabinets or bathroom drawers (most of the time, anyway). So there I sat, bored and distracted, till I noticed one of the fake "sparkles" on my t-shirt had fallen on the floor. And, just so you know, it was that shirt--the one that got me busted by TSA and resulted in a groping free-for-all, minus dinner first. I brushed my hand against the shirt and a couple more rhinestones popped off. I probably should have just quit at this point, but of course I didn't. After all, it was something new to do. Before I knew it, I'd spent a good 10 minutes sitting on that table, flinging cheap bits of glass and plastic all over the room. Clearly months of laundering had loosened the sparkles because I could get them off both by brushing my hands firmly over them and by alternately slackening my shirt then suddenly pulling it taut so that the sparkles shot across the room like they'd been ejected from a Gatling gun. The more that shot off, the more I wanted to shoot off. I started aiming for things--the chair, the trashcan, the window...I'm pretty sure I even heard a ping in the sink once. By the time I was done, easily half the little black and silver sparkles left on my shirt lay scattered across the floor and step. Clearly I cannot be left unsupervised for any length of time.
When I heard rustling in the corridor outside my door, I rapidly wiped the sparkle remains from my pants and shirt and the table and tried to sit looking as innocent as possible in spite of the refuse peppering the examining room floor. The new doctor came in and got right to business. Let's call her Dr. Earnest, because while she seemed thorough and efficient enough, her whole demeanor screamed bland concern and excruciating earnestness. Frankly, I was slightly put off, being the smartass that I am. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Earnest's sense of humor (if she even has one) would have floundered were I to start dropping F-bombs like I did with the Minor Med and ER doctors. In that respect, at least, I preferred the F**K doctors. Of course, I've also now just made them sound like experts in fornication. Whatever. They're guys. They'd probably like that.
 |
| Speaking of doctors with whom I'd like to f***... |
Dr. Earnest looked over my forms, intrigued that I'd just had an appendectomy 3 days before. I really wanted to say it was her own damn fault, considering her office had refused to see me on the Friday before my surgery, but it would have been too much like kicking an overly forlorn puppy. So I didn't. Naturally she wanted to check out Dr. "Don't Call Me" Shirley's handiwork, so she had me lie back on the table. She gently and carefully inspected my abdomen, requesting permission to peel up the fresh bandage I'd put on the day before after my shower. She continued to stand there looking concerned and exceptionally earnest, then said she was worried about the big red spot on my stomach below my navel. I looked down. Red? Please--it was pink at best. I told her I'd just assumed it was razor burn from the nurses shaving off my strip of belly hair, adding that my skin tended to be extremely sensitive; for example, the adhesive from my C-Section dressings caused an allergic reaction, leaving stippled red marks all over my stomach. She replied that she had noticed a reaction to the bandage she'd just peeled off, but was still earnestly concerned about it and said that while they were very good at "bagging the appendix on the way out" (Ewww--so didn't need to hear that) to make sure it didn't contaminate anything, sometimes it could still cause infections. I must have made a face at this point because she immediately put her hand up and rushed to assure me that she didn't think I had any infection INSIDE, but maybe just on the skin outside. She seemed very put out that I hadn't been sent home with antibiotics. I still wasn't particularly fussed about the pink skin; heck, I still had a big red circle on the side of my boob from where they'd put the EKG patch. Even today you can still see the outline where it damaged my skin. Nothing like having an extra areola lying around. Clearly she wasn't inclined to let it go, though, what with all her tutting and fretting. Then she asked if she could draw on me. Um, what? "Okay, suuuuuure." She took her ballpoint pen and put a line around my pink spot, telling me that I should watch to make sure it didn't go past that line, and that if it did, I should immediately contact them to have a prescription for antibiotics called in. She also told me that if it washed off in the shower, I should redraw it. Great. First the extra areola, now this. I'm starting to look like people have played Pictionary on me. Reminds me of when I used to let my daughter draw all over my legs with her gel pens.
 |
| "Oh, Mommy...ready or not, here I come!" |
Dr. Earnest told me to go ahead and sit up and then stared stupidly at me lying there till I told her it just wasn't gonna happen without her help, considering my ab muscles had recently been sliced and diced. She dutifully (if confusedly) helped me up then gave me prescriptions for my meds, both a 30-day one which I could immediately refill since I was out, as well as a 90-day one so I could finally use the mail-order pharmacy on our insurance. Sweet. Then I went home and spent the next three days being paranoid over whether my pink spot was spreading past the lines or not, ignoring the fact that I was usually looking after I'd just been holding my stomach down while I coughed or sneezed, thus making it redder. In the meantime, my stomach kept itching, so I finally took the Band-Aids off. The big one I'd had around my belly button had rippled on my skin like Band-Aids do, leaving a blister in each ripple pocket. Great. I peeled off all the Band-aids, cleaned everything, put on antibiotic cream, then replaced the big Band-Aids with smaller, "non-stick" ones. I still have scabs leftover from those stupid blisters. Two days later, my stomach was once again itching incessantly and burning (and not just because they had to shave me); I thought that if I didn't get the big bandage off immediately I was going to scream. I ran to the bathroom, peeled it off, and instead of blisters it had rubbed my skin so raw this time that some of the skin came off with the bandage. Awesome. Now the assorted red marks from my various dressings comprise more surface damage than the lappy appy itself does. I seriously need to get myself some of those clear, waterproof dressings that they use in the hospital. Those didn't damage me at all. Needless to say, I loaded up on antibiotic cream once again and stopped wearing bandages altogether.
 |
| Comfort-Flex my ass. |
Here I am, a week later, mostly recovered from my surgery and doctor visit. Scabs are starting to fall off, I can once again lie on my stomach, and I'm only hopped up on blood pressure meds (I stopped the Lortab a week ago) and Allegra. You'll also be relieved to know that the pink patch faded back into a normal skin tone, having never crossed the line. I finally got to drive yesterday and even made it through my penultimate chorale rehearsal before our concert next week. The only thing I still struggle with is a cough and dry throat courtesy of Dr. Jolly ("It will only be sore one day" my ass) and whatever germs I inhaled in the hospital. So much for the zealous protection of my voice and throat during my cold 3 weeks ago...still, it could be worse. It could have gone to bronchitis, but hasn't yet. At least if it does I know that Dr. Earnest will be happy to give me all the antibiotics I want. Every day I move a little more freely and hurt a little less, though I still largely have the stamina of a gnat. But it's coming along. It really has been quite the bizarre year for me, medically speaking, and I fervently hope there are no repeats of it next year. On the plus side, I can only get appendicitis once. Done.
Doctor Earnest, Body Pictionary and the Sparkle Salvo
A week ago today, merely 3 days after my surgery, I hobbled off to see my new primary care physician. I would have simply rescheduled given the circumstances, but I didn't have much choice since I'd completely run out of my blood pressure meds the day before. The hubs had to stay home from work to drive me to the doctor's because I still wasn't allowed to drive myself, what with the being all hopped up on drugs and everything. Every bump was torturous, particularly when I wasn't given enough warning to brace my ouchy stomach against the impact. It's a little pathetic that it took me 16 months to find a doctor down here that was both accepting new patients and my insurance, but there you go.
Mercifully the waiting room was not busy, so I only sat 5-10 minutes--just long enough to see who won Dancing With the Stars (like the war hero was ever NOT going to win)--before heading back to run down my stats and meds with the nurse, after which I was taken to an examining room and told to sit on the table. Yo, Nursie--that's a little easier said than done just at the moment. I stood there contemplating the little step and the distance to hoist my patootie up onto the seat, then climbed up on the step. At this point I was at a bit of a loss, so I ended up turning in circles two or three times like a dog before finally figuring out how to scootch onto the seat with as little pain as possible. Mission mostly accomplished.
Having successfully (more or less) navigated the examining table, I quickly became bored, having foolishly forgotten to bring a book. I looked all around the room, just like I always do, observing all the little jars and contraptions on the counter and all the pictures hung in the room, as well as the inevitable ugly wallpaper. If I'd been less physically compromised, there is every possibility that I would have snooped in the drawers as well, being the curious sort of person that I am. Don't worry, though. I don't look in your medicine cabinets or bathroom drawers (most of the time, anyway). So there I sat, bored and distracted, till I noticed one of the fake "sparkles" on my t-shirt had fallen on the floor. And, just so you know, it was that shirt--the one that got me busted by TSA and resulted in a groping free-for-all, minus dinner first. I brushed my hand against the shirt and a couple more rhinestones popped off. I probably should have just quit at this point, but of course I didn't. After all, it was something new to do. Before I knew it, I'd spent a good 10 minutes sitting on that table, flinging cheap bits of glass and plastic all over the room. Clearly months of laundering had loosened the sparkles because I could get them off both by brushing my hands firmly over them and by alternately slackening my shirt then suddenly pulling it taut so that the sparkles shot across the room like they'd been ejected from a Gatling gun. The more that shot off, the more I wanted to shoot off. I started aiming for things--the chair, the trashcan, the window...I'm pretty sure I even heard a ping in the sink once. By the time I was done, easily half the little black and silver sparkles left on my shirt lay scattered across the floor and step. Clearly I cannot be left unsupervised for any length of time.
When I heard rustling in the corridor outside my door, I rapidly wiped the sparkle remains from my pants and shirt and the table and tried to sit looking as innocent as possible in spite of the refuse peppering the examining room floor. The new doctor came in and got right to business. Let's call her Dr. Earnest, because while she seemed thorough and efficient enough, her whole demeanor screamed bland concern and excruciating earnestness. Frankly, I was slightly put off, being the smartass that I am. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Earnest's sense of humor (if she even has one) would have floundered were I to start dropping F-bombs like I did with the Minor Med and ER doctors. In that respect, at least, I preferred the F**K doctors. Of course, I've also now just made them sound like experts in fornication. Whatever. They're guys. They'd probably like that.
Dr. Earnest looked over my forms, intrigued that I'd just had an appendectomy 3 days before. I really wanted to say it was her own damn fault, considering her office had refused to see me on the Friday before my surgery, but it would have been too much like kicking an overly forlorn puppy. So I didn't. Naturally she wanted to check out Dr. "Don't Call Me" Shirley's handiwork, so she had me lie back on the table. She gently and carefully inspected my abdomen, requesting permission to peel up the fresh bandage I'd put on the day before after my shower. She continued to stand there looking concerned and exceptionally earnest, then said she was worried about the big red spot on my stomach below my navel. I looked down. Red? Please--it was pink at best. I told her I'd just assumed it was razor burn from the nurses shaving off my strip of belly hair, adding that my skin tended to be extremely sensitive; for example, the adhesive from my C-Section dressings caused an allergic reaction, leaving stippled red marks all over my stomach. She replied that she had noticed a reaction to the bandage she'd just peeled off, but was still earnestly concerned about it and said that while they were very good at "bagging the appendix on the way out" (Ewww--so didn't need to hear that) to make sure it didn't contaminate anything, sometimes it could still cause infections. I must have made a face at this point because she immediately put her hand up and rushed to assure me that she didn't think I had any infection INSIDE, but maybe just on the skin outside. She seemed very put out that I hadn't been sent home with antibiotics. I still wasn't particularly fussed about the pink skin; heck, I still had a big red circle on the side of my boob from where they'd put the EKG patch. Even today you can still see the outline where it damaged my skin. Nothing like having an extra areola lying around. Clearly she wasn't inclined to let it go, though, what with all her tutting and fretting. Then she asked if she could draw on me. Um, what? "Okay, suuuuuure." She took her ballpoint pen and put a line around my pink spot, telling me that I should watch to make sure it didn't go past that line, and that if it did, I should immediately contact them to have a prescription for antibiotics called in. She also told me that if it washed off in the shower, I should redraw it. Great. First the extra areola, now this. I'm starting to look like people have played Pictionary on me. Reminds me of when I used to let my daughter draw all over my legs with her gel pens.
Dr. Earnest told me to go ahead and sit up and then stared stupidly at me lying there till I told her it just wasn't gonna happen without her help, considering my ab muscles had recently been sliced and diced. She dutifully (if confusedly) helped me up then gave me prescriptions for my meds, both a 30-day one which I could immediately refill since I was out, as well as a 90-day one so I could finally use the mail-order pharmacy on our insurance. Sweet. Then I went home and spent the next three days being paranoid over whether my pink spot was spreading past the lines or not, ignoring the fact that I was usually looking after I'd just been holding my stomach down while I coughed or sneezed, thus making it redder. In the meantime, my stomach kept itching, so I finally took the Band-Aids off. The big one I'd had around my belly button had rippled on my skin like Band-Aids do, leaving a blister in each ripple pocket. Great. I peeled off all the Band-aids, cleaned everything, put on antibiotic cream, then replaced the big Band-Aids with smaller, "non-stick" ones. I still have scabs leftover from those stupid blisters. Two days later, my stomach was once again itching incessantly and burning (and not just because they had to shave me); I thought that if I didn't get the big bandage off immediately I was going to scream. I ran to the bathroom, peeled it off, and instead of blisters it had rubbed my skin so raw this time that some of the skin came off with the bandage. Awesome. Now the assorted red marks from my various dressings comprise more surface damage than the lappy appy itself does. I seriously need to get myself some of those clear, waterproof dressings that they use in the hospital. Those didn't damage me at all. Needless to say, I loaded up on antibiotic cream once again and stopped wearing bandages altogether.
Here I am, a week later, mostly recovered from my surgery and doctor visit. Scabs are starting to fall off, I can once again lie on my stomach, and I'm only hopped up on blood pressure meds (I stopped the Lortab a week ago) and Allegra. You'll also be relieved to know that the pink patch faded back into a normal skin tone, having never crossed the line. I finally got to drive yesterday and even made it through my penultimate chorale rehearsal before our concert next week. The only thing I still struggle with is a cough and dry throat courtesy of Dr. Jolly ("It will only be sore one day" my ass) and whatever germs I inhaled in the hospital. So much for the zealous protection of my voice and throat during my cold 3 weeks ago...still, it could be worse. It could have gone to bronchitis, but hasn't yet. At least if it does I know that Dr. Earnest will be happy to give me all the antibiotics I want. Every day I move a little more freely and hurt a little less, though I still largely have the stamina of a gnat. But it's coming along. It really has been quite the bizarre year for me, medically speaking, and I fervently hope there are no repeats of it next year. On the plus side, I can only get appendicitis once. Done.
Mercifully the waiting room was not busy, so I only sat 5-10 minutes--just long enough to see who won Dancing With the Stars (like the war hero was ever NOT going to win)--before heading back to run down my stats and meds with the nurse, after which I was taken to an examining room and told to sit on the table. Yo, Nursie--that's a little easier said than done just at the moment. I stood there contemplating the little step and the distance to hoist my patootie up onto the seat, then climbed up on the step. At this point I was at a bit of a loss, so I ended up turning in circles two or three times like a dog before finally figuring out how to scootch onto the seat with as little pain as possible. Mission mostly accomplished.
|
| "Come here and I will taunt you a second time..." |
Having successfully (more or less) navigated the examining table, I quickly became bored, having foolishly forgotten to bring a book. I looked all around the room, just like I always do, observing all the little jars and contraptions on the counter and all the pictures hung in the room, as well as the inevitable ugly wallpaper. If I'd been less physically compromised, there is every possibility that I would have snooped in the drawers as well, being the curious sort of person that I am. Don't worry, though. I don't look in your medicine cabinets or bathroom drawers (most of the time, anyway). So there I sat, bored and distracted, till I noticed one of the fake "sparkles" on my t-shirt had fallen on the floor. And, just so you know, it was that shirt--the one that got me busted by TSA and resulted in a groping free-for-all, minus dinner first. I brushed my hand against the shirt and a couple more rhinestones popped off. I probably should have just quit at this point, but of course I didn't. After all, it was something new to do. Before I knew it, I'd spent a good 10 minutes sitting on that table, flinging cheap bits of glass and plastic all over the room. Clearly months of laundering had loosened the sparkles because I could get them off both by brushing my hands firmly over them and by alternately slackening my shirt then suddenly pulling it taut so that the sparkles shot across the room like they'd been ejected from a Gatling gun. The more that shot off, the more I wanted to shoot off. I started aiming for things--the chair, the trashcan, the window...I'm pretty sure I even heard a ping in the sink once. By the time I was done, easily half the little black and silver sparkles left on my shirt lay scattered across the floor and step. Clearly I cannot be left unsupervised for any length of time.
When I heard rustling in the corridor outside my door, I rapidly wiped the sparkle remains from my pants and shirt and the table and tried to sit looking as innocent as possible in spite of the refuse peppering the examining room floor. The new doctor came in and got right to business. Let's call her Dr. Earnest, because while she seemed thorough and efficient enough, her whole demeanor screamed bland concern and excruciating earnestness. Frankly, I was slightly put off, being the smartass that I am. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Earnest's sense of humor (if she even has one) would have floundered were I to start dropping F-bombs like I did with the Minor Med and ER doctors. In that respect, at least, I preferred the F**K doctors. Of course, I've also now just made them sound like experts in fornication. Whatever. They're guys. They'd probably like that.
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| Speaking of doctors with whom I'd like to f***... |
Dr. Earnest looked over my forms, intrigued that I'd just had an appendectomy 3 days before. I really wanted to say it was her own damn fault, considering her office had refused to see me on the Friday before my surgery, but it would have been too much like kicking an overly forlorn puppy. So I didn't. Naturally she wanted to check out Dr. "Don't Call Me" Shirley's handiwork, so she had me lie back on the table. She gently and carefully inspected my abdomen, requesting permission to peel up the fresh bandage I'd put on the day before after my shower. She continued to stand there looking concerned and exceptionally earnest, then said she was worried about the big red spot on my stomach below my navel. I looked down. Red? Please--it was pink at best. I told her I'd just assumed it was razor burn from the nurses shaving off my strip of belly hair, adding that my skin tended to be extremely sensitive; for example, the adhesive from my C-Section dressings caused an allergic reaction, leaving stippled red marks all over my stomach. She replied that she had noticed a reaction to the bandage she'd just peeled off, but was still earnestly concerned about it and said that while they were very good at "bagging the appendix on the way out" (Ewww--so didn't need to hear that) to make sure it didn't contaminate anything, sometimes it could still cause infections. I must have made a face at this point because she immediately put her hand up and rushed to assure me that she didn't think I had any infection INSIDE, but maybe just on the skin outside. She seemed very put out that I hadn't been sent home with antibiotics. I still wasn't particularly fussed about the pink skin; heck, I still had a big red circle on the side of my boob from where they'd put the EKG patch. Even today you can still see the outline where it damaged my skin. Nothing like having an extra areola lying around. Clearly she wasn't inclined to let it go, though, what with all her tutting and fretting. Then she asked if she could draw on me. Um, what? "Okay, suuuuuure." She took her ballpoint pen and put a line around my pink spot, telling me that I should watch to make sure it didn't go past that line, and that if it did, I should immediately contact them to have a prescription for antibiotics called in. She also told me that if it washed off in the shower, I should redraw it. Great. First the extra areola, now this. I'm starting to look like people have played Pictionary on me. Reminds me of when I used to let my daughter draw all over my legs with her gel pens.
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| "Oh, Mommy...ready or not, here I come!" |
Dr. Earnest told me to go ahead and sit up and then stared stupidly at me lying there till I told her it just wasn't gonna happen without her help, considering my ab muscles had recently been sliced and diced. She dutifully (if confusedly) helped me up then gave me prescriptions for my meds, both a 30-day one which I could immediately refill since I was out, as well as a 90-day one so I could finally use the mail-order pharmacy on our insurance. Sweet. Then I went home and spent the next three days being paranoid over whether my pink spot was spreading past the lines or not, ignoring the fact that I was usually looking after I'd just been holding my stomach down while I coughed or sneezed, thus making it redder. In the meantime, my stomach kept itching, so I finally took the Band-Aids off. The big one I'd had around my belly button had rippled on my skin like Band-Aids do, leaving a blister in each ripple pocket. Great. I peeled off all the Band-aids, cleaned everything, put on antibiotic cream, then replaced the big Band-Aids with smaller, "non-stick" ones. I still have scabs leftover from those stupid blisters. Two days later, my stomach was once again itching incessantly and burning (and not just because they had to shave me); I thought that if I didn't get the big bandage off immediately I was going to scream. I ran to the bathroom, peeled it off, and instead of blisters it had rubbed my skin so raw this time that some of the skin came off with the bandage. Awesome. Now the assorted red marks from my various dressings comprise more surface damage than the lappy appy itself does. I seriously need to get myself some of those clear, waterproof dressings that they use in the hospital. Those didn't damage me at all. Needless to say, I loaded up on antibiotic cream once again and stopped wearing bandages altogether.
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| Comfort-Flex my ass. |
Here I am, a week later, mostly recovered from my surgery and doctor visit. Scabs are starting to fall off, I can once again lie on my stomach, and I'm only hopped up on blood pressure meds (I stopped the Lortab a week ago) and Allegra. You'll also be relieved to know that the pink patch faded back into a normal skin tone, having never crossed the line. I finally got to drive yesterday and even made it through my penultimate chorale rehearsal before our concert next week. The only thing I still struggle with is a cough and dry throat courtesy of Dr. Jolly ("It will only be sore one day" my ass) and whatever germs I inhaled in the hospital. So much for the zealous protection of my voice and throat during my cold 3 weeks ago...still, it could be worse. It could have gone to bronchitis, but hasn't yet. At least if it does I know that Dr. Earnest will be happy to give me all the antibiotics I want. Every day I move a little more freely and hurt a little less, though I still largely have the stamina of a gnat. But it's coming along. It really has been quite the bizarre year for me, medically speaking, and I fervently hope there are no repeats of it next year. On the plus side, I can only get appendicitis once. Done.
29 November 2011
Procrastination
Given that I have approximately 10 minutes to put up my penultimate post, this cartoon from chibird seems appropriate:
"Procrastin-a-a-tion is making me late..." Yup. Story of my life.
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| Add caption |
"Procrastin-a-a-tion is making me late..." Yup. Story of my life.
Procrastination
Given that I have approximately 10 minutes to put up my penultimate post, this cartoon from chibird seems appropriate:
"Procrastin-a-a-tion is making me late..." Yup. Story of my life.
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| Add caption |
"Procrastin-a-a-tion is making me late..." Yup. Story of my life.
28 November 2011
The One With the Recovery and the Cannibalism
And now, part two of the Great Surgery Saga. The surgery itself went pretty well, or so I'm told; obviously I wasn't exactly conscious for the proceedings. The procedure took maybe an hour, then it was maybe another half hour before I started coming around in Recovery. It's a weird feeling, coming around...it's sort of like waking from a dream, except not because you are slowly trying to make sense of what you're seeing through the dubious filter of leftover anesthesia. Everything seems so surreal for those first few moments as though if you were to close your eyes again, it wouldn't really have happened.
As I became more aware, the nurse on duty started talking to me. Eventually I was awake enough that they wanted to replace my undies, which they'd stripped off pre-surgery so that they could install a catheter. And can I just say that I will be forever grateful they chose to do the catheter after I was knocked out? Nothing like getting to hoist yourself off a bed inverted-backbend-style, using freshly incised abdominal muscles, while a random nurse attempts to navigate your underpants over some weird Velcroed baggies surrounding your calves and up over your ample assets. After what seemed like 10 minutes (or possibly hours) later, I was once again discreetly covered, with all personal business tended. The nurse was very impressed at my ability to hold myself up for so long while she performed this service; meanwhile I was mentally casting aspersions on her parentage and encouraging her to speed up the process via the application of more than a few choice words before I either killed her or passed out.
I was wheeled to my room somewhere around midnight, barely two hours after I was first taken into the OR. Though still a bit groggy, I didn't go to sleep right away, having already spent a couple hours enduring the twilight sleep of the dead. Nurses flitted about as they do, checking my blood pressure and temperature (with a sad, boring, NON-temporal thermometer) and the like. They continued to push IV fluids and antibiotics and I was allowed to have ice chips in an attempt to mitigate the horrifically dry sandpaper mouth I had as a result of the anesthesia. While on my second cup of ice chips, I was told that I would next get to start on clear liquids, then could move up to cool stuff like juice or soup, finally graduating to soft foods the next day provided I didn't hurl on anyone in the meantime. Screw that. I hadn't had a single crumb to eat the entire day and was the closest I'd come to feeling nauseous throughout this whole thing because of all the drugs I'd just had on a very empty stomach. I convinced them to give me some crackers and grape juice, which the nurse did grudgingly, fully convinced I wouldn't be able to keep them down.
I did, though. And it. was. awesome. For the next 30-45 minutes I nibbled on my saltines, first sucking off the salt (lovely, beautiful salt) and then breaking off small pieces and chewing them until they were macerated enough for me to swallow since my mouth was so dry. While I was gnawing the first cracker into the consistency of wallpaper past, I informed my husband that I was "making paper maché in my mouth." He raised his eyebrows. When I took the first sip of grape juice to wash it down, I added "Ooooh, jelly!" He snorted. No kidding--it tasted exactly like Welch's Grape Jelly. It was kinda awesome. Later I told him that the "jelly and toast" were helping and that I was feeling much better. I'm pretty sure he thought I was still high on drugs. I wasn't. Dry crackers and grape juice DO taste like jelly toast. I think I pushed him over the edge, though, when I told him I felt like I was having communion (all good Methodists have communion with Welch's Grape Juice in little plastic shot glasses or it just doesn't count). The hubs kinda half-choked, half-laughed. I'm not sure he knew what to make of that. Maybe he thought I was well on my way to Hell. He should know me better...I've probably been headed there for way longer than this. I don't think it helped when I looked up after the communion remark to see a happy Jesus crucifix on the wall. Seriously. Happy Jesus. On a crucifix. (As opposed to on a cracker.) That's just messed up. Maybe St. Mary's Hospital only uses Happy Jesus crucifixes because it doesn't want the patients thinking too hard about dying while they're there. I told the hubs I didn't like Happy Jesus watching me while I ate communion. Having Him stare at me like that while I was eating my juice and crackers made me feel like a cannibal. It gave me the willies a little bit. I just know Happy Jesus was judging me...me and my cannibalism.
It took freaking forever to eat those six crackers, but I loved every single bite, cannibalism notwithstanding.
I finally sent the hubs home around 2 am so he could look after the dog and since there was only a chair in the room, figuring I'd be out cold most of the night anyway. After he left I was feeling slightly perkier from my cracker communion, so I spent the next hour checking my email and playing online. After that I did sleep some on and off, though it was difficult to do so around the cacophony of beeps surrounding me. The IV machine beeped. The oxygen pump beeped. I had a blood pressure cuff permanently attached to my arm that inflated approximately every 30 seconds to take my BP, with "take my blood pressure" being defined as "attempting to squeeze my bicep so hard that it makes my fingernails shoot across the room." There was also the lovely the mechanical drone of my Velcroed leg baggies, which turned out to be leg squeezers hooked up to a machine to make them inflate and deflate them every couple of minutes, thus preventing blood clots while I was in the bed. I had entirely too many things attached to me.
The next morning I woke up to discover that I had a fat lip, complete with ulcerated blisters, that I hadn't noticed the night before. It was presumably the result of being tubed by Dr. Jolly the anesthetist, who also told me my throat wouldn't hurt by morning. He lied. My throat wasn't the only thing that hurt, though. My belly button was starting to feel like it had been Roto-Rootered with a red-hot poker. I had to have a nurse unplug my IV and my leg squeezies and help me out of bed so I could hobble to the bathroom. I kept feeling like my pants were still around my ankles because of those leg squeezies.
Around 8 am the hubs returned to stay with me. Before long I met the day nurse, who looked disturbingly like one of the Real Nursewives of Atlanta. At one point she asked if I'd "ordered breakfast yet." Seriously. At this hospital, the patients literally order food at any time from a menu in the room, calling what amounts to Room Service from their phone. I did this for both breakfast and lunch, and I gotta say, the food was pretty good. Seems you can't beat individualized service; the foods that were supposed to be warm actually were. All I lacked was a little vase with a flower in it on the tray.
The doctor ("Paging Dr. Shirley--'Don't call me Shirley!'") came in shortly before lunch and told me the surgery had gone well, though they had to go through my navel in a slightly different spot than usual, because I apparently have a hernia behind the normal entry point. Who knew? Dr. Shirley (you know you'll never stop hearing "don't call me Shirley" now) said he would have fixed the hernia, but it would have involved using some sort of mesh, blah blah, higher risk of infection, blah blah. Whatever, dude. I didn't know it was there before, so clearly there's no rush to repair it. You've gotta love modern technology, though--who knew a "Lappy Appy" involved yanking one's appendix out of one's belly button? That boggles my mind a little. The doctor asked a few other questions and was apparently very interested in the frequency of my flatulence. Nice, right? Afterwards, he told me everything looked good then gave me a card with his office number on it so I could make an appointment to see him in two weeks. I was told not to drive for a week and not until I was off the narcotics (well, DUH), to call if my temp went over 101℉, and not to lift anything over 25 pounds for a month. That means the hubs gets to be my tote and carry bitch for another 3 weeks. Score!
We spent the afternoon watching a Friends marathon on TV, including the one where Monica and Chandler got married and Rachel found out she was pregnant. My stomach continued to burn and my whole body had the itchies, courtesty of a Lortab side-effect. The Lortab did help take the edge off of my pain, though it didn't knock it completely out, same as when I took it after breaking my toe. The cacophony of beeps continued until at one point I yelled at the blood pressure machine to shut up, which it promptly did. The hubs was flabbergasted. I also have a traffic light karma he lacks and which makes him very jealous. The nurses continued to demand my name, rank and serial number every time they scanned my bar code for something. After lunch they make me go and do walkies around the corridor. At one point I heard an announcement over the PA system: "Employee turkeys available on Sister Somebody's Porch..." Okaaaaaay. That's the first hospital I've ever heard of to employ turkeys. Turns out it was really just an announcement for the employees to pick up their annual Christmas gift of a turkey, which is still a little weird and nowhere near as much fun as turkey employees would be.
Throughout my hospital stay, online friends continued to entertain me with observations like "Laproscopic appendectomies are cool--your stomach will look like you've had 3-4 gunshot wounds" and "Sorry you lost your appendix; I guess you'll have to rely on footnotes now." I didn't see much point in having lots of hospital visitors, given that I was only there about 27 hours. After resting for a couple of hours while watching Friends, we finally headed home around 4 pm. While the doctor refused to suck out any extra fat while he was performing my appendectomy (selfish), I still got to leave with the dubious distinction of being one of those very few appendicitis victims to completely forgo any nausea or vomiting either before or after the attack. Yay, me? Well, no one has ever called me normal, so I don't suppose this should be any different, really.
Once home, I was ensconced on the crappy, non-supportive couch, surrounded by pillows to keep me propped up comfortably. Even so, sitting there for extended periods made my neck and tailbone hurt. Every time I had to cough or blow my nose my Santa belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly, forcing me to hold it down to keep from blowing out my incisions. I was supposed to get up and walk regularly to avoid blood clots since I no longer had my squeezie legs. Bathroom trips became very interesting; personal hygiene is infinitely more challenging when you can't bend over without sending shooting pains through your abdomen. While in the bathroom I checked out my bandages in the mirror and was convinced that my stomach had deflated some. It looked like someone had popped a balloon with a pin, which I suppose technically someone had. My feet were less swollen than they'd been in months. It was pretty fabulous, actually, so I decided I to weigh myself as well, figuring the number would look much happier after so little food in previous days and the loss of body parts. I was wrong. I find it grossly unfair that I should leave the hospital weighing more than when I went in, considering. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Once back on the couch, I generously allowed my very clingy dog to join me, something she's not usually allowed to do. I figured it would make us both feel better, and keep her from jumping up on my fresh incisions the way she did when I first came in the house. She enjoyed it, but then she's firmly convinced that she belongs there and that I am unjust to keep her from her rightful place on the furniture.
I slept the first couple of nights on the couch, being unable to climb into bed. My girlie arrived home for break two days after I got home from the hospital. While I was obviously unable to finish all my projects or house-cleaning before she arrived, I did manage to take a shower that morning so I wouldn't reek of betadine or be completely skanky when she got home. Wouldn't that make a great greeting card? "Welcome Home, Honey--I Love You So Much I Washed My Hair For You. Happy Thanksgiving!"
The rest of the week was pretty chill given the circumstances. We got a Honey-Baked Ham instead of a turkey and everyone helped with preparing the big meal and cleaning up afterwards. Friday I got to sit and watch my family drag out all the Christmas decorations and assemble the tree while I sat around on my backside supervising. I liked that part.
Each day I feel a little better and each day I'm moving around a little better. I can now laugh or cough without buttressing my belly against the vibrations. My soon-to-be scars are unremarkable, especially compared to that of my C-Section scar, though the landscape of my navel will remain forever changed once healing is complete. (I was relieved to find I still only have one belly button when the last steri-strip came off--I was secretly afraid I'd have two or something. Paranoid much, Ginger?)
While it's certainly not how I planned to spend my Thanksgiving this year, this whole experience has made for a much more profound and personal giving of thanks this year. I'm grateful that the whole ordeal was as efficient and unremarkable as it was. There was no perforation in the actual appendix, so I was not exposed to any toxicity and was therefore not sent home with any additional antibiotics.
I am thankful for innumerable friends and family checking up on me and praying for me and bringing me food. I am thankful that my recovery has been steady and smooth, so much so that I was able to ride to the airport and walk around up to Security to see my daughter off (though I did make the hubs drive around to pick me up curbside). All things considered, it was a surprisingly peaceful and pleasant holiday. I can live with that. And, thanks to Dr. Shirley ("don't call me 'Shirley!'"), I will live with that.
As I became more aware, the nurse on duty started talking to me. Eventually I was awake enough that they wanted to replace my undies, which they'd stripped off pre-surgery so that they could install a catheter. And can I just say that I will be forever grateful they chose to do the catheter after I was knocked out? Nothing like getting to hoist yourself off a bed inverted-backbend-style, using freshly incised abdominal muscles, while a random nurse attempts to navigate your underpants over some weird Velcroed baggies surrounding your calves and up over your ample assets. After what seemed like 10 minutes (or possibly hours) later, I was once again discreetly covered, with all personal business tended. The nurse was very impressed at my ability to hold myself up for so long while she performed this service; meanwhile I was mentally casting aspersions on her parentage and encouraging her to speed up the process via the application of more than a few choice words before I either killed her or passed out.
I was wheeled to my room somewhere around midnight, barely two hours after I was first taken into the OR. Though still a bit groggy, I didn't go to sleep right away, having already spent a couple hours enduring the twilight sleep of the dead. Nurses flitted about as they do, checking my blood pressure and temperature (with a sad, boring, NON-temporal thermometer) and the like. They continued to push IV fluids and antibiotics and I was allowed to have ice chips in an attempt to mitigate the horrifically dry sandpaper mouth I had as a result of the anesthesia. While on my second cup of ice chips, I was told that I would next get to start on clear liquids, then could move up to cool stuff like juice or soup, finally graduating to soft foods the next day provided I didn't hurl on anyone in the meantime. Screw that. I hadn't had a single crumb to eat the entire day and was the closest I'd come to feeling nauseous throughout this whole thing because of all the drugs I'd just had on a very empty stomach. I convinced them to give me some crackers and grape juice, which the nurse did grudgingly, fully convinced I wouldn't be able to keep them down.
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| Yummy, pasty, saltines. Emphasis on the SALT. |
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| Mmmmm...grape juice. |
I did, though. And it. was. awesome. For the next 30-45 minutes I nibbled on my saltines, first sucking off the salt (lovely, beautiful salt) and then breaking off small pieces and chewing them until they were macerated enough for me to swallow since my mouth was so dry. While I was gnawing the first cracker into the consistency of wallpaper past, I informed my husband that I was "making paper maché in my mouth." He raised his eyebrows. When I took the first sip of grape juice to wash it down, I added "Ooooh, jelly!" He snorted. No kidding--it tasted exactly like Welch's Grape Jelly. It was kinda awesome. Later I told him that the "jelly and toast" were helping and that I was feeling much better. I'm pretty sure he thought I was still high on drugs. I wasn't. Dry crackers and grape juice DO taste like jelly toast. I think I pushed him over the edge, though, when I told him I felt like I was having communion (all good Methodists have communion with Welch's Grape Juice in little plastic shot glasses or it just doesn't count). The hubs kinda half-choked, half-laughed. I'm not sure he knew what to make of that. Maybe he thought I was well on my way to Hell. He should know me better...I've probably been headed there for way longer than this. I don't think it helped when I looked up after the communion remark to see a happy Jesus crucifix on the wall. Seriously. Happy Jesus. On a crucifix. (As opposed to on a cracker.) That's just messed up. Maybe St. Mary's Hospital only uses Happy Jesus crucifixes because it doesn't want the patients thinking too hard about dying while they're there. I told the hubs I didn't like Happy Jesus watching me while I ate communion. Having Him stare at me like that while I was eating my juice and crackers made me feel like a cannibal. It gave me the willies a little bit. I just know Happy Jesus was judging me...me and my cannibalism.
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| Happy Jesus welcomes you to St. Mary's Hospital. He does NOT welcome you to become a cannibal. |
It took freaking forever to eat those six crackers, but I loved every single bite, cannibalism notwithstanding.
I finally sent the hubs home around 2 am so he could look after the dog and since there was only a chair in the room, figuring I'd be out cold most of the night anyway. After he left I was feeling slightly perkier from my cracker communion, so I spent the next hour checking my email and playing online. After that I did sleep some on and off, though it was difficult to do so around the cacophony of beeps surrounding me. The IV machine beeped. The oxygen pump beeped. I had a blood pressure cuff permanently attached to my arm that inflated approximately every 30 seconds to take my BP, with "take my blood pressure" being defined as "attempting to squeeze my bicep so hard that it makes my fingernails shoot across the room." There was also the lovely the mechanical drone of my Velcroed leg baggies, which turned out to be leg squeezers hooked up to a machine to make them inflate and deflate them every couple of minutes, thus preventing blood clots while I was in the bed. I had entirely too many things attached to me.
The next morning I woke up to discover that I had a fat lip, complete with ulcerated blisters, that I hadn't noticed the night before. It was presumably the result of being tubed by Dr. Jolly the anesthetist, who also told me my throat wouldn't hurt by morning. He lied. My throat wasn't the only thing that hurt, though. My belly button was starting to feel like it had been Roto-Rootered with a red-hot poker. I had to have a nurse unplug my IV and my leg squeezies and help me out of bed so I could hobble to the bathroom. I kept feeling like my pants were still around my ankles because of those leg squeezies.
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| "One, two, three, squeeze those legs, two, three..." |
Around 8 am the hubs returned to stay with me. Before long I met the day nurse, who looked disturbingly like one of the Real Nursewives of Atlanta. At one point she asked if I'd "ordered breakfast yet." Seriously. At this hospital, the patients literally order food at any time from a menu in the room, calling what amounts to Room Service from their phone. I did this for both breakfast and lunch, and I gotta say, the food was pretty good. Seems you can't beat individualized service; the foods that were supposed to be warm actually were. All I lacked was a little vase with a flower in it on the tray.
The doctor ("Paging Dr. Shirley--'Don't call me Shirley!'") came in shortly before lunch and told me the surgery had gone well, though they had to go through my navel in a slightly different spot than usual, because I apparently have a hernia behind the normal entry point. Who knew? Dr. Shirley (you know you'll never stop hearing "don't call me Shirley" now) said he would have fixed the hernia, but it would have involved using some sort of mesh, blah blah, higher risk of infection, blah blah. Whatever, dude. I didn't know it was there before, so clearly there's no rush to repair it. You've gotta love modern technology, though--who knew a "Lappy Appy" involved yanking one's appendix out of one's belly button? That boggles my mind a little. The doctor asked a few other questions and was apparently very interested in the frequency of my flatulence. Nice, right? Afterwards, he told me everything looked good then gave me a card with his office number on it so I could make an appointment to see him in two weeks. I was told not to drive for a week and not until I was off the narcotics (well, DUH), to call if my temp went over 101℉, and not to lift anything over 25 pounds for a month. That means the hubs gets to be my tote and carry bitch for another 3 weeks. Score!
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| Dogs have ADHD, Cats have Asperger's. I'm just sayin'. |
We spent the afternoon watching a Friends marathon on TV, including the one where Monica and Chandler got married and Rachel found out she was pregnant. My stomach continued to burn and my whole body had the itchies, courtesty of a Lortab side-effect. The Lortab did help take the edge off of my pain, though it didn't knock it completely out, same as when I took it after breaking my toe. The cacophony of beeps continued until at one point I yelled at the blood pressure machine to shut up, which it promptly did. The hubs was flabbergasted. I also have a traffic light karma he lacks and which makes him very jealous. The nurses continued to demand my name, rank and serial number every time they scanned my bar code for something. After lunch they make me go and do walkies around the corridor. At one point I heard an announcement over the PA system: "Employee turkeys available on Sister Somebody's Porch..." Okaaaaaay. That's the first hospital I've ever heard of to employ turkeys. Turns out it was really just an announcement for the employees to pick up their annual Christmas gift of a turkey, which is still a little weird and nowhere near as much fun as turkey employees would be.
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| Friends don't let friends have appendicitis. |
Throughout my hospital stay, online friends continued to entertain me with observations like "Laproscopic appendectomies are cool--your stomach will look like you've had 3-4 gunshot wounds" and "Sorry you lost your appendix; I guess you'll have to rely on footnotes now." I didn't see much point in having lots of hospital visitors, given that I was only there about 27 hours. After resting for a couple of hours while watching Friends, we finally headed home around 4 pm. While the doctor refused to suck out any extra fat while he was performing my appendectomy (selfish), I still got to leave with the dubious distinction of being one of those very few appendicitis victims to completely forgo any nausea or vomiting either before or after the attack. Yay, me? Well, no one has ever called me normal, so I don't suppose this should be any different, really.
Once home, I was ensconced on the crappy, non-supportive couch, surrounded by pillows to keep me propped up comfortably. Even so, sitting there for extended periods made my neck and tailbone hurt. Every time I had to cough or blow my nose my Santa belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly, forcing me to hold it down to keep from blowing out my incisions. I was supposed to get up and walk regularly to avoid blood clots since I no longer had my squeezie legs. Bathroom trips became very interesting; personal hygiene is infinitely more challenging when you can't bend over without sending shooting pains through your abdomen. While in the bathroom I checked out my bandages in the mirror and was convinced that my stomach had deflated some. It looked like someone had popped a balloon with a pin, which I suppose technically someone had. My feet were less swollen than they'd been in months. It was pretty fabulous, actually, so I decided I to weigh myself as well, figuring the number would look much happier after so little food in previous days and the loss of body parts. I was wrong. I find it grossly unfair that I should leave the hospital weighing more than when I went in, considering. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Once back on the couch, I generously allowed my very clingy dog to join me, something she's not usually allowed to do. I figured it would make us both feel better, and keep her from jumping up on my fresh incisions the way she did when I first came in the house. She enjoyed it, but then she's firmly convinced that she belongs there and that I am unjust to keep her from her rightful place on the furniture.
 |
| Needy dog missed her all-important leg pillow. (No leg lamps were available.) |
I slept the first couple of nights on the couch, being unable to climb into bed. My girlie arrived home for break two days after I got home from the hospital. While I was obviously unable to finish all my projects or house-cleaning before she arrived, I did manage to take a shower that morning so I wouldn't reek of betadine or be completely skanky when she got home. Wouldn't that make a great greeting card? "Welcome Home, Honey--I Love You So Much I Washed My Hair For You. Happy Thanksgiving!"
The rest of the week was pretty chill given the circumstances. We got a Honey-Baked Ham instead of a turkey and everyone helped with preparing the big meal and cleaning up afterwards. Friday I got to sit and watch my family drag out all the Christmas decorations and assemble the tree while I sat around on my backside supervising. I liked that part.
Each day I feel a little better and each day I'm moving around a little better. I can now laugh or cough without buttressing my belly against the vibrations. My soon-to-be scars are unremarkable, especially compared to that of my C-Section scar, though the landscape of my navel will remain forever changed once healing is complete. (I was relieved to find I still only have one belly button when the last steri-strip came off--I was secretly afraid I'd have two or something. Paranoid much, Ginger?)
While it's certainly not how I planned to spend my Thanksgiving this year, this whole experience has made for a much more profound and personal giving of thanks this year. I'm grateful that the whole ordeal was as efficient and unremarkable as it was. There was no perforation in the actual appendix, so I was not exposed to any toxicity and was therefore not sent home with any additional antibiotics.
I am thankful for innumerable friends and family checking up on me and praying for me and bringing me food. I am thankful that my recovery has been steady and smooth, so much so that I was able to ride to the airport and walk around up to Security to see my daughter off (though I did make the hubs drive around to pick me up curbside). All things considered, it was a surprisingly peaceful and pleasant holiday. I can live with that. And, thanks to Dr. Shirley ("don't call me 'Shirley!'"), I will live with that.
The One With the Recovery and the Cannibalism
And now, part two of the Great Surgery Saga. The surgery itself went pretty well, or so I'm told; obviously I wasn't exactly conscious for the proceedings. The procedure took maybe an hour, then it was maybe another half hour before I started coming around in Recovery. It's a weird feeling, coming around...it's sort of like waking from a dream, except not because you are slowly trying to make sense of what you're seeing through the dubious filter of leftover anesthesia. Everything seems so surreal for those first few moments as though if you were to close your eyes again, it wouldn't really have happened.
As I became more aware, the nurse on duty started talking to me. Eventually I was awake enough that they wanted to replace my undies, which they'd stripped off pre-surgery so that they could install a catheter. And can I just say that I will be forever grateful they chose to do the catheter after I was knocked out? Nothing like getting to hoist yourself off a bed inverted-backbend-style, using freshly incised abdominal muscles, while a random nurse attempts to navigate your underpants over some weird Velcroed baggies surrounding your calves and up over your ample assets. After what seemed like 10 minutes (or possibly hours) later, I was once again discreetly covered, with all personal business tended. The nurse was very impressed at my ability to hold myself up for so long while she performed this service; meanwhile I was mentally casting aspersions on her parentage and encouraging her to speed up the process via the application of more than a few choice words before I either killed her or passed out.
I was wheeled to my room somewhere around midnight, barely two hours after I was first taken into the OR. Though still a bit groggy, I didn't go to sleep right away, having already spent a couple hours enduring the twilight sleep of the dead. Nurses flitted about as they do, checking my blood pressure and temperature (with a sad, boring, NON-temporal thermometer) and the like. They continued to push IV fluids and antibiotics and I was allowed to have ice chips in an attempt to mitigate the horrifically dry sandpaper mouth I had as a result of the anesthesia. While on my second cup of ice chips, I was told that I would next get to start on clear liquids, then could move up to cool stuff like juice or soup, finally graduating to soft foods the next day provided I didn't hurl on anyone in the meantime. Screw that. I hadn't had a single crumb to eat the entire day and was the closest I'd come to feeling nauseous throughout this whole thing because of all the drugs I'd just had on a very empty stomach. I convinced them to give me some crackers and grape juice, which the nurse did grudgingly, fully convinced I wouldn't be able to keep them down.
I did, though. And it. was. awesome. For the next 30-45 minutes I nibbled on my saltines, first sucking off the salt (lovely, beautiful salt) and then breaking off small pieces and chewing them until they were macerated enough for me to swallow since my mouth was so dry. While I was gnawing the first cracker into the consistency of wallpaper past, I informed my husband that I was "making paper maché in my mouth." He raised his eyebrows. When I took the first sip of grape juice to wash it down, I added "Ooooh, jelly!" He snorted. No kidding--it tasted exactly like Welch's Grape Jelly. It was kinda awesome. Later I told him that the "jelly and toast" were helping and that I was feeling much better. I'm pretty sure he thought I was still high on drugs. I wasn't. Dry crackers and grape juice DO taste like jelly toast. I think I pushed him over the edge, though, when I told him I felt like I was having communion (all good Methodists have communion with Welch's Grape Juice in little plastic shot glasses or it just doesn't count). The hubs kinda half-choked, half-laughed. I'm not sure he knew what to make of that. Maybe he thought I was well on my way to Hell. He should know me better...I've probably been headed there for way longer than this. I don't think it helped when I looked up after the communion remark to see a happy Jesus crucifix on the wall. Seriously. Happy Jesus. On a crucifix. (As opposed to on a cracker.) That's just messed up. Maybe St. Mary's Hospital only uses Happy Jesus crucifixes because it doesn't want the patients thinking too hard about dying while they're there. I told the hubs I didn't like Happy Jesus watching me while I ate communion. Having Him stare at me like that while I was eating my juice and crackers made me feel like a cannibal. It gave me the willies a little bit. I just know Happy Jesus was judging me...me and my cannibalism.
It took freaking forever to eat those six crackers, but I loved every single bite, cannibalism notwithstanding.
I finally sent the hubs home around 2 am so he could look after the dog and since there was only a chair in the room, figuring I'd be out cold most of the night anyway. After he left I was feeling slightly perkier from my cracker communion, so I spent the next hour checking my email and playing online. After that I did sleep some on and off, though it was difficult to do so around the cacophony of beeps surrounding me. The IV machine beeped. The oxygen pump beeped. I had a blood pressure cuff permanently attached to my arm that inflated approximately every 30 seconds to take my BP, with "take my blood pressure" being defined as "attempting to squeeze my bicep so hard that it makes my fingernails shoot across the room." There was also the lovely the mechanical drone of my Velcroed leg baggies, which turned out to be leg squeezers hooked up to a machine to make them inflate and deflate them every couple of minutes, thus preventing blood clots while I was in the bed. I had entirely too many things attached to me.
The next morning I woke up to discover that I had a fat lip, complete with ulcerated blisters, that I hadn't noticed the night before. It was presumably the result of being tubed by Dr. Jolly the anesthetist, who also told me my throat wouldn't hurt by morning. He lied. My throat wasn't the only thing that hurt, though. My belly button was starting to feel like it had been Roto-Rootered with a red-hot poker. I had to have a nurse unplug my IV and my leg squeezies and help me out of bed so I could hobble to the bathroom. I kept feeling like my pants were still around my ankles because of those leg squeezies.
Around 8 am the hubs returned to stay with me. Before long I met the day nurse, who looked disturbingly like one of the Real Nursewives of Atlanta. At one point she asked if I'd "ordered breakfast yet." Seriously. At this hospital, the patients literally order food at any time from a menu in the room, calling what amounts to Room Service from their phone. I did this for both breakfast and lunch, and I gotta say, the food was pretty good. Seems you can't beat individualized service; the foods that were supposed to be warm actually were. All I lacked was a little vase with a flower in it on the tray.
The doctor ("Paging Dr. Shirley--'Don't call me Shirley!'") came in shortly before lunch and told me the surgery had gone well, though they had to go through my navel in a slightly different spot than usual, because I apparently have a hernia behind the normal entry point. Who knew? Dr. Shirley (you know you'll never stop hearing "don't call me Shirley" now) said he would have fixed the hernia, but it would have involved using some sort of mesh, blah blah, higher risk of infection, blah blah. Whatever, dude. I didn't know it was there before, so clearly there's no rush to repair it. You've gotta love modern technology, though--who knew a "Lappy Appy" involved yanking one's appendix out of one's belly button? That boggles my mind a little. The doctor asked a few other questions and was apparently very interested in the frequency of my flatulence. Nice, right? Afterwards, he told me everything looked good then gave me a card with his office number on it so I could make an appointment to see him in two weeks. I was told not to drive for a week and not until I was off the narcotics (well, DUH), to call if my temp went over 101℉, and not to lift anything over 25 pounds for a month. That means the hubs gets to be my tote and carry bitch for another 3 weeks. Score!
We spent the afternoon watching a Friends marathon on TV, including the one where Monica and Chandler got married and Rachel found out she was pregnant. My stomach continued to burn and my whole body had the itchies, courtesty of a Lortab side-effect. The Lortab did help take the edge off of my pain, though it didn't knock it completely out, same as when I took it after breaking my toe. The cacophony of beeps continued until at one point I yelled at the blood pressure machine to shut up, which it promptly did. The hubs was flabbergasted. I also have a traffic light karma he lacks and which makes him very jealous. The nurses continued to demand my name, rank and serial number every time they scanned my bar code for something. After lunch they make me go and do walkies around the corridor. At one point I heard an announcement over the PA system: "Employee turkeys available on Sister Somebody's Porch..." Okaaaaaay. That's the first hospital I've ever heard of to employ turkeys. Turns out it was really just an announcement for the employees to pick up their annual Christmas gift of a turkey, which is still a little weird and nowhere near as much fun as turkey employees would be.
Throughout my hospital stay, online friends continued to entertain me with observations like "Laproscopic appendectomies are cool--your stomach will look like you've had 3-4 gunshot wounds" and "Sorry you lost your appendix; I guess you'll have to rely on footnotes now." I didn't see much point in having lots of hospital visitors, given that I was only there about 27 hours. After resting for a couple of hours while watching Friends, we finally headed home around 4 pm. While the doctor refused to suck out any extra fat while he was performing my appendectomy (selfish), I still got to leave with the dubious distinction of being one of those very few appendicitis victims to completely forgo any nausea or vomiting either before or after the attack. Yay, me? Well, no one has ever called me normal, so I don't suppose this should be any different, really.
Once home, I was ensconced on the crappy, non-supportive couch, surrounded by pillows to keep me propped up comfortably. Even so, sitting there for extended periods made my neck and tailbone hurt. Every time I had to cough or blow my nose my Santa belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly, forcing me to hold it down to keep from blowing out my incisions. I was supposed to get up and walk regularly to avoid blood clots since I no longer had my squeezie legs. Bathroom trips became very interesting; personal hygiene is infinitely more challenging when you can't bend over without sending shooting pains through your abdomen. While in the bathroom I checked out my bandages in the mirror and was convinced that my stomach had deflated some. It looked like someone had popped a balloon with a pin, which I suppose technically someone had. My feet were less swollen than they'd been in months. It was pretty fabulous, actually, so I decided I to weigh myself as well, figuring the number would look much happier after so little food in previous days and the loss of body parts. I was wrong. I find it grossly unfair that I should leave the hospital weighing more than when I went in, considering. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Once back on the couch, I generously allowed my very clingy dog to join me, something she's not usually allowed to do. I figured it would make us both feel better, and keep her from jumping up on my fresh incisions the way she did when I first came in the house. She enjoyed it, but then she's firmly convinced that she belongs there and that I am unjust to keep her from her rightful place on the furniture.
I slept the first couple of nights on the couch, being unable to climb into bed. My girlie arrived home for break two days after I got home from the hospital. While I was obviously unable to finish all my projects or house-cleaning before she arrived, I did manage to take a shower that morning so I wouldn't reek of betadine or be completely skanky when she got home. Wouldn't that make a great greeting card? "Welcome Home, Honey--I Love You So Much I Washed My Hair For You. Happy Thanksgiving!"
The rest of the week was pretty chill given the circumstances. We got a Honey-Baked Ham instead of a turkey and everyone helped with preparing the big meal and cleaning up afterwards. Friday I got to sit and watch my family drag out all the Christmas decorations and assemble the tree while I sat around on my backside supervising. I liked that part.
Each day I feel a little better and each day I'm moving around a little better. I can now laugh or cough without buttressing my belly against the vibrations. My soon-to-be scars are unremarkable, especially compared to that of my C-Section scar, though the landscape of my navel will remain forever changed once healing is complete. (I was relieved to find I still only have one belly button when the last steri-strip came off--I was secretly afraid I'd have two or something. Paranoid much, Ginger?)
While it's certainly not how I planned to spend my Thanksgiving this year, this whole experience has made for a much more profound and personal giving of thanks this year. I'm grateful that the whole ordeal was as efficient and unremarkable as it was. There was no perforation in the actual appendix, so I was not exposed to any toxicity and was therefore not sent home with any additional antibiotics.
I am thankful for innumerable friends and family checking up on me and praying for me and bringing me food. I am thankful that my recovery has been steady and smooth, so much so that I was able to ride to the airport and walk around up to Security to see my daughter off (though I did make the hubs drive around to pick me up curbside). All things considered, it was a surprisingly peaceful and pleasant holiday. I can live with that. And, thanks to Dr. Shirley ("don't call me 'Shirley!'"), I will live with that.
As I became more aware, the nurse on duty started talking to me. Eventually I was awake enough that they wanted to replace my undies, which they'd stripped off pre-surgery so that they could install a catheter. And can I just say that I will be forever grateful they chose to do the catheter after I was knocked out? Nothing like getting to hoist yourself off a bed inverted-backbend-style, using freshly incised abdominal muscles, while a random nurse attempts to navigate your underpants over some weird Velcroed baggies surrounding your calves and up over your ample assets. After what seemed like 10 minutes (or possibly hours) later, I was once again discreetly covered, with all personal business tended. The nurse was very impressed at my ability to hold myself up for so long while she performed this service; meanwhile I was mentally casting aspersions on her parentage and encouraging her to speed up the process via the application of more than a few choice words before I either killed her or passed out.
I was wheeled to my room somewhere around midnight, barely two hours after I was first taken into the OR. Though still a bit groggy, I didn't go to sleep right away, having already spent a couple hours enduring the twilight sleep of the dead. Nurses flitted about as they do, checking my blood pressure and temperature (with a sad, boring, NON-temporal thermometer) and the like. They continued to push IV fluids and antibiotics and I was allowed to have ice chips in an attempt to mitigate the horrifically dry sandpaper mouth I had as a result of the anesthesia. While on my second cup of ice chips, I was told that I would next get to start on clear liquids, then could move up to cool stuff like juice or soup, finally graduating to soft foods the next day provided I didn't hurl on anyone in the meantime. Screw that. I hadn't had a single crumb to eat the entire day and was the closest I'd come to feeling nauseous throughout this whole thing because of all the drugs I'd just had on a very empty stomach. I convinced them to give me some crackers and grape juice, which the nurse did grudgingly, fully convinced I wouldn't be able to keep them down.
|
| Yummy, pasty, saltines. Emphasis on the SALT. |
|
| Mmmmm...grape juice. |
I did, though. And it. was. awesome. For the next 30-45 minutes I nibbled on my saltines, first sucking off the salt (lovely, beautiful salt) and then breaking off small pieces and chewing them until they were macerated enough for me to swallow since my mouth was so dry. While I was gnawing the first cracker into the consistency of wallpaper past, I informed my husband that I was "making paper maché in my mouth." He raised his eyebrows. When I took the first sip of grape juice to wash it down, I added "Ooooh, jelly!" He snorted. No kidding--it tasted exactly like Welch's Grape Jelly. It was kinda awesome. Later I told him that the "jelly and toast" were helping and that I was feeling much better. I'm pretty sure he thought I was still high on drugs. I wasn't. Dry crackers and grape juice DO taste like jelly toast. I think I pushed him over the edge, though, when I told him I felt like I was having communion (all good Methodists have communion with Welch's Grape Juice in little plastic shot glasses or it just doesn't count). The hubs kinda half-choked, half-laughed. I'm not sure he knew what to make of that. Maybe he thought I was well on my way to Hell. He should know me better...I've probably been headed there for way longer than this. I don't think it helped when I looked up after the communion remark to see a happy Jesus crucifix on the wall. Seriously. Happy Jesus. On a crucifix. (As opposed to on a cracker.) That's just messed up. Maybe St. Mary's Hospital only uses Happy Jesus crucifixes because it doesn't want the patients thinking too hard about dying while they're there. I told the hubs I didn't like Happy Jesus watching me while I ate communion. Having Him stare at me like that while I was eating my juice and crackers made me feel like a cannibal. It gave me the willies a little bit. I just know Happy Jesus was judging me...me and my cannibalism.
|
| Happy Jesus welcomes you to St. Mary's Hospital. He does NOT welcome you to become a cannibal. |
It took freaking forever to eat those six crackers, but I loved every single bite, cannibalism notwithstanding.
I finally sent the hubs home around 2 am so he could look after the dog and since there was only a chair in the room, figuring I'd be out cold most of the night anyway. After he left I was feeling slightly perkier from my cracker communion, so I spent the next hour checking my email and playing online. After that I did sleep some on and off, though it was difficult to do so around the cacophony of beeps surrounding me. The IV machine beeped. The oxygen pump beeped. I had a blood pressure cuff permanently attached to my arm that inflated approximately every 30 seconds to take my BP, with "take my blood pressure" being defined as "attempting to squeeze my bicep so hard that it makes my fingernails shoot across the room." There was also the lovely the mechanical drone of my Velcroed leg baggies, which turned out to be leg squeezers hooked up to a machine to make them inflate and deflate them every couple of minutes, thus preventing blood clots while I was in the bed. I had entirely too many things attached to me.
The next morning I woke up to discover that I had a fat lip, complete with ulcerated blisters, that I hadn't noticed the night before. It was presumably the result of being tubed by Dr. Jolly the anesthetist, who also told me my throat wouldn't hurt by morning. He lied. My throat wasn't the only thing that hurt, though. My belly button was starting to feel like it had been Roto-Rootered with a red-hot poker. I had to have a nurse unplug my IV and my leg squeezies and help me out of bed so I could hobble to the bathroom. I kept feeling like my pants were still around my ankles because of those leg squeezies.
|
| "One, two, three, squeeze those legs, two, three..." |
Around 8 am the hubs returned to stay with me. Before long I met the day nurse, who looked disturbingly like one of the Real Nursewives of Atlanta. At one point she asked if I'd "ordered breakfast yet." Seriously. At this hospital, the patients literally order food at any time from a menu in the room, calling what amounts to Room Service from their phone. I did this for both breakfast and lunch, and I gotta say, the food was pretty good. Seems you can't beat individualized service; the foods that were supposed to be warm actually were. All I lacked was a little vase with a flower in it on the tray.
The doctor ("Paging Dr. Shirley--'Don't call me Shirley!'") came in shortly before lunch and told me the surgery had gone well, though they had to go through my navel in a slightly different spot than usual, because I apparently have a hernia behind the normal entry point. Who knew? Dr. Shirley (you know you'll never stop hearing "don't call me Shirley" now) said he would have fixed the hernia, but it would have involved using some sort of mesh, blah blah, higher risk of infection, blah blah. Whatever, dude. I didn't know it was there before, so clearly there's no rush to repair it. You've gotta love modern technology, though--who knew a "Lappy Appy" involved yanking one's appendix out of one's belly button? That boggles my mind a little. The doctor asked a few other questions and was apparently very interested in the frequency of my flatulence. Nice, right? Afterwards, he told me everything looked good then gave me a card with his office number on it so I could make an appointment to see him in two weeks. I was told not to drive for a week and not until I was off the narcotics (well, DUH), to call if my temp went over 101℉, and not to lift anything over 25 pounds for a month. That means the hubs gets to be my tote and carry bitch for another 3 weeks. Score!
|
| Dogs have ADHD, Cats have Asperger's. I'm just sayin'. |
We spent the afternoon watching a Friends marathon on TV, including the one where Monica and Chandler got married and Rachel found out she was pregnant. My stomach continued to burn and my whole body had the itchies, courtesty of a Lortab side-effect. The Lortab did help take the edge off of my pain, though it didn't knock it completely out, same as when I took it after breaking my toe. The cacophony of beeps continued until at one point I yelled at the blood pressure machine to shut up, which it promptly did. The hubs was flabbergasted. I also have a traffic light karma he lacks and which makes him very jealous. The nurses continued to demand my name, rank and serial number every time they scanned my bar code for something. After lunch they make me go and do walkies around the corridor. At one point I heard an announcement over the PA system: "Employee turkeys available on Sister Somebody's Porch..." Okaaaaaay. That's the first hospital I've ever heard of to employ turkeys. Turns out it was really just an announcement for the employees to pick up their annual Christmas gift of a turkey, which is still a little weird and nowhere near as much fun as turkey employees would be.
|
| Friends don't let friends have appendicitis. |
Throughout my hospital stay, online friends continued to entertain me with observations like "Laproscopic appendectomies are cool--your stomach will look like you've had 3-4 gunshot wounds" and "Sorry you lost your appendix; I guess you'll have to rely on footnotes now." I didn't see much point in having lots of hospital visitors, given that I was only there about 27 hours. After resting for a couple of hours while watching Friends, we finally headed home around 4 pm. While the doctor refused to suck out any extra fat while he was performing my appendectomy (selfish), I still got to leave with the dubious distinction of being one of those very few appendicitis victims to completely forgo any nausea or vomiting either before or after the attack. Yay, me? Well, no one has ever called me normal, so I don't suppose this should be any different, really.
Once home, I was ensconced on the crappy, non-supportive couch, surrounded by pillows to keep me propped up comfortably. Even so, sitting there for extended periods made my neck and tailbone hurt. Every time I had to cough or blow my nose my Santa belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly, forcing me to hold it down to keep from blowing out my incisions. I was supposed to get up and walk regularly to avoid blood clots since I no longer had my squeezie legs. Bathroom trips became very interesting; personal hygiene is infinitely more challenging when you can't bend over without sending shooting pains through your abdomen. While in the bathroom I checked out my bandages in the mirror and was convinced that my stomach had deflated some. It looked like someone had popped a balloon with a pin, which I suppose technically someone had. My feet were less swollen than they'd been in months. It was pretty fabulous, actually, so I decided I to weigh myself as well, figuring the number would look much happier after so little food in previous days and the loss of body parts. I was wrong. I find it grossly unfair that I should leave the hospital weighing more than when I went in, considering. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Once back on the couch, I generously allowed my very clingy dog to join me, something she's not usually allowed to do. I figured it would make us both feel better, and keep her from jumping up on my fresh incisions the way she did when I first came in the house. She enjoyed it, but then she's firmly convinced that she belongs there and that I am unjust to keep her from her rightful place on the furniture.
|
| Needy dog missed her all-important leg pillow. (No leg lamps were available.) |
I slept the first couple of nights on the couch, being unable to climb into bed. My girlie arrived home for break two days after I got home from the hospital. While I was obviously unable to finish all my projects or house-cleaning before she arrived, I did manage to take a shower that morning so I wouldn't reek of betadine or be completely skanky when she got home. Wouldn't that make a great greeting card? "Welcome Home, Honey--I Love You So Much I Washed My Hair For You. Happy Thanksgiving!"
The rest of the week was pretty chill given the circumstances. We got a Honey-Baked Ham instead of a turkey and everyone helped with preparing the big meal and cleaning up afterwards. Friday I got to sit and watch my family drag out all the Christmas decorations and assemble the tree while I sat around on my backside supervising. I liked that part.
Each day I feel a little better and each day I'm moving around a little better. I can now laugh or cough without buttressing my belly against the vibrations. My soon-to-be scars are unremarkable, especially compared to that of my C-Section scar, though the landscape of my navel will remain forever changed once healing is complete. (I was relieved to find I still only have one belly button when the last steri-strip came off--I was secretly afraid I'd have two or something. Paranoid much, Ginger?)
While it's certainly not how I planned to spend my Thanksgiving this year, this whole experience has made for a much more profound and personal giving of thanks this year. I'm grateful that the whole ordeal was as efficient and unremarkable as it was. There was no perforation in the actual appendix, so I was not exposed to any toxicity and was therefore not sent home with any additional antibiotics.
I am thankful for innumerable friends and family checking up on me and praying for me and bringing me food. I am thankful that my recovery has been steady and smooth, so much so that I was able to ride to the airport and walk around up to Security to see my daughter off (though I did make the hubs drive around to pick me up curbside). All things considered, it was a surprisingly peaceful and pleasant holiday. I can live with that. And, thanks to Dr. Shirley ("don't call me 'Shirley!'"), I will live with that.
27 November 2011
Traveling Via Oatmeal
Earlier today my lovely daughter shared with me a link from The Oatmeal. It seems she was complaining to some friends about the 2-3 babies who wouldn't stop screaming or crying on her flight last night, and one of them passed this picture along. I love it. I hope all you travelers out there do as well.
Sorry I had to cut the wings off to make this fit. If you want to see the original image, click the link above. Happy traveling!
 |
| You know you wish you'd thought of this first. |
Sorry I had to cut the wings off to make this fit. If you want to see the original image, click the link above. Happy traveling!
Traveling Via Oatmeal
Earlier today my lovely daughter shared with me a link from The Oatmeal. It seems she was complaining to some friends about the 2-3 babies who wouldn't stop screaming or crying on her flight last night, and one of them passed this picture along. I love it. I hope all you travelers out there do as well.
Sorry I had to cut the wings off to make this fit. If you want to see the original image, click the link above. Happy traveling!
|
| You know you wish you'd thought of this first. |
Sorry I had to cut the wings off to make this fit. If you want to see the original image, click the link above. Happy traveling!
26 November 2011
NaBloPoMo Blogger Fail
It occurred to me in the shower this morning (I do all my best thinking there--don't judge me) that my last two posts had that little line between them when they were made on the same day, and I got all upset because I actually finished my "Liebster Clause" post yesterday morning and posted it. But for whatever reason, it was also dated the 24th, same as my Thanksgiving post.
I'm kinda pissed. I did write most of it Thanksgiving night, but I had to check a couple of the blog links involved so waited to finish it on Friday. When I put it up yesterday morning, I figured I was off the hook for the day and so I didn't post anything else. Now my lovely little NaBloPoMo record has been shot all to hell. I make it 24 whole freakin' days, even through SURGERY, for @#$!! sake, and now I'm gonna blow it all on a technicality???
Crap, crap, crappity crap!! I. am. not. happy.
On the one hand, the likelihood that I was ever gonna win one of the prizes for posting each and every day was already infinitesimally slim. On the other hand, I accepted the challenge, and dammit, I wanted to finish it!!! And I will, but that little break between November 24 and November 26 in the archive is going to bug the crap out of the OCD in me.
So, BlogHer Goddesses, please take note. I double posted on the 24th only as a fluke because Blogger has issues. I actually submitted my post on the 25th. Now look the other way and give me my damn prize.
Update: Because my daughter is freakin' awesome, she showed me how to change the time and date stamp on an individual post so that yesterday's entry would be correctly posted. Yay, Girlie!!! Of course, now this means that the whining above is irrelevant, but oh well.
I'm kinda pissed. I did write most of it Thanksgiving night, but I had to check a couple of the blog links involved so waited to finish it on Friday. When I put it up yesterday morning, I figured I was off the hook for the day and so I didn't post anything else. Now my lovely little NaBloPoMo record has been shot all to hell. I make it 24 whole freakin' days, even through SURGERY, for @#$!! sake, and now I'm gonna blow it all on a technicality???
Crap, crap, crappity crap!! I. am. not. happy.
On the one hand, the likelihood that I was ever gonna win one of the prizes for posting each and every day was already infinitesimally slim. On the other hand, I accepted the challenge, and dammit, I wanted to finish it!!! And I will, but that little break between November 24 and November 26 in the archive is going to bug the crap out of the OCD in me.
So, BlogHer Goddesses, please take note. I double posted on the 24th only as a fluke because Blogger has issues. I actually submitted my post on the 25th. Now look the other way and give me my damn prize.
 |
| Here's even proof--posted yesterday, as in the 25th, at 9:45 am--I always "share" on FB immediately after posting. Stupid Blogger. |
Update: Because my daughter is freakin' awesome, she showed me how to change the time and date stamp on an individual post so that yesterday's entry would be correctly posted. Yay, Girlie!!! Of course, now this means that the whining above is irrelevant, but oh well.
NaBloPoMo Blogger Fail
It occurred to me in the shower this morning (I do all my best thinking there--don't judge me) that my last two posts had that little line between them when they were made on the same day, and I got all upset because I actually finished my "Liebster Clause" post yesterday morning and posted it. But for whatever reason, it was also dated the 24th, same as my Thanksgiving post.
I'm kinda pissed. I did write most of it Thanksgiving night, but I had to check a couple of the blog links involved so waited to finish it on Friday. When I put it up yesterday morning, I figured I was off the hook for the day and so I didn't post anything else. Now my lovely little NaBloPoMo record has been shot all to hell. I make it 24 whole freakin' days, even through SURGERY, for @#$!! sake, and now I'm gonna blow it all on a technicality???
Crap, crap, crappity crap!! I. am. not. happy.
On the one hand, the likelihood that I was ever gonna win one of the prizes for posting each and every day was already infinitesimally slim. On the other hand, I accepted the challenge, and dammit, I wanted to finish it!!! And I will, but that little break between November 24 and November 26 in the archive is going to bug the crap out of the OCD in me.
So, BlogHer Goddesses, please take note. I double posted on the 24th only as a fluke because Blogger has issues. I actually submitted my post on the 25th. Now look the other way and give me my damn prize.
Update: Because my daughter is freakin' awesome, she showed me how to change the time and date stamp on an individual post so that yesterday's entry would be correctly posted. Yay, Girlie!!! Of course, now this means that the whining above is irrelevant, but oh well.
I'm kinda pissed. I did write most of it Thanksgiving night, but I had to check a couple of the blog links involved so waited to finish it on Friday. When I put it up yesterday morning, I figured I was off the hook for the day and so I didn't post anything else. Now my lovely little NaBloPoMo record has been shot all to hell. I make it 24 whole freakin' days, even through SURGERY, for @#$!! sake, and now I'm gonna blow it all on a technicality???
Crap, crap, crappity crap!! I. am. not. happy.
On the one hand, the likelihood that I was ever gonna win one of the prizes for posting each and every day was already infinitesimally slim. On the other hand, I accepted the challenge, and dammit, I wanted to finish it!!! And I will, but that little break between November 24 and November 26 in the archive is going to bug the crap out of the OCD in me.
So, BlogHer Goddesses, please take note. I double posted on the 24th only as a fluke because Blogger has issues. I actually submitted my post on the 25th. Now look the other way and give me my damn prize.
|
| Here's even proof--posted yesterday, as in the 25th, at 9:45 am--I always "share" on FB immediately after posting. Stupid Blogger. |
Update: Because my daughter is freakin' awesome, she showed me how to change the time and date stamp on an individual post so that yesterday's entry would be correctly posted. Yay, Girlie!!! Of course, now this means that the whining above is irrelevant, but oh well.
25 November 2011
Liebster Clause
Yesterday, no doubt like everyone else, I woke up to numerous holiday greetings and to inspiring declarations of thankfulness. While sifting through them all, I discovered that I had been "Liebstered." Not every blogger gets to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Internet's version of half of a surf and turf. (I'd steak my post on it.)
To my surprise, my very dear friend over at The Adventures of Not Supermom singled me out for the Liebster Award. This is awesome, especially considering I am secretly jealous of her blogging bad-assery and want to blog like her when (or if) I grow up. Seriously--people are pounding on her door. NPR saw one of her posts and invited her to participate in their Backseat Book Club, and I'm convinced that every time she applies for another writing or blogging gig money and contracts are waved wildly in her face. I want someone to wave money and contracts for blogging in my face...I can always wear my glasses so the draft from flapping paper won't bother my eyes. Go read her blog. Right now. She is of the awesome.
Turns out the Liebster Award highlights up-and-coming blogs, those with less than 200 followers. Liebster is German for "friend", so I'm taking a few moments to call attention to those I consider friends and their blogs.
The Rules:
Upon receiving the Liebster Award, you must do the following:
1. Show your thanks to the blogger(s) who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
To my surprise, my very dear friend over at The Adventures of Not Supermom singled me out for the Liebster Award. This is awesome, especially considering I am secretly jealous of her blogging bad-assery and want to blog like her when (or if) I grow up. Seriously--people are pounding on her door. NPR saw one of her posts and invited her to participate in their Backseat Book Club, and I'm convinced that every time she applies for another writing or blogging gig money and contracts are waved wildly in her face. I want someone to wave money and contracts for blogging in my face...I can always wear my glasses so the draft from flapping paper won't bother my eyes. Go read her blog. Right now. She is of the awesome.
Turns out the Liebster Award highlights up-and-coming blogs, those with less than 200 followers. Liebster is German for "friend", so I'm taking a few moments to call attention to those I consider friends and their blogs.
The Rules:
Upon receiving the Liebster Award, you must do the following:
1. Show your thanks to the blogger(s) who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the Internet – other writers.
5. And best of all – have fun!
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the Internet – other writers.
5. And best of all – have fun!
My picks for this auspicious honor include:
1. A Portrait of the Artist - My favorite bad-ass young lady, who never fails to surprise me with her
1. A Portrait of the Artist - My favorite bad-ass young lady, who never fails to surprise me with her
3. Diary of a Renaissance Seamstress - Another new discovery. Besides, who doesn't love a good Renaissance costume, whether you've got a kid in the SCA or not?
4. Scandalous Katie - My secret sister in sin and subversiveness.
5. Words All Day Through - Book reviews and more from my favorite Disney character come to life.
I hope you enjoy these recent discoveries as much as I do. As to my own Liebsterizing, I suddenly have the urge to pump my hair up into a Steel Magnolias-style helmet hairdo and run around the house chanting, "You like me...you really like me!!!" Of course, I'd need something Oscar-like to clutch, but all I've got handy are a water bottle and a TV remote, and those would just look silly.
I hope you enjoy these recent discoveries as much as I do. As to my own Liebsterizing, I suddenly have the urge to pump my hair up into a Steel Magnolias-style helmet hairdo and run around the house chanting, "You like me...you really like me!!!" Of course, I'd need something Oscar-like to clutch, but all I've got handy are a water bottle and a TV remote, and those would just look silly.
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