Until you've had mosquito bites on your foot! Three, even!
So I lived to tell you about my gallbladder surgery. And I know you've been eyeballing my blog just for the story, yes? So here you go:
June 8th, I report to the surgery center at 6 a.m. sharp. Anyone who knows me also knows how charming I am in the morning. At 6:30ish (I was supposed to be taken to prep by 6.. So things were getting started a bit late) I was taken back, asked to take off all my clothes (which, contrary to popular belief isn't always fun), had these... things... put on my lower legs to keep my blood circulating, and stabbed with a needle 8 times. True, that. The RN I was privy to be poked by missed, 7 times. Finally, with an IV appropriately hooked into my one remaining useful vein, I was whisked away to the frigid, unfeeling, surgery room where I was moved to another table that felt impossibly cold. I swear they pull surgery beds out of the freezer before tossing your naked ass onto them...
And that, my fine groupies, is all I remember.
Until waking up, trying to scratch under the oxygen mask. Why do those things itch? Seriously, I want to know. When I was 24 I had my tonsils out and woke up trying to scratch my face. Uncool. The next thing I remember was being told I needed to breathe and when I tried to I thought I was having a heart attack. If you didn't know, when you have laparascopic gallbladder surgery, they pump you full of carbon dioxide so they can see what they're doing. That shit hurts when you wake up, I don't mind telling you. And for a week afterwards. Quite painful. The recovery nurse seemed to be continuously telling me to "breathe, ladybug".
Nobody recalls her calling me "ladybug", but me. And I remember it clearly. I do!
The surgery took about an hour, little less, and I was in recovery for about three hours. I was sent home where I proceeded to lay down and sleep.. And sleep.. And sleep some more. It was about 5 hours before I could talk well.
Then, on day two I went shopping with Pinky, then went home and slept. Day three I slept all day. Day three was rough even though it was the day I could remove the bandages and shower. I had the bandage tape remnants on my stomach for pretty close to a week and a half and the steri-strips fell off about the same time.
My follow-up was last Tuesday, the 23rd. The surgeon gave me a release to return to work for the 7th of July, for a grand total of 4 weeks off work.
During this time off of work, I have painted three walls (which seems like a brilliant idea on weight restriction, yeah?), and had the floors finished in both of my bedrooms. My house is an absolute mess, since everything from both bedrooms is piled in my livingroom. As I type, I'm sitting on the floor in front of my computer. That, my friends, is dedication. This floor is fucking hard.
But while I'm already suffering, I'm going to add that seeing as it was Thursday (is still, to me, because I haven't slept yet) that on this day (1st) my beloved television passed away, and (2nd) my car has decided it sounds like fun to feign death at stoplights.
Also on this (yester)day in history: Farrah Fawcett died to(yester)day, at 62. Michael Jackson also died to(yester)day, at 50. This makes me quite sad. More sad in fact, than I realized I'd be to hear that Michael Jackson has died.
Every day in hell is a Thursday.
Do you believe me now?!