On the day of my surgery, 12 tornadoes struck the city where I live. Twelve in one day. I kid you not. Because of the vicious storms, my surgery was delayed for four hours. Unfortunately, the only thing between holding and recovery is a half wall. I swear I listened to a woman dying for two of those hours. And she was RIGHT behind me. There was beeping, bad smells, moans, nurses, doctors, respirators, and the struggle to breathe. Maybe she lived. I don't know. They eventually moved her, and not because she was doing any better. So I was stuck in this hospital bed, wide awake, no drugs listening to that.
But, the surgery went fine. The surgeon said my gallbladder was pretty inflamed, but they managed to get it out laparoscopily (That may or may not be a real word.). When they woke me up, I hurt and I felt like puking. They told me my gallbladder was out and in a bucket. I said, "I hope it likes it there." Then they moved me from the operation table to the hospital bed and I yelled, "F_ck! Oops, sorry. OW!" Isn't it sad how stupid we are when we're drugged up to our ears? Drugs are bad!
When I got home, my husband put me to bed. An hour later, I had to pee, but I couldn't get up. It's like I forgot how to support my body with my arms to help myself get out of bed. And, of course, it hurt. My husband tried to get me up, and I couldn't get up. I held it for a couple of hours. I thought I was going to have to ask him to get me a bowl or something. But, eventually, I got in a position that he could pull me up from and I got to the bathroom. Two frickin' hours later, I had to go again. It was so cruel! He had to help me out of bed for about three days and we had to go through this each time.
I couldn't take my Ambien because of all the drugs they gave me, so I didn't sleep well for the first few days. On the fourth day into my recovery, my eye started twitching. I don't mean occasionally or for like an hour. I mean the bottom eyelid was twitching rapidly nonstop for two days. I couldn't read, I couldn't watch movies, I couldn't get on the computer. All I could do was lay there with my eyes closed and a washcloth over my face. My head hurt like crazy and I felt really nauseated. Corey was kind enough to read to me, but the literature of an eight-year-old is pretty limited, even an 8-year-old that can read really well. Ugh. But otherwise, recovery has been fine.
Friday, a small group of friends of mine (you know them as those people that hug me though I don't like to be hugged and the people who send me Gary Busey pictures) came over to watch horror movies and make me a low fat meal. They made minestrone soup and fruit salad. And that's when Gary returned. He seems to be nicer. I guess he didn't like the bucket.
And now you're all caught up with that. But wait! There's more!
Two people I know died in the past couple of days. One is a mentor from the Creative Writing program at Carlow University. I was going to talk about him in this blog post, but then I realized he deserved his own post. So you'll be seeing that post very shortly.
The other person was my cousin. My mother was the youngest of ten. So, my cousins are around my parents age, my second cousins are around my age, and my aunts and uncles were more like several sets of grandparents. So, though he was my cousin, he was more like an uncle. Do you follow? We all knew him as Junior. Today, he was stung by bees. On route to the hospital in an ambulance, a car struck the ambulance and the ambulance fell on its side. My cousin died. He was a very big, gentle, compassionate man and the family is in shock. Please, please pull over for emergency vehicles. Don't try to beat them. Don't play your music so loud that you can't hear them. And please keep my family in your thoughts.
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