211.2

Since I wasn't able to weigh myself on Friday, I hopped on the scale this morning after Hubs and Kid left for the day. Not bad, not bad.

I drank a looooot of water in the hospital (I learned after my C-section that the more you pee, the more likely they are to send you home) and so far I've managed to keep it up at home. I'm averaging about two liters a day. Plus, thanks to my SUPER-FANTASTIC-AMAZING-THERE-ARE-NOT-ENOUGH-POSITIVE-ADJECTIVES-TO-DESCRIBE-HER mom, my fridge is full of salad, chicken, low-fat yogurt, fruit, and Lean Cuisines. As if that weren't enough, Hubs fulfilled my request for a big pile of pineapple and raspberries, so I've had that for breakfast. Mmmmm.

I'm having a little trouble with this whole inactivity thing, though. I mean, I'm not ready to go run the Boston Marathon, but sitting around all day with a book and/or my laptop, nodding off for a nap every few hours? Not as fun as it might sound. It might be easier if I were in pain, but (finally!) I'm not -- even without the painkillers. My incision is a little sore, mostly because it's healing around the staples, but I was in more pain on a daily basis before the operation than I am now. So my brain says, "Well, shit, you went to work and school and took care of the house and did all your usual things when we were in pain...now we have no pain and you're doing diddly squat! Get off your butt and clean something!"

It doesn't help that Smith is in full-on crazy fitness mode. He decided that he wanted to get back into "good shape" and thus has been working out like a madman, sneaking over here in the early morning to use our gym, using the gym at work, etc. Oh and apparently he's swimming, too? (There you go, ladies. Thought for the day: Smith in a Speedo.) I'm jealous! I want to swim! I want to run! I want to have biceps that don't fit through my shirtsleeves! Wait...what?

I'm trying to be patient. I keep telling myself to let my body heal, that my motivation will still be there when my body is finally ready. It's just a matter of time.

Poop: It IS That Simple!

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know it's been quite an interesting few days for me. As I wrote in my last post, on Wednesday I saw my surgeon and had a bunch of fluid drained from my Lump of Doom, and ended up in a lot of pain, more pain than I'd had before he drained the silly thing. Well, I woke up Thursday morning feeling okay, despite the fact that the Vicodin prescribed by Doc Basil's office hadn't done squat for the pain. But I figured, get up, shower, go to work (where I always have fun) and you'll feel better. If the pain didn't go away, I was going to call and see if I could get a different prescription (nothing like a little drug-seeking behavior, eh?).

Anyhoo, I got to work and pretty much knew after an hour or so that something wasn't right. The pain was still there, I felt barfy and sweaty and just...wrong. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to get help from my doctor's office, to no avail. I got transferred between two offices and about four different people before one of the nurses/assistants told me, "If you're in that much pain you should just go to the ER," and HUNG UP ON ME. I called Hubs in tears and asked him to come get me; the pain was so bad I knew I couldn't drive. My awesome-sauce boss, who is like a combination super-mom and big sister and more all rolled into one, told me to get the hell out of there and take care of myself.

Hubs loaded me into the Jeep and I got back on the phone, finally reaching the office manager at Doc Basil's practice. Unlike pretty much everyone else I talked to, she actually sounded like she gave a crap. She conferred with another doctor and told me they thought I might be having an allergic reaction to the Vicodin, and that I could either come to the doctor's office the next day or go to the ER immediately. By the time she said that, we had already reached the hospital, so the decision was already made. I was in so much pain at that point, I really didn't care.

And oh, that pain. I like to think that I'm pretty tough, after a C-section and two abdominal surgeries, but this pain brought me to tears. It felt like someone was trying to push open the left side of my ribcage from the inside out, and someone else was stabbing me in the belly at the same time. I described it to Hubs as labor pains plus a gall bladder attack, just without the baby and the gall bladder.

We walked into the (nearly empty) ER and I explained to the receptionist what I thought was going on. The triage nurse checked me over and I was taken back almost immediately. Out of my work clothes and into the old familiar green hospital gown. Here we go again, I thought. Hubs was trying to keep my spirits up by making me laugh -- "Hey, hopefully they admit you so we don't have to pay the ER copay!" but by the time the ER doc came back to examine me, I was sobbing. I had started throwing up (and managed to pee all over myself in the process, lovely!) and I was just, for lack of a better or more descriptive term, DONE.

They started an IV (thank you, Paramedic Student, for being quick and managing to put the line in my hand without hurting me!) and gave me pain meds -- Dilaudid, otherwise known as HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS STRONG -- and had me sipping on a big bucket of ginger ale laced with CT contrast solution (not bad, it tasted like a Seven & Seven). My mom showed up so Hubs could go get Kid from school, and not long after he left they wheeled me off for a CT scan.

Within an hour I had my diagnosis: ANOTHER HERNIA, plus a bowel obstruction. Seems my intestines decided to bust through my abdominal wall yet again, and this time they wanted to play Twister. The bowel obstruction had caused a whole bunch of loveliness to back up into my stomach, making me nauseated and beyond uncomfortable.

(I have to pause here for a second to say that this speed of service is EXACTLY why people go to the ER instead of seeing a regular doctor. In a few hours, the ER had treated my pain, given me all the necessary tests, and identified the problem. So why does the same process take WEEKS when you see a regular doctor?! Our healthcare system is effed, people. EFFED. But that's another post for another day.)

Of course I still had my iPhone with me, so I texted Hubs and Smith to tell them the news. Smith, remembering our last conversation, was pretty triumphant:


Poopy system, indeed!

Hubs, on the other hand, was angry. Why was this happening again?! My mom was angry, too -- I was terrified for Doc Basil. I think if he had showed up at that point, my mom would have either punched him in the face or clawed his eyes out. Me? I just wanted it fixed. I didn't really care why it was happening, I just wanted it to stop.

Before Hubs could even make it back to the hospital, they were prepping me for surgery. At my mom's request, a different surgeon (we'll call him Doc Hamburger) was doing the procedure. He explained that, because my intestines had twisted, there was a chance that he might have to do a bowel resection -- meaning, if the intestinal tissue was damaged or dead, he'd have to cut it out. He wouldn't know until he got in there.

They started the now-familiar routine of pre-op procedures: blood draws, questions about religious preferences, discussion of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist told me that because I'd thrown up earlier, they'd have to put in an NG (naso-gastric) tube just in case. They planned to do it while I was knocked out, but it would have to stay in after the surgery. High out of my mind on Dilaudid, I really didn't think about it.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room (unlike my previous surgeries, I don't remember the recovery room AT ALL) with a tube in my nose. The NG tube. The horrible, uncomfortable, disgusting, NG tube. It was like a plastic loogie in the back of my throat, a loogie that gurgled and hissed and pumped the contents of my stomach out before my eyes. Every time the nurses asked me what I needed or wanted, I pointed at my nose and tried to look pitiful. Every time, they explained, as sweetly as possible, that it had to stay. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I could suck on ice chips, and that was it.

Friday morning, Doc Basil showed up to do rounds. Again, I pointed to my nose. He explained that it had to stay; they were trying to "rest my bowels" by preventing anything from my stomach from having to go through them. I was not happy about this. By this time I was starving, my throat hurt, and I was sick of seeing my own stomach contents pass through a tube in front of my face.


Not a happy camper. Not at all. And why, yes, that IS my bile running through that tube! DELICIOUS!

Doc Basil explained that later in the day, they'd hook my NG tube to a "gravity bag" (basically a drain bag without a pump) and if less than a certain amount of stuff came out of my stomach within a four hour period, the tube could come out. I was ecstatic. He also told me that I could have Chloraseptic (for the raging sore throat I'd developed) and LifeSavers (I guess just to be nice). I was still really grumpy, hungry, and tired; it'd been nearly impossible to sleep the night before, between the NG tube, medication and IV changes, and constant checks of my vitals. I couldn't even get out of bed to pee. All I could do was lay there and try to rest. The morphine shots helped, but only knocked me out for about thirty minutes at a time. Oh, and do you want to hear something funny? Morphine makes me nod out like a junky. My head lolls over and I start drooling. I can only imagine what I looked like, drool pooling in the little well behind my clavicle.

So eventually they hooked up my gravity bag, and I was staring at the clock, waiting for that magical four-hour mark. My mom and Hubs took turns staying with me, comforting me, trying to calm me down (I had threatened to yank the tube out myself, I was so sick of it). Several of my friends offered to visit and I turned them down -- I didn't want anybody to see me like this!

As the magical hour of tube-removal approached, a nurse came back to my room and told me I had visitors. My mood had improved considerably by that point (yay drugs!) so I told the nurse to send them in. It was one of my best friends and her husband, and I was so happy to see them. They brought flowers, and a book, and Sudoku, and lip balm, and most importantly, smiles. Their visit got me through the last stretch, that never-ending hour before the NG tube was removed.

So the tube came out, and the relief I felt was beyond amazing. My throat was still hurting like crazy, but that awful, nagging loogie was gone! I could turn my head without pain! I would (hopefully) be able to sleep! And -- dare I say it -- I might be able to have BROTH in the morning! My spirits were lifted and I felt a million times better.

Saturday and Sunday passed like most of my other days in the hospital: rounds in the morning, reading through the day, hospital food, friends coming to visit, more reading, finally peeing alone (adios, catheter!), morphine injections, IV fluids, Heparin injections in my belly, ridiculous bedhead from plastic pillows...



They worked me up to solid foods by Saturday at dinner time. My mom and Hubs were there with me through all of it, bribing the nurses with coffee and hot chocolate from Starbucks, brownies from the Farmer's Market, sandwiches from Tropical Smoothie. More friends visited -- Smith's wife brought me tea on Saturday night, Smith came to hang out on Sunday -- more flowers came. I finished the first three books of Stephen King's Dark Tower series (how lucky was it that I had picked up a ton of books at Book Exchange on Wednesday?). I watched no TV. I did laps around the ward with my IV in tow. We agreed on Monday for my discharge date. The usual stuff.

Mom brought me home yesterday, after a quick pit-stop at Starbucks and a trip to the Target pharmacy. She made me lunch and stocked my fridge with groceries. She made sure I took a shower, and before she left told me that if I didn't stay upstairs, in bed, that I'd be in serious trouble. I took my pain meds and curled up for a nap. Being in my own bed was HEAVEN.

Last night was pretty normal. Hubs made tacos and I managed to get downstairs for dinner. Kid, who'd been with his grandma pretty much all weekend, was his usual sassy, chatty self. I missed him so much!

So that brings us to today...a fairly normal Tuesday, save for the fact that I'm in bed blogging instead of working. I'm on orders to rest and do as little as possible for the next two weeks. I'm thinking there will be a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and that's about it. Call, text, or come by -- I'm not going anywhere for a while.

Thanks to everyone who expressed their love, concern, and support. I received a ton of emails, Tweets, Facebook messages, and phonecalls over the weekend, and every single one of them helped me feel better. I love and appreciate all of you -- both my "IRL" friends and those I know only online. You guys are awesome!

GPOYW, Drains in the Belleh, and a Conversation with Smith

So here I am on a Wednesday, hair looking a little Robert Smith-ish, slightly tired. Once again wearing my beloved black Vans t-shirt, even though it has holes in the armpits and probably qualifies more as charcoal grey than black.

I was off work today, Kid was in school, Hubs at his office. I had a lazy morning (kind of -- it's not really lazy if you're cleaning bathrooms and washing sheets) and then headed to my doctor's office. (In case you're not familiar with my medical saga, I've been having problems with my belly since my C-section in 2008. I had a hernia, had the hernia repaired, had my gall bladder out, and had to have the hernia repair fixed. It's been a giant pain in the you-know-what. And of course, just when I think it's done, something else happens. What happened this time? Mysterious, excruciating abdominal pain paired with yet another lump in the area of the hernia.) Anyway, I finally saw my surgeon today. I explained what was going on, and he did a quick ultrasound that revealed a big pocket of fluid where my hernia used to be. One giant needle later, he'd drained about four ounces out of it, and told me I should be fine. He said the pain was probably being caused by all the pressure of that accumulated fluid.

Well, I'm not fine, of course. I'm home and in worse pain than I was before he drained the stupid thing, and it's already filling back up. Lumpy's Revenge. Now I have to go see a radiologist and have a drain installed (that just sounds wrong!) in my belly. The hope is that if the fluid can drain continuously, the pocket where the hernia used to live will close up and that will be the end. In the meantime, I've been given a prescription for pain meds. That's awesome, except that when I have to come OFF the pain meds, I'll go through that ridiculous sugar binge cycle I run into every time I take opiates or oxycodones or whatever they are. *sigh*

I'm trying really, really hard not to sit here and wallow in self-pity. I mean it. I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me or stroke me or hold my hand (although delivery of Thai food, Vogue, and a gin & tonic would be lovely). I just want this to be over and done with already. I've wasted so much time dealing with medical problems. I know I'm supposed to learn something from all of it, that there's a greater plan, that it's all happening for a reason, but right now I just want to stomp my foot and shake my fist at the sky and yell, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"

At least now I can stop speculating about what's going on in my abdomen. I wouldn't call myself a hypochondriac, but I do tend to imagine the worst when it comes to any sort of medical problems. Smith loves to give me a hard time about this:

Me: "My belly hurts. I think I have pancreatitis."
Smith: "You don't have pancreatitis. You need to stop looking at WebMD and go take a poop."

Poop. If only it were that simple!

The Dreamlife of Angels

As of this week, I'll be doing all of my writing here at FvF. Three Days in October has slowly but surely become a photo blog, and I'm fine with that. It's easier to track my writing if it's all in one place, anyway.

So this morning, I'm going to share with you another of my bizarre dreams. As usual, it was extremely vivid, but this time instead of jotting notes and doodles in my sketchbook, I typed out a synopsis using the Notes app on my iPhone. My original typed notes, complete with spelling and typographical errors:

"Dreamed I was married to an older German man, an artist who did photographs/performance art. Wolfgang massage instructor/helmut newton type. He made me take pregnancy tests that were inconclusive. I peed everywhere and water was getting sprayed from a hole in the wall where he wa drilling into a pipe. He had art scene friends at our house and I hated it. I went to smith and his wife's and Pete was there, he had a lamborghini. He was vacuuming. I had to leave Kid and groceries and childhood dog nappy because my husband (now Hubs) wanted me home. Pete came with me. There was a fire truck at my house and I stole the horn from it. The firemen thought it was my car. I yelled that it drives like a Cadillac. I went inside my house and tried to take another pregnancy test but couldn't. In another part I was at an ob gyn office waiting to be seen,I talked to the receptionist about tortilla chips. The clock was moving in an odd way. I was nervous about time because smith and his wife had come home while I was at their house and I wanted to go back there. While I was at their house and they came home smith asked to hug me and said something about wanting a certain type of hug with hearts together. Trying to get back there or to the doctors office I got lost and ended up at a mall with a kids shoe store, as I went to leave the mall a bunch of black girls were on my jeep and I had to get them off. I was telling them they should be glad to work for their boss, an older black lady. In another part I was driving thru a neighborhood and almost hit a little car with two ladies in it. That was right before Iade the turn that got me lost, to the mall. The whole time I just had the feeling that I had to get back to smith and his wife's house no matter what. And I didn't have my phone. I kept thinking it was going to be too late."

That's a doozy, eh? I'm amazed that I typed that much, half asleep at 1:30AM.

The characters are pretty interesting -- Wolfgang, for example, was a German man who taught a Lomi-Lomi massage class I attended. Helmut Newton, if you don't already know, was an amazing photographer (one of my favorites). Pete is Smith's wife's brother, whom I've only met once. Smith loves to tease me and tell me that I'm secretly in love with Pete. I remember that the medical receptionist looked and talked like one of the girls from nail school, and I think the black girls on the Jeep and their "boss" are probably my other classmates and my instructor. The two ladies in the car? I have no idea. I do remember now that one of them looked a little like Reba McIntyre.

There's a few plot points that make sense, and the rest is kind of nonsense. The art scenesters, well, I've always loathed them. Pregnancy tests? Water everywhere? Not sure about that. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it.

Lambo Pete vacuuming Smith's house is just too hilarious for words. I'm checking on Smith's dog while he and his wife are out of town, and I had actually considered running the vacuum for them while they're gone (for some reason, here in Virginia, dust just multiplies everywhere whether you're home or not). So the thought of Pete beating me to the punch gives me a chuckle.

Let's see, what else...

Getting lost and feeling panicky about time is a pretty common theme in my dreams. I hate getting lost and being late, so of course those anxieties would manifest in my dreams. Same goes for the overwhelming urge to get back to wherever Kid was, somewhere safe.

The part with the fire truck is hilarious to me, only because it sounds exactly like something I'd do while drunk.

Oh! And the hug thing! Another of my massage instructors, Johnny Storm, always made a big deal about hugging so that your hearts line up. Basically, when you go in to hug somebody, you should move your head to the right, and your heart will be closer to the huggee's heart. I've always liked the thought of it, whether it's anatomically accurate or not. I think I told Smith's dad (very much a hugger) about it when I met him (or maybe he already knew about it?) so I suppose it makes sense that it would manifest in a dream as having something to do with Smith.

The only other thing I remember really clearly was Wolfgang/Helmut's "art." He was kind of a performance artist but also a photographer. The impression I got was that he would stage these happenings and someone would photograph them, and then he'd display the photographs. He did weird things, like shave women and let the hair fall all over him, or throw paint on people. I remember thinking that the work was really pretentious and that I hated having all his cronies in the house, worshiping him.

So yeah, weird dreams yet again. I'll be puzzling over this one for a while. Maybe I'll get another installment tonight? Hmm...

La Mer

We made an impromptu trip to the beach today. I fussed a little -- none of my shorts fit, so I had to lop off a pair of khakis. I ended up looking a little like Smee from "Peter Pan," complete with red cap (bandanna). I grumped at Hubs for not packing more towels, or snacks, or drinks. Not a great start to our trip.

I had a minor panic attack when we (me, Hubs, Kid) walked over the hill and onto the beach. There were people -- not a huge crowd, but more than I'd expected. I immediately felt self-conscious and wanted to go home. But I didn't. I wanted my son to play in the sand, and the water, and have fun with his daddy. Hubs, of course, could care less what anyone thinks and walked straight into the water with Kid in his arms, not caring that he was in shorts instead of swim trunks, not caring that people were looking at us like we were kooky European tourists. I stood uncomfortably on the sand, taking pictures with my phone and trying to act like I didn't think everyone was staring at me.

And then it occurred to me that I was letting these stupid, completely ridiculous, self-defeating feelings get in the way of me having fun with my family. I felt like an idiot. Who cares what random people on a beach think of me? Really. WHO CARES?

So I put my phone away and waded into the water, getting my shorts and shirt and everything else completely soaked. It felt so good. I forgot how much I love the water, the sand, the sun, the breeze. It felt so good that I decided on the spot to come back again, and soon, and in my bathing suit, and everybody can kiss my fat, lumpy behind. I want to have fun again.

211

The girls at school are having their own "Biggest Loser" competition, and while I'm not participating, it has made me pay more attention to my eating habits. I've done pretty well this week, save for a little overindulgence in the alcohol department. I was pleased when I stepped on the scale this morning.

My weird and as yet unexplained abdominal pain is still keeping me from exercising, but the urge is there. The urge to go slam out a mile, or two, or three on the treadmill, music pumping and brain shutting off after the first ten minutes. I need it, badly. So, I'm heading back to my doctor's office in two weeks (the earliest appointment I could get) and hopefully he'll be able to figure out the problem (again) and fix it (again), hopefully without surgery.

Oh, and I realized after reviewing my last few blog posts that I failed to report some very exciting and awesome news -- SMITH ISN'T MOVING! So among all the not-so-fantastic stuff I've been dealing with, there's a small ray of light. My number one cheerleader (and ass-kicker) is staying right here. Woo hoo!

Tidal

I remember learning to swim when I was little, not in the pool with my favorite aunt, but at the beach with my dad. He wouldn't allow me to be afraid of the ocean. He picked me up in his arms, turned his back to the waves, and let them crash over us, telling me when to close my eyes and hold my breath. Telling me when it was safe to open up and breathe again. As I got bigger, I could stand in the breakwater myself, bracing my little body against the impact. I remember anticipation, waiting for the dull smack of the water, secretly hoping for a huge wave that would knock me off my feet and drag me out to sea. I loved the disorientation that came when I was trapped under the wave-belly -- where is up? watch your bubbles -- the near-panic of running out of breath and then the euphoria of breaking the surface and gasping for air. Dragging myself back onto the shore, still panting, then running back to do it all over again.

Older and bigger, I stopped turning my back to the waves. I faced them and learned to dive into them, more in control of where I ended up. The thrill of truly swimming, able to outstroke the currents, clear the breakers, and glide out into the deep, deep water where feet and sandy bottom drew further and further apart. Floating on the surface of swells, human sargasso weed, watching the sky and losing my bearings, drifting, drifting, drifting.

Sometimes a storm, sometimes a flat, glassy sea. I swam, always.

I don't remember when it changed. But it did. Fear and caution make a timid swimmer, one who waits for the waves to die down before wading out, eye to the shore, remember where your towel is, don't go too far astray. Self-conscious (who swims in a T-shirt and underpants?), self-doubting (I can't), self-defeating (I never really liked this anyway).

I want returned to me what fear and caution took away. Brashness, and boldness, and not-giving-a-damn. Let the tsunami come; my feet are in the sand and my back is to the sea, I want it, I'm waiting, I'm holding my breath and closing my eyes and waiting.