Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Reality, Crashing All Around Me

So, I didn't die in surgery, nor in the post-operative hell I experienced for the first 24 hours. The post-anesthesia nurse denied my request for an overdose of narcotic (she wouldn't cut my bladder out of my body with her bare hands, either). I survived an allergic reaction to the above-mentioned narcotic, as well as made it through a couple of bad hospital meals. Did you know that hospitals, even good, vegetarian hospitals, will serve you doughnuts for breakfast? As I've yet to see a glazed, raised doughnut made without trans-fats I'd say it was part of a master plan to get me back in there in a few years for some repeat business, perhaps a triple-bypass.

Today is day 7 post-op. It has been one week since they took my uterus. I have moaned in pain, I have cried for no reason, I have complained of boredom, I have begged for sleep. My husband is an angel, feeding me smoothies, fresh salads, and homemade soups. He begs me to stay in bed; oh, how I wish that was a romantic, passionate request, and not the pleading of a man who is afraid his wife will break in half and start bleeding uncontrollably.

Life however, has marched right along, not caring if I am incapacitated or not. J-Baby came down with a cold as soon as I came home, and T-Guy picked it up a couple of days later. Papa got the cold, as well as a blocked tear duct that left him with bags under one eye resembling Sleepy of Seven Dwarves fame.

Now J-Baby is complaining of stomach pain and has taken to his bed, refusing to eat and claiming to be unable to walk. He doesn't have a fever and he isn't actually sleeping, so we're doing a "watch and wait". J-Baby often starts his serious illnesses this way, be it an ear infection or influenza. The refusal to eat makes everything worse because he gets weaker and weaker.

(It seems it wasn't serious. He vomited bile, drank some chamomile-ginger-honey tea, listened to a story CD, ate his lunch, and was outside playing by 2:30 p.m.)

We won't talk about the house. Papa is trying, really, but one man can't keep up with two boys while nursing a bedridden wife and holding down a full time job. We have until Monday to get the mess contained; I acquiesed to the idea of a weekly housekeeper through the holidays and a team will be arriving Monday for a thorough initial cleaning.

To top it all off, the beloved Girl Dog brought in a possum last night. It was dead, but freshly so, as rigor mortis had not set in and Papa was privileged enough to see its guts spilling out as he removed it from the house and scrubbed its blood from our floor. I told Girl Dog that she was darn lucky that she hadn't dropped it on the Persian rug. For the life of me I can't figure out why she chooses to mutilate possums when otherwise she is the gentlest dog on the face of the planet. Perhaps someone should clue the possums in on the fact that playing dead doesn't work with the Girl Dog, and in fact will result in being dead.

So, it wasn't the last walk, or snuggle, or kiss. I'm grateful. My life is beautiful. Messy, but beautiful.

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