Be Careful What You Wish For

If today's follow-up visit with the colorectal surgeon is any indication, the median age for his patients is about 75.  The good news about that is I figure my behind looked pretty darn perky by comparison.

As much as I hated to have to do it, because I was SO SURE I could handle a little pain, I confessed to the doctor that the hemorrhoid surgery was, indeed, much worse than I had expected, and he more or less said "I told you so." He WAS interested to hear what made it so much worse to me than the tram flap and bilateral mastectomy surgery (let's see, I don't know, um, maybe RELENTLESS, UNENDING PAIN), how long I was in serious pain (my worst days were days 4 and 5 after the surgery, after which I finally felt like I might survive it after all), and whether it was worth it or not (it was, in hindsight - pahahahaha!).  I also let him know that his prescription for hydrocodone wasn't worth much, but the stash of oxycodone I had on hand was awwwwwwesome. My husband said it was too bad the doctor had no real concept of just how high my pain tolerance actually is, because it says a lot about how painful the procedure was that I needed (and used every bit of) the oxycodone. I told him the upside of the whole thing was it gave me plenty of fodder for my blog, to which he said, "You BLOGGED about this?" Yep, I said, and I was brutally honest. Do I dare send him the link and let him read for himself? Hmmmm....

Of course, he had to do an exam. And of course, the room was warm and stuffy (Trailer Town, after all) AND, since stress seems to trigger my warm (not hot) flashes, naturally, I was sweaty and so stuck to the paper covering on the exam table. I peeled myself off the paper and laid back, which is actually a complicated maneuver that, due to my tram flap surgery, requires me to hold onto my bent knees and roll back. Today, I had the added obstacle of (a) being stuck to the paper and (b) having to work around a large, stiff paper blanket. As I rolled back and landed on the pillow, some combination of rubbery plastic pillow and rubbery table covering made a duck sound on impact. Now, that stopped me in my tracks, as I never anticipated a duck sound to come from underneath my head. 

The doctor apparently had expected me to lie back and turn on my side in a matter of a second or two, which seems like a completely unreal expectation of one of his patients, given my earlier observation about their median age. He said, "I need you on your left side" as he gave me a hand motion (again with doctors giving me hand motions!) that was much like the one you would use to get a dog to roll over. At that point, I felt compelled to tell him and the nurse that I heard a duck noise under my head, but since they didn't hear any such thing, it just served to make me feel really, really stupid.

Which made me feel stressed.

Which made me have a warm flash.

Which made me tense up (along with the fact that I was about to be violated with a rubber glove).

In conclusion? Not only did I have the perkiest ass in the office, it was also tight enough at that point to have cracked a walnut. But he pronounced me to be nearly as good as new (or maybe as good as I was ever going to get?) and, thus endeth our professional relationship. He's really going to miss me....

Until We Meet Again

The summer that I was seven, my grandmother died from breast cancer. A few weeks later, my mom and her sister-in-law, my Aunt Carolyn, cleaned out her house, dividing up dishes and furniture and memories. 

At this same time, the small town of Urich (population 400), where my mother's family lived, was hosting its annual town reunion. It was held in the city park, and was replete with 4-H exhibits, programs on the pavilion stage, an all-school reunion, and a small carnival with games and rides. 

Although he hadn't lived in the town in over twenty years, my mom's brother, my Uncle Bradley, had kept up with classmates and other friends and would have his chance to visit with so many of them that evening at the park. My mom and my aunt were exhausted from all the sorting and packing they had been doing, but my uncle cheerfully escorted me, my brother, and my two great aunts to the park, dressed as he always was in a coat and tie, even in August in Missouri.

Once at the park, my eyes fixed on a ride that I just KNEW I was big enough to go on. It was called The Octopus  It had cars on the ends of each of its eight arms that would spin wildly as the arms rotated and bobbed up and down. One by one, each family member declined to ride it with me, until I turned my pleading eyes on my uncle, who, with only a moment's hesitation, agreed to ride with me. I was ecstatic! 

Once on the ride and after it was too late to change my mind (no backsies), I realized I was TERRIFIED and this was the BIGGEST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE. I clung to my Uncle Bradley's arm, fingers gripping tightly onto his jacketed arm and sobbing. He rode calmly, patting me until it was over.

I didn't know at the time how much my uncle hated things like rides called The Octopus. But he put that aside so that his seven year old niece could try something she THOUGHT she wanted to do. That's the kind of man he was. 

My loving, caring uncle passed away early this morning, gone to be with his beloved wife, my Aunt Carolyn, whom he has missed terribly these past two years. He was a brilliant teacher and engineer. He was a gifted story teller. He was a veteran of World War II, when he flew planes at only 20 years of age. He was a terrific family man. 

And some day, some small child is going to BEG me to accompany him or her on some horrible amusement park ride, and even though I would rather stick forks into my eyeballs, I'm going to remember that kind gentleman in his jacket and tie, hesitate for only a second, and say, "yes." I owe him that. 

I'll miss you, Uncle Bradley. See you again someday....

Carolyn and Bradley Jefferson (thanks, cousin Thomas)

Feeling Hot Hot Hot

A typical night:

9:00 p.m. - Take a nice, long, soaky, bubble bath to soothe the tushy that's still a little sensitive and to relaaaaaaax

10:30 p.m. - Off to bed with a book and read until I fall asleep and drop it on my chest and wake myself up again (this pattern can continue several times before I finally give in, put the book away, and go to sleep). Shivering slightly, snuggle under a sheet and light quilt and wait to drift off.

10:30:15 p.m. - Throw the covers off, because I am suddenly very, very warm. Okay, hot. As long as the husband is still up and the lights are on, I lie on the bed without any covers on me. If he has already come to bed and the lights are off, then I have to have the sheet over at least part of me, including one leg, or else the boogey man under the bed will reach up and get me.

10:30:45 p.m. - F-f-f-f-freezing now. All covers pulled back up and me curled into a little ball, trying to get warm again. 

10:40 p,m, - After flopping around in the bed trying to fall back asleep, give up and turn the light back on and read some more, usually going through the drop-the-book game another time or two.

11:00 p.m. - Asleep. Finally.

1:00 a.m. - Why is it so freaking HOT in here? One leg out of the covers. 

1:00:30 a.m. - Down the hall to check the thermostat, as husband has annoying habit of turning it up too high. Nudge it down until I hear the air coming on.

1:01 a.m. - Might as well go to the bathroom while I'm up.

1:03 a.m. - Freezing again. Back in bed, cover up, curl up, and scoot over nearer the human furnace next to me.

1:05 a.m. - Too warm. Back to my side, stare at the clock for awhile and finally fall back asleep.

2:30 a.m. - Wake up suddenly, drenched in sweat. Throw off covers (except one leg). Immediately commence shivering again. Pull covers back up. Too much. Quilt off, sheet on. Nope, cold again. Quilt up, flop over closer to human furnace again. Need to go to the bathroom again (note to self: quit drinking so much right before bed) but don't want to get up. Lie there and try not to think about going to the bathroom. 

2:40 a.m. - Can't stop thinking about going to the bathroom. Getting hot again. Throw human furnace's arm off of me. Get up and go to the bathroom. Come back to bed freezing. Repeat cycle of covers off and on, curling up, flopping around.

3:30 a.m. - Finally asleep again.

5:30 a.m. - Freezing. Lie in bed, cold and miserable, knowing I have to get up in twenty minutes.

5:48 a.m. - Fall into deep, deep sleep.

5:50 a.m. - Alarm goes off. Time to start the day, feeling so REFRESHED....

I guess I can sleep when I'm dead.

Whatever It Takes

Today was a crappy, weepy day. It was also Oncologist Day. I managed (barely) to keep the two separate, as it is important to me to be a good patient, and being a blubbering baby wouldn't fit my definition of one. 

The closest I got to letting my "good patient" facade slip was when Dr. Croy asked me how I had been doing, and instead of my usual upbeat, Pollyanna answer of "Great," I just answered, "Okay." The doctor, who had been tappity-typing on his computer, paused and looked at me, then said, "Can you expound on that?"

That's when I threw in the towel and conceded that I might be experiencing some side effects. He asked if I were having hot flashes. I told him they aren't HOT, but they're very warm. Very. And the rest of the time I'm freezing. No blood boiling. No flushing. Just very warm moments, which leave me clammy and cold. He asked about moodiness, and I said it was more weepy than moody. He kindly said he was sorry that was happening and mentioned a drug he could give me (I'm not up on my drugs, so I don't remember what he said it was) that would help even out the moods and control the hot flashes (WARM flashes. WARRRRRM.) Of course, there are side effects with THAT drug as well. I guess the look in my eyes made him say, "Well, you can think about it and let me know later...." 

I will keep up the good fight against side effects (or worsening side effects), because how mixed up is it that I would take a drug for side effects, then have side effects from IT? More drugs for THOSE side effects? It would never end, ever. No, thanks.

The last time I was here, the doctor had alerted me to the fact that he was going to do a breast exam on my next visit, so after he put me through my paces of peering into my eyes and throat and having me follow his finger up, down and around ("Look up, look down, look at my thumb, gee, you're dumb."), he handed me a paper gown and said he would step out while I put it on.  I said, "Wait, I need clarification, because SOMETIMES, I get this wrong. How much do you want me to take off?" He not only said, "Waist up," but also threw in hand motions, lest there was any further confusion.

When the doctor and his nurse came back in the room, I told him I had a place that hurt on the left breast, and while it was probably a plastic surgeon issue, I thought I should tell him about it, since (a) I wasn't going to see the plastic surgeon for another few weeks and (b) he was checking them anyway. It didn't start hurting until after the big H surgery, so I've kind of wondered if it had to do with being jelly-side down on the operating table (not thinking about it, not thinking about it, NOT THINKING ABOUT IT). And it's weird that it hurts in the only place I have any sensation  AT ALL. It feels as if I have a really bad bruise, but there isn't anything visible there. He didn't find anything suspicious on either side from an oncology point of view, although he said there might be a build-up of fluid where I'm feeling the pain, but it wasn't anything that couldn't wait until my appointment with the plastic surgeon. Exam over, and it wasn't TOO terribly awkward that the guy I sit next to every Sunday at church just felt me up. (It's a good thing that his true brilliance intimidates me enough that, for once, I have found it wise to keep my mouth shut and not to make any smart ass comments to him about any of it.)

Then, it was off to the infusion center for my injection, where I got to see the lovely SueAnn for the first time in two months and was given my injection by Karrie, who again told me I didn't have enough tummy to pinch for the shots (I love her so).  

Think System. Happy thoughts. Positive energy. Whatever it takes, I'll do. Gotta stop being Joe Btfsplk.

Something's Got A Hold And It Won't Let Go

Today was the first day of school for my kids. In typical fashion for them, they were both bouncing off the walls until late last night, despite repeatedly being told to GET TO BED NOW TOMORROW IS A BIG DAY.  I didn't get to sleep myself until well after midnight and was awake often in the night, between bad dreams and temperature control issues.

Tradition mandates that I make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast on the first day of school, a tradition that started when my son was in preschool and has continued to this, his senior year. I also demand pictures on the front porch with no whining. I never have trouble getting anyone up on the first day, no matter how wired they were the night before. It's the FIRST DAY, after all. All new trails to blaze.


One of the cats jumped up on the bed around 5:30 a.m. and insisted on sleeping with me, on me, next to me. I was already having the temperature control issues, and having a furry, 15 pound cat on me wasn't helping, but somehow I managed to fall back asleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. I was in the middle of another bad dream when my eyes flew open, I looked at the alarm clock next to the bed, and saw that it said 7:30. WHAAAA???  I tried to sit up, flailing around instead since I can't sit bolt upright yet, the cat shot off the bed, the husband said, "What's wrong?!" and  the son was found sitting in the chair next to our bed, stretching. I started yelling, "It's 7:30! The alarm didn't go off! We're late! Get up, GET UP!!!" My husband was still trying to compute what I was saying as I rolled out of bed and stood up, only to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes because my right leg was dead asleep, a direct result of lying in one position too long to accommodate the cat.

My husband was asking my son why he was just SITTING there, not looking at the time, to which my son claimed he noticed it was almost 7:00 when he came in, but he didn't say anything and then he kind of fell back asleep (my alarm was set for 6:00, by the way). I tried to stand up and crumpled to the floor again, my leg still completely dead. All that was going through my mind at that point was that my daughter was going to kill me for not getting her up in time to fix her hair.  I got enough feeling in my leg that I was finally able to stagger down the hall to her room and throw open the door, only to find her completely dressed and calmly finishing her hair. I said, "It's 7:30! We overslept!" She paused to look at me, then said, "I thought it was awfully quiet in your room." I ran back to my room to throw on some clothes, calling out, "No chocolate chip pancakes this morning! There's no time!"

Once I got to the kitchen, common sense prevailed when I realized the kids needed to eat SOMETHING before they went to school, they don't HAVE to be at school until 8:30, although both of them want to be there by 7:45 to socialize, and I might as well make the pancakes. I wrestled the griddle down from the cabinet and made them. The kids rushed in and gulped some down. We went to the front porch to take the mandatory pictures (no whining), and off we all went: my husband to work, my son to the high school, and me driving my daughter to middle school and getting caught in the crush of parents whose kids DON'T want to be there early to socialize.

I got home, went upstairs so I could finally take MY shower and get ready to take on the day, and I realized that I didn't take individual pictures of the kids like I do EVERY SINGLE YEAR. All I had was the two of them together. And it was at that point that I fell apart.



Hormone therapy sucks sometimes. I'm NOT a moody person. I do NOT fall apart easily. I am NOT that much of a crier.  It's taken almost three months of taking Arimidex and Zolodex, but they have won and I have lost. I am now a hormonal, emotional basket case. Is it the end of the world that I didn't get individual pictures of the kids this morning? No. (And don't suggest that I do it tomorrow. A re-enactment does NOT COUNT.) I KNOW that my reaction is disproportionate to what has happened, yet I am powerless to stop the tears when they decide to flow, and that makes me feel like a big ol' crybaby. I also know that I am a very lucky girl, because things could be so much worse for me than just some raging hormones. I'll pull myself together in a bit. I always do. But until then, I'll draw myself a bubble bath and have my pity party in the tub, killing two birds with one stone by soaking both my tender stitches and my tender psyche at the same time, with a nap thrown in for good measure. Tomorrow is another day, says this Scarlett O'Hara. The alarm clock will work, the tears will stop, the cat will sleep SOMEWHERE ELSE, and cotton prices will go sky high. Fiddle-dee-dee.

The Worst Of It's Behind Me

You'll all be glad to know that I have survived the surgery after all. Not to say that I am completely recovered, but the worst of it is behind me *ahem* and it's (hopefully) only going to get better from here.

I had to suck it up and feel better, because we had already made plans BEFORE I scheduled the hemorrhoid surgery to go to Branson for a few days before school starts. Since we didn't have a real vacation this year, I demanded we do touristy stuff while we were there, rather than our usual M.O. of snacking, watching free cable, and being very, very lazy at my parents' lake house. 

The first day, we all got up early (some naturally, some by force) and went to Whitewater. For one reason or another, we were all mad at each other by the time we got there, with me threatening that we would get in the car and go RIGHT HOME if everyone didn't start getting along and having FUN. And if they thought going back home SOUNDED like fun, they might want to think again, because it would be five days of boot camp hell if we went home. We stayed....

Any of the water park's rides are out of the question for me this year, since I don't want to do ANYTHING to threaten the integrity of that tram flap/tummy tuck. And since I forgot to check with my doctor's office about the combination of swimming pool water and a reasonably fresh incision, I thought it best not to go into the wave pool as well, leaving only the lazy river.  With some none-too-graceful maneuvering, my son helped me launch myself into an inner tube with minimum discomfort. I carefully positioned myself so my stitched area was not dragging through the water and, dopey from the pain meds, I floated around and around and around the lazy river for over an hour and a half. It went relatively pain free, other than a few times when my stitched-up area got splashed with pool water. That kind of stung. Quite a lot.  I spent the next hour or so playing my favorite game, "Fat or Pregnant," and doing some general people-watching, and then we left. That tuckered me out fairly well, and I took a long nap when I got back to the house.

After dinner and more pain meds, we were off to the next forced-fun item on the schedule - bumper boats. Let me preface this by saying that sometimes when I take the pain meds, they don't seem to affect me very much, but SOMETIMES, they make me feel gooooood. And this time, they made me feel VERY gooooood! So good, in fact, I decided I could just get out there and ride on a bumper boat myself. In hindsight, not such a good plan. Bumper boats are powered by a lawnmower motor. They are hot and noisy and puff gasoline exhaust in your face. The motor also causes the EXTREMELY HARD plastic seat to vibrate, which was very unpleasant. That, coupled with the constant splashing of water onto the boat seat, which funneled down the leg of my shorts and soaked my tender area, made for the longest bumper boat ride on record.

The next day's frivolities included breakfast out (yummy), a trip to Silver Dollar City (aborted because of too much traffic and was probably, in the long run, a very good thing), and a stop at the new Dewey Short Visitor's Center at Table Rock Dam (where the wind blew my skirt straight up a la Marilyn Monroe and gave the visitors inside and the fishermen outside quite a view of my underpants).  Later in the evening, it was go-kart racing. And yes, I drove a go-kart. And no, it wasn't a good idea (especially since I was still wearing the skirt and it was still blowing straight upwards). I was NOT under the influence of pain meds at the time, so there really is no excuse for my decision to drive a go-kart OR to wear the skirt, nor was there an excuse for me when I tried to wedge myself in the driver's seat and buckle up, not realizing there was a booster seat behind my back that forced my knees up to my ears and once again made for a spectacular display of my underpants.

By the time the weekend was over, I finally felt I had turned a corner and was going to pull through this whole ordeal. I'm nearly pain-free, although anyone who remembers having a skinned knee might recall that after the pain is gone, the next step in the healing process is itching. Need I say more? I think not.

It's two weeks today since the hemorrhoid surgery, and the big question is, would I do it again, knowing what I know now?  Hmmmm.... Not sure I know the answer to that, although it DID give me great fodder for blog posts. And there's no backsies, anyway. Onward and upward!

Here's Hoping

I was concerned that the light at the end of the tunnel was actually a train, headed full-on at me, but today, I can honestly say I'm a little better. I took a shower, straightened my hair, put on MAKE UP and real clothes and accompanied my son to the high school to pick up his schedule for senior year. I did NOT have a good night last night, so after I was finally ready to leave the house, I popped an oxycodone just before walking out the door. 


Contrary to what you might think, the pain meds don't make completely loopy every single time I take one. But on an empty stomach, um, yeah, they probably hit me a little hard. My son drove us to the mall (location of the 11/12 center for those of you not in-the-know), hitting every bump and pothole along the way, all the while swearing he was trying to avoid them.  

No reason for this, just know that
 she will be ticked that her brother
was featured and she wasn't.

Once at the high school, and I digress here, but it's worth mentioning, we had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA where to go or what to do. If my son hadn't run into someone he knew, we would still be standing there. One piece of poster board with, "Go to the cafeteria. Check out your laptop. Go to campus portal and check your schedule. Problems? Go see your counselor. No problems? Go home," would have done the trick.  Yet another case where if only someone had asked me....


We were waiting on a VERY hard wooden bench to see the counselor when my oxycodone hit me square between the eyes. Personally, I thought I carried it off pretty well, although my restlessness led my son to say, "You must be what it's like to have a little kid." 

WHAT pain meds?

We ran a few VERY URGENT errands (new bath pillow and new supply of bubble bath) while I was out of captivity, then home again, home again, jiggity-jig for a two hour soak in the tub and a nap (yes, at the same time - I multi-task).  Here's hoping that light ISN'T a train and that each day is going to be better now. Here's hoping that my son's counselor believed us when we blamed my overly bright-eyed look on my recent surgery and doctor-approved pain relief. And here's hoping that the cheese quesadilla dipped in salsa that I had for supper wasn't a really, really stupid choice.

A Light At The End Of The Tunnel....

It may be possible that this hemorrhoid surgery is NOT going to kill me after all. I'm still popping oxycodone like they're Skittles, but I can sense a slight overall improvement from yesterday.  And my throat, which was really sore for the first few days after the surgery, due to the intubation, has finally gotten better. (My husband said, "It's weird that your throat and your butt both hurt. Like in prison.") 

Hours and hours spent in the bathtub, combined with hours and hours of Olympic telecasts, have given me lots of brain space for more random ramblings....

If my body were a model of the solar system, Uranus would be made out of razor wire and rubbing alcohol.

Great Value sugar-free grape drink is pretty tasty.

My cats are traitors. Neither has given me the time of day all week, since the kids are home and their dish is full.

If I cared a lot more, I would be bothered that my toenail polish needs attention.

If I stopped to think about it, I would realize that I currently cannot bend down and do anything about my toenail polish anyway, so it's lucky I just don't give a flying fig.

 I think I'm going to find that enrolling my son for his senior year in high school is going to be more painful than my tushy is right now.

There must have been a discount on day-glo yellow running shoes.

I don't know if I'm necessarily hallucinating, but I DID think I saw Foghorn Leghorn sitting on a bench in the backyard a few minutes ago.

I always wanted to be Ginger, but I think I'm more the Mary Ann type.

It is taking me approximately three times as long to type this as it should, since I have to backspace so much to cover up that my hands are pretty much not in the right place on the keyboard.

Salads never taste as good at home as they do at a restaurant.

Neither do sandwiches.

Giving my high school student a Mac Book to use for the entire school year, then prying it out of his hands at the end of the school year, was just about the cruelest thing the district could have done to both of us....

Know why Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh are good at beach volleyball? No boobies to get in the way.

The Olympic torch looks like a vacation bible school craft gone wrong.

Time for a soaky bubble bath and a special Skittle, washed down with a little grape drink....

In A Nutshell....

This sucks. I. Want. Backsies.

Tell Me It Will Be Worth It In The End (Bahahahaha!)

All righty. It's the third day after the big H surgery, and it is MY opinion that I should be feeling a helluva lot better by now than I am. Just popped an oxycodone, if that's any indication of how the day has REALLY started.... 


Read a message board on the subject yesterday, and it was one poster's opinion that surgeons lie to you about how bad the recovery is going to be, because otherwise, no one would EVER have the surgery. Probably a whole class in medical school devoted to that.


Since I'm not capable of putting together an intelligible blog post this morning, thanks to my friend oxycodone, I will offer random ramblings instead:


If you are a politician and call my house and start the conversation with the words "I'm a conservative politician and I want your vote," you've got the wrong number, buddy.


Everything tastes better when eaten with an Orange Leaf spoon.


I no longer have a problem with my kids sleeping until noon (or later), because if they're sleeping, then they aren't fighting.


I think it's a good thing I don't have an appointment with the oncologist this week, because he would not only see bat shit crazy when he looked in my eyes, but would see an entire aura of it surrounding me.


Cameras and oxycodone probably should not be used simultaneously.


Everything that sounds good to eat would be a really baaaaaaad idea about now, namely, anything Mexican. 

She wanted a blog
 about her. This is as
 close as it gets for now.

I never, never, ever aspired to be an Olympic athlete. Or any kind of athlete, come to think about it. 


I like cheese.


Tax free, back-to-school shopping weekend should be in October, because who wants to try on jeans when it's 105 degrees outside?


And while we're on the subject of back-to-school, I would like whomever writes the school dress code to take my daughter shopping and find her some shorts or skirts that fall within the parameters of said dress code without dressing her in Alfred Dunner separates.


We should have a Five Guys in Joplin.


I knocked a full glass of diet coke over on the kitchen counter a few minutes ago and almost cried because, well, it was such a waste of freshly poured diet coke.


It's never a good thing when whatever you have is a topic on "The Doctors."


Bruce Jenner looks like a woman. A homely woman. A very homely woman.


I wish Ellen DeGeneres would think I was cute and give me presents, like she does those obnoxious little Nicki Minaj girls. 


And a Pei Wei. That would be nice to have, too.


And lastly, I'd rather have hemorrhoid surgery than watch Sarah Palin pitch local candidates, and the bad news is, I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH BOTH. What a pain in the ass....


I think it's time for a nap....

Singing In The Bathtub....

How, HOW can such a tiny little area cause so much FREAKING PAIN? I have a 26" incision that runs from behind my left hip bone, across my stomach (you know, the really FLAT one) and ends behind my right hip bone. It was a mere paper cut by comparison. OWWWWWWW!!!

Long, soaky baths have been a lifesaver. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed taking a relaxing bath. I used to take them a lot when I was pregnant, often taking a nap at the same time. Then I started having these weird dreams where I couldn't breathe and would jump awake, heart pounding. Even after I was no longer pregnant, the dreams continued, and they scared me so much that I quit taking baths (I SHOWERED, kiddies, so don't think I haven't been clean since I was pregnant). So far, I have fallen asleep every time I've gotten in the tub this week and have not had the scary dream, so, yay! 

My issue at this time is getting out of the tub at the end of the bath. There really is no graceful way to do it, and I'm grateful that, thus far, no one has been witness to it. After spending an hour (or two - seriously, I spent two hours in the tub last night) reclined in the tub, I then have to get myself into an upright position that my tight (and FLAT!) stomach muscles just won't allow me to do. Plus, my wittle bottom is sore, so I end up rolling over to one side and wallowing onto my hands and knees. It's a sight, I assure you.

This afternoon, while lolling about in the tub, I started playing with the faucet with my foot and was reminded me of a classic tv episode. Anyone? Anyone? Why, it's the Dick Van Dyke Show episode where Laura got her toe stuck in the faucet of a hotel bathtub, re-enacted here for your enjoyment:

Oh, that Oxycodone! What will it make me do next?

Just Say No...To Ineffectual Drugs

I have discovered the reason I don't like pain meds is because I've never taken GOOD pain meds. 

I have been faithfully "staying ahead of the pain" by taking the Tramadol I had left over from the tram flap surgery. The reason it was left over was twofold: I didn't really have that much pain, unless I was transitioning from sitting/lying to standing or vice versa, in which case the meds didn't help, and the Tramadol made me jumpy and kept me awake. Hence, the nearly full bottle of it in the cabinet.


Now, the most important post-op instruction (it's even highlighted on my instruction sheet) is, and I quote, "DO NOT BECOME CONSTIPATED!!!" Then they give you opiates that are constipating. Quite a Catch 22. So I have been drinking plenty of fluids, eating Fiber One bars and fruit, taking stool softeners, and.... nothing. And since doing "something" is stressed as being very important, I had to bring in the big guns and take a laxative.


It was after midnight, I was wide awake, thanks to the Tramadol, and "something" finally happened. I had done my research. I had read my post-op instructions. I was completely aware that "something" going past fresh stitches was not going to be fun. I was NOT, however, prepared for everything to go black....


I got my head down between my knees before I completely lost consciousness. And I thought I had a high pain tolerance! When I finally got myself together enough to go back to bed, it very nearly happened again, but I was close enough to the bed that I fell onto it before I hit the floor. Spent the rest of the night lying verrrrrry stilllllll and got very little sleep.


Since the Tramadol was pretty much a fail for me, I decided to kick it up a notch (or two or ten). When I had my ablation and d&c, Dr. Lacey prescribed Oxycodone for me. That procedure was so not a big deal that I didn't even open the bottle, but I saved it for a rainy day. And it's a metaphoric downpour today!


Know what? I liiiiiiike Oxycodone! I still have pain, but I don't give a rat's ass about it now. My arms and legs feel as though they are attached with rubber bands, my brain feels all happy and fuzzy, and I don't think I could lift my arms above my head right now if my life depended on it. 

Time to float away now and enjoy this silver lining to a rather crappy procedure (pun intended)....