And writing this on word and hoping to upload it sometime before close of trading on Tuesday which is when my successfully and finafuckingly transferred internet service should be back up and running after some nimrod cut my phone line during the transfer.
Anyway, am home. I was supposed to check out this morning…although…that sounds..wrong…as in, isn’t checking out something people do when they die? Thankfully, I wasn’t meant to check out
check out, I was meant to, how do they say it? Be discharged.
Like a firearm. Much better. Yes. So to continue, I was meant to be discharged this morning but having missed my little boopy way too much, I came home last night instead, amid much fanfare and the occasional screech of excitement from Daniel.
I’ve already been back to the hospital though, because wtf is that lump? It’s nothing, bla bla bla, so back home again and writing this on Word.
In unrelated Daniel news: he taught himself to eat while I was away, feeding himself for the first time alone on Wednesday evening, thereby sharing a milestone with someone other than me. Awesome.
Looking at me, if not for the intact left ear declaring otherwise, you’d think I’d just gone fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson, but I feel fine. No pain control since Friday morning so it’s mainly discomfort now from the swelling and the inordinate amount of scaffolding that’s been left behind in my mouth. People, I have wires in my gums
. Freak-ay. I also have this plastic thing the size of a dinner plate stuck around my top teeth and not quite against my palate doing I don’t know what, and that is a total pain in the ass. Thank fuck the fucking thing comes out Wednesday because it is truly atrocious. I’m sucking on it now like a little old man sucking on his dentures only because no one can hear me and also because I’m when I ate my soft and squishy breakfast, a rogue oat got stuck underneath the Tupperware and it’s driving me nuts. Can you imagine the collection of food that’s going to be there by Wednesday? My teeth shudder to think of it.
While in hospital, I recorded my progress on my cell phone camera but as we all know, my stupid phone’s drivers won’t work on my mac, and my all purpose spiffy Image Capture program thingy says “what cell?” when I plug it in so you all aren’t going to see any of the really good shit. Day one, when I was all wafting in and out of consciousness with wires going in and drains going out of me, I leaned out of bed and grabbed my cell and took a photo before I passed out again. That’s dedication folks. Seriously. It’s a gorgeous photo and my face is the size of a soccer ball. The swelling got worse the next day and I dutifully recorded it, except somehow I forgot to save the image so without it, unless I get hit in the face with a 4x2, I’ll never be reminded of just how far human skin is capable of stretching.
The professor I’m seeing usually treats patients much younger than I, which better explain the reason why he’s so goddamn stingy with the good drugs. If it doesn’t, dude is just a sadist. Panadol, or for those of you playing along at home, acetaminophen, after major surgery? You have got to be shitting me. Unfortunately, you weren’t. I got one teensy weensy shot of pethadine while in recovery, and even then, I had to beg for it, and it was a measely 10mg which, pah. Then he wrote up two more tiny doses that he had to approve before the nursing staff were allowed to administer it anyway, and they were for the entire post op recovery time. Once they were gone, panadol.
That being said, it was IV and while panadol usually does jack diddly squat for my aches and pains, this mainlining it stuff did
take the edge off my agony, even though it did squat for the two – count them, TWO-migraines I had while in hospital.
The prof, or TP hereon in, approved the two shots of peth for the first night of agonizing head exploding pain, and that, as they say, was that for the good drugs. The next night, my headache returned and I was all throwing up and groaning and the staff were all too scared to call TP and request the good shit, so they
called their dealer
found the on call doc-who apparently fears not the wrath of the mighty TP-and he wrote up an order for something other than that stupid panadol. People, I understand why Vicodin is a problem drug over there and why doctors will only prescribe it under extreme circumstances here. I loved it. Loved it. LOVE. Totally. Thanks be to Jesus, the next shift totally fucked up and didn’t notice the order was ‘stat’, meaning, once only, and gave me another (illegal) hit sometime on Thursday, so I spent the rest of the day floating on a cloud, dreaming of bunnies and kittens and the cast of Grey’s Anatomy who were swinging high and low and over and in the water on the famous Cranes Of Seattle which, who knew there were famous cranes in Seattle? Not me, that’s for sure.
Daniel is on the floor next to me after having emptied out the two bottom shelves of the miniscule cupboard I like to call a pantry. They’re his shelves, full of stuff I need to store that has been vetted for sharp edges, pointy bits and gob stoppers. He’s a freakin’ neat freak. I mean, sure, there’s shit all over the floor right now, but he’s putting it all back in an orderly manner. Now he’s holding a big old bag of cat food. I let him play with the unopened ones because he loves them so much. They provide him with all the essential nutrients he needs: they’re portable, the bag make crinkly noises, the catfood makes crunchy noises inside the bag, and the bag has a big picture of a cat on it. He’ll carry that darn thing around all day like he’s king of the world because he’s carrying a cat who crinkles and crunches which in his word, is rad.
Aside from the buttload of flowers, a phrase that provides me with an interesting visual and hours of fun, I also got a fisher-price lawn mower. Fuck, that thing is awesome. It makes mowing noises, sings songs, and has this clear dome on top with brilliant flashing twirling clattery things inside that seriously remind me of the good times being had way back in the sixties. After resorting to dynamite to get it out of its box (note to Mr Fisher and Mr Price: What. The. Fuck. Is up with the bullet proof packaging?!), Mr deebs at my siode and offering his advice in re the extraction of said lawn mower, he finally got to push it around merrily, which he did for ages, always with one eye on me in case I escaped again, until he crawled onto my lap brandishing his new but already well worn copy of Goodnight Moon
* so I could read it to him the requisite ten katrillion times before bedtime, which came shortly thereafter.
In other news, I’m drinking a cup of decaf, which brings me to an another aside. Keeping in mind that I’ve had my own tortuous years with that anxious panicky crap. I do NOT get why anyone with anxiety would drink all those cans of coke or all those pots of coffee and then say, gee, I’d do anything to not be anxious. No. You wouldn’t, because if you would, you’d quit with the damn caffeine already because even if you halved, quartered even, your copious intake of that stimulant
drug, and still had the same amount of anxiety, a) I’d be surprised but more importantly, because yes, I know my opinion matters so much, ahem, b) I’d admire you for at least trying. Of course, I’d admire you more if you got rid of all the caffeine completely
for at least a month because truth is, your half assed effort before wouldn’t actually impress me (please see above reference to the importance of my opinion) that much. Which reminds me of another gripe o’ mine in re anxiety: ye olde “why can’t my family/friends/whoever understand and/or accept my anxiety?” question to which I answer, why can’t you understand and or accept that they can’t?. Same shoe, different foot. Or something. And while I’m at it, let’s talk about how some anxious people get all pissy about the so-called stigma attached to having an anxiety disorder who, in the next breath, say, “but I’d never tell anyone I have it because I’m too embarrassed” The fuck? How do you expect the rest of the world to respect your disorder if you’re
ashamed of it? For what it’s worth, I’ve never been ashamed of myself for being anxious. Sure, I’ve felt stupid at times because while putting an aspirin on my tongue before frantically spitting it out for fear it’s going to kill me and then freaking out about the miniscule amount I’d absorbed while it was there is kind of stupid, but thankfully, that kind of stupid I’ve been able to laugh about. If I was having a panic attack about, say, going out with a friend for the evening, when things were really bad, I’d back out and be honest about why, because I’d rather have her know I wasn’t going out because of my issues and not because I didn’t want to spend time with her. I’ve NEVER noticed ANYONE treating me differently or like I’m retarded or stupid, and I’ve never felt anyone has thought any less of me for admitting, no, (not admitting because it isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a
I have anxiety and get panic attacks. You don’t want a stigma attached to it? Quit acting like it’s something to be ashamed of. Jesus. Most times when I said “bla bla bla, anxious, bla bla”, the person listening would sigh in relief and thank me because they had anxiety too and had never told anyone. My dentist is a great example. A few years back I was in the chair and about to pop my top with panic, so I told him, dude, panic attack, can we take a moment? He stopped whatever it was, something scary like a scale and clean I think, becuz I yam brave at da dentis, and told me it was okay, he had panic disorder too, almost lost his career, had to leave work some days as he’d pass out with fear, yadda yadda yadda. Meanwhile, his nurse, who had worked with him for eons, was saucer eyed with this new knowledge, and then she was all, well, I have a little secret too. The dentist was all “no kidding?!’ and I was all khum bye fucking ya, cats. Also, I may have just offended some lurky readers. It wasn’t my intention as I seriously do NOT get the things I just yammered on about and I have absolutely NO idea what started that little tirade. Think, think. Or reread! Yes! Coffee, decaf in particular, which an aside, if I drink more than one regular instant in the morning, the anxiety, which I thought I didn’t have any more, returns. Ta da. And here’s little it of TMI for y’all. I had a cup of regular this morning (which may explain the plethora of uppercase and italicised words)(is ‘italicised’ even a word?) because jesus H, am I ever
going to poop again? And as we all know, caffeine historically helps a sister. I say ‘historically’ because NOT TODAY it doesn’t, which may be why this entry is so full of shit. Ahem.
ANYWAY, the coffee story that started all this was that I have to drink it wearing a bib and holding a bowl under my chin.
If I’m not mindful of my big, bloated mouth, I dribble when I lean over, which makes gazing down at my son’s beautiful face while he’s sleeping something of a precarious event. My friend, the gorgeous Nell who took me to hospital on Monday morning, visited me on Wednesday and who, by later admission, left the room and came back despite being totally freaked out by the face-meet-4x2 look I was sporting, and who then picked me up and took me home last night, thinks it’s only fair, especially considering the career Daniel made out of gobbing all over me not that long ago. I told her that to be truly fair, one must consider the vast number of times he’s peed, pooped and yarped all over me too…
At some point back there, Daniel wandered into the bedroom carrying a two pack of double D batteries and box of I’m not sure. Something not chokable, poisonous or pointy. After saving what I’d written because man, I’ve had way too many incidents to not have bought a clue about saving shit, I wandered in after him and found him face down on the bed, clutching the two parcels to his chest. Fuck he’s cute. He’s just wandered out again with the box of something unknown and an unopened packet of wet wipes, stolen from underneath his change table. My son, the bower bird. Off he goes again, this time empty handed and now he’s back with the blue plastic ladle he must have stashed in the bedroom earlier and what looks like a scrunched up tissue.
Rivetting stuff, so this is me, signing off from planet bee. Missed you all, mwah, mwah, etc.
* he toddles over several times a day brandishing this book and I have to read it to him at least twenty billion times before he's satisfied, and even then his little face drops when I hide the book behind me and under a cushion and then cover it all up with an artfully tossed throw (dude ain't stupid) and say "all gone!" and wave something fluffy and without words in front of his face by way of distraction. It was sent to him from a very good friend of ours, and it's the dee's favoritest ever book EVER, so I'm not sure if I want to thank her or smack her over the head with it.