Unfocused

Inspirational song: Nothing from Nothing (Billy Preston)

I refuse to beat myself up for the days when my mind is scattered. These days happen a lot, and I accept them as my standard operating procedure. It makes it hard to find a unified topic to write about at night, but it means I don't get bored during the day. I bounce around from fragmented moment to fragmented moment like a squirrel with a triple-shot mocha latte, and I just let that freaked out squirrel fly free.

I'm getting around better and better. My endurance is allowing me greater freedom. We got out for an extended shopping trip, including a run through the Restore Warehouse, so we could donate some old light fixtures. It was almost dangerous for us to be there, because the man found a huge arched window that he wants to snag for his as-yet imaginary mountain cabin, to be built someday on that mining claim he bought earlier in the winter. So far he hasn't bought it, but I fear it will be sitting in my garage before the week is out. At least we only left with photographs of the really fun thing we saw, however. There was a giant console record player, radio tuner, and 8-track player. The thing was at least six feet long, walnut stained, and it had that quintessential carved wood front from the 1970s. Wow. I definitely don't want to find that in my garage next week.

My newfound strength extended to being able to make a whole dinner, although it took me several sit-down breaks and one overdue percocet to complete it. It was appropriate that what I fixed was technically called hash, because it was as motley a mix as comes out of a scrambled mind such as mine. It was a step up from the grain free apple breads I made yesterday, without a recipe, that ended up tasting a little too much like sawdust, a result of a heavy hand with the coconut flour. I have no idea what I did a month ago that made perfect, moist little cakes. These were barely saved by thick smears of butter on each tiny slice.

I have hope that I will be strong enough over the next two or three days to clean my house. There will be family visiting at the end of the week, and I can't let them see this place how it has been for weeks, with me sick and the man not noticing how much damage a maladjusted cat and a handicapped dog can do in a short amount of time. I've managed to pull energy from thin air for the last two days. I can make something out of nothing, and keep building on it. I don't have much choice.

More Than We Will Ever Take

Inspirational song: Whatever Gets You Through the Night (John Lennon)

We have a strange relationship with pain killing medication around here. We go through enough traumatic bodily events to need serious pills, according to the doctors. But neither of us, nor either of the kids while they were still living with us, enjoy the feeling of being fuzzy and not in full control of our faculties. For that matter, the kids barely even wanted to take ibuprofen, much less anything more extreme, for their aches and pains. The man is the least likely of any of us to be willing to take the prescription pills that come after surgery. (Nor is he likely to follow doctor's orders to take it easy -- I had to chase him back inside from doing yardwork the day after his gall bladder came out.) I have been prescribed more pills of all kinds than a woman my age should ever have seen, and I have absolutely not taken them all. I can't stand the side effects of most of them, and for others, I don't like the primary effects either. I am due for another trip to a pharmacy take-back day, to return things I will never consume, for any reason. I don't need them taking up space in my house, and I don't need the risk that some visitor to my house will go nosing through and find expired meds that could do harm. And the last thing I want to do is flush them down the toilet, to pollute the municipal water supply. I shudder to think how many pharmaceuticals are already swirling through my tap water as is.

For all that I want to wean myself off of my pain pills as soon as possible, I did find myself on the phone with the doctor today, asking what I ought to do. My belly hurt like I had been punched, and I looked in that medicine bottle and counted. If I stay on the percocets, I don't have enough to get through the weekend. But the docs are not allowed to refill those kinds of meds over the phone (or maybe that's just a rule from this particular practice, I don't know), so I have been encouraged to transition myself to plain old ibuprofen. I was relieved to be offered that advice. It will help me feel more in control of my destiny, and less dependent on substances that keep me from being able to drive or to think clearly.

The man and some of his friends were boasting about some of those "traumatic bodily events" this evening, joking about body parts that have been accidentally removed or resculpted. The only time I ever saw my man under the influence of morphine, it was while he was stretched out in a California hospital, holding his suddenly-shortened thumb on a pillow on his chest, while he made wisecracks about accident paperwork that needed to be filled out. This evening, he wrote a haiku on the subject, and I warned him I would reprint it. Here it is.

Haiku to My Table Saw
You cut wood so quick
Make it easy to build stuff
Oh, crap, my thumb! Zing!

Now, if only I could find that picture we took when he got home from the reattachment surgery, as he sat on the couch in his bathrobe, with his thumb extended in a giant white bandage, like an out-sized hitchhiker's hand gesture. He was doped out of his mind, and he smiled broadly while he held the sign we made for him and his giant thumb, "Vegas or bust!" Instead, I just have a couple lovely pictures of the Motherpark, one of a beautiful sunset, the other of the dusting of snow it got this afternoon.

The Next Steps

Inspirational song: Steppin' Out (Joe Jackson)

I'm slowly but surely reclaiming my life. For the first time in two weeks, I participated in the preparation of lunch. I chopped up our last potato from the pantry and made home fries to go with leftover hamburger patties. It was exhausting, and I sat down in between trips to the pan to turn them over so they didn't burn on any one side. But it represented a huge step forward in my healing process. An hour or so after lunch, I was completely worn out, and rather than falling asleep on the couch, I went up and slept in my own bed for the first time since the surgery. I'm ready to graduate from the guest bed, now that I don't need to sleep much closer to the ground so I can get in and out of bed without assistance. I've missed my own space, and that nap was some of the best sleep I've had in two weeks. I have decided it is time to move back into my own room, and I'm not worried about potential pain from the man rolling over in bed and jostling me. Ever since the drain came out, my pain has abated dramatically. I'm in the fast lane to health now.

Tonight I went beyond a tentative trip to my dear friend's house, where I was coddled and loved on by three nurturing women. I was brave, and I went to my regular bunco night, and opened myself up for teasing and movement and testing the limits of my pain control. It was fabulous. I tried not to laugh too heartily, just because my stomach muscles get sore still, but it was impossible not to be jolly with this group. I tried to lose every game, so that I never had to change chairs (winners move every round to new tables, in a constant circle of changing partners). I lost 13 of 20 games, so I did what I set out to do, even though I won just enough to complete a circle of the room.

It wore me out, and I was shaking by the time I made it back to the car. (No I did not drive myself.) I am thrilled that I'm taking back my freedom, though. I think I am ready to do a grocery shopping trip, partly because I'll have a cart to hang on to as I start to get tired, and partly because I really enjoy doing it. I'm in the part of the country that has Publix supermarkets, and they really are great places to shop. Customer service is far more important to me than pricing, so I dig being in a place that makes it a priority. Plus, selecting my own groceries will inspire me to start cooking again more, which will continue the advance of my independence. Onward and upward!

Do You Want to Play a Game?

Inspirational song: Your Body Is a Wonderland (John Mayer)

It's almost a certainty, if there is anything guaranteed to draw me out of my house when I don't want to or don't feel good enough to leave it, it is the opportunity to play games. I rarely miss my monthly Bunco night, even when I'm crabby or feeling particularly antisocial. When we had a different cadre of mah jongg players, I was a safe bet to show. When any party I'm attending breaks out in Cards Against Humanity, Apples to Apples, or even Rock Band, I really start having fun. I never got enough of playing games as a kid, and I keep trying to make up for the deficit as an adult. The only two that make me hesitate, depending on the situation and available players, are Risk and Monopoly. I flat out refuse to play the latter with my husband, or just about anyone, and I have to be cajoled into the former. I don't like the mean-spiritedness that both of those games reveal about people. I prefer games of chance or skill over bloodthirsty strategy. I'd much rather laugh and have fun and be able to celebrate other's wins instead of feeling picked on and singled out for destruction. I'm looking forward to receiving one of the inaugural sets of Exploding Kittens in a few weeks or months. I'm expecting it to be loads of fun.

I played mah jongg today, getting a ride to and from the master's house. The whole gang totally accommodated me. I sat in a wingback chair, with an available foot stool, and a card table pushed right up to the perfect distance so I didn't have to lean. We even had a fire going for ambiance. The ladies all doted on me, bringing me plates of food and refreshing my drinks. I was the center of attention of three sweet motherly types, and it was the greatest thing since I was a little kid. They never let me feel like I was a burden to anyone. None of these three is a native to this state, but they all embody what true southern charm is all about. I wore my body out, this early in the healing process, just by sitting and using my brain, but it was so worth it to feel slightly normal again and play games.

The man and I concluded our evening with another few rounds of that same tank game on the tablets. I could really get used to this. We ended in a draw for the match, each winning two and being ahead once when the wifi froze us out. This little bit of bonding is helping compensate for the loss of our mutual morning coffee overindulgence. (I'm taking a break from it. I'm not so crazy to have given it up completely.) I think I need to change the timing of the night, though, and blog before the battle. It makes me want to fall asleep immediately after.

Sensation Returning

Inspirational song: Peace Train (Cat Stevens)

I'm going to go out on a limb and theorize that a whole flexeril is more than my body can metabolize. I have never felt as out of it as I did last night, even taking into consideration how many times I have woken in the night (after surgeries) feeling like my painkillers were making my heart so tired it was just going to stop beating. I appreciated the extra distance that it put between me and those horrible spasms that cursed me for a week, but I don't think I will ever be taking a whole one again. I even decided that now the drain is gone, it is time to wean myself back to a single Percocet at a time. I'm a little less comfortable from the sternum down, but I feel a whole lot better from the neck up. I have begun to wonder whether drug induced sleep is really sleep at all, because I wake feeling so tired from it. Today, with far less in my system than I have had in a week, I slept more, for longer stretches, and I felt like I was finally accomplishing something. It was like drugged sleep just left me with a deficit that I had to work off today. 

I'm still not interested in a whole lot of activity, so I didn't leave the house today. Never even bothered with clothes. Much of the rest of the south enjoyed today as a snow day (more accurately, an ice day), but for me, I just sat at a different window where I could watch the slightly-above-freezing rain. Tomorrow is a big test. I'm going to see how well I fare at mah jongg, if we play on a card table where I can stretch out on a couch. Other than Monday's trip to the doctor, this is my first real excursion since the big event, and I'm quite looking forward to it. I felt cut off from the world for long enough, and it's time for me to put a timid little toe back in the water.

For years and years, the man and I have kept half an eye out for an electronic game that he and I can play head-to-head from our own computers. After endless failures, we might finally have stumbled upon a game we each like enough to make this a thing. It's a little battle game called Pocket Tanks, with retro-simple graphics and easy rules. It's only a few steps up from Pong in its complexity, but it is fun and addictive. Years ago, I used to like it when the man would serenade me to sleep with the sound effects and repetitive electronic tune, as he played three or four rounds of it right before lights out. It wasn't until he went away for a year and a half, and I missed my little Casio concerto, that I finally downloaded it and tried it myself. I never thought that each of us staring at our own little tablets, trying to blow each other up, would end up being such a bonding experience. It was quite a peaceful way to end the evening, actually.

Rest Easy

Inspirational song: Black Balloon (Goo Goo Dolls)

I am very afraid of getting dependent on pain killers. I don't like treating pain with a heavy hand, and for every 10 times I say I feel like I should medicate pain away, only once do I actually follow through with chemical assistance. I have to fight against my instincts after surgeries, especially when it's only one week out from the biggest one ever. My whole day exists between the scheduled swallowing of pills. I have a little dry erase board I keep on the bed, and I use it very much like the one I stared at all of last week. Not every one of my nurses updated theirs, but those who did gave me a better sense of security that I would be believed when I called for fresh meds. There were just enough instances of delays and denials of assistance when I really needed it, that I used that board like a security blanket. This morning, I missed my own meticulously-kept schedule. I woke every couple hours (in pain, to be discussed in detail below), and the last pre-dawn stirring was around 4 a.m. It was too soon for the next Percocet, so I shifted in bed a little, wedged some pillows around me, and went back to sleep. Explosive pain woke me at 6:09, an hour past pill time, and I started the negotiations and whispered pleas that herald the fear of death. Fresh pills took me from wondering how I would survive an ambulance ride, to counting the minutes until I could call my surgeon's partner at 9, to have my drain removed.

Since the first time I became alert after the surgery (I'd say 5 p.m. on Monday), I was aware of an extra level of sensitivity down near my appendix, and I complained about it from day one. It felt like I was constantly getting pinched or scraped or something. I thought it was where the arm of the laparoscopic machine went in, and maybe it pinched a nerve or nicked a tendon. I noticed the pain was worst when I relaxed and slept, or was just still for a long time, and then tried to move. It kept maxing out the pain scale, going well beyond "the worst pain you can imagine," because I never thought I could feel like this and still live. To put that in context, that weekend two years ago when the diverticulitis was at its most acute, before I knew what it was, that was the first legitimate "10" I remember in my lifetime. When I went in to see my surgeon's stunning partner (seriously, great bedside manner, drop dead gorgeous, and a brilliant surgeon--she wins at life), she listened carefully to what I described. She prescribed muscle relaxers to work out the spasms, and she declared it most likely wasn't an abscess. Once she pulled out the drain tube, and she showed me the length of it, she and I agreed that it was possible that the tube itself was responsible for the pain. It was long enough to go from its entry on my left side, across the pelvic floor, to the neighborhood where the psoas major on the outside and adductor brevis line up with each other. Since I have been home, I've been all kinds of sore, but I haven't had a repeat of the 10++ pain. I might actually start to feel like I'm healing now, and that will lead to weaning off of the pills. Just not tonight. I'm due another Flexeril. Where's my water?

The Way It's Done

Inspirational song: Crazy (Gnarls Barkley)

Fifteen minutes ago, I though I was done for the night. I sat in a chair for over two hours, watching the Oscars, up to the In Memorium reel, until my rear end went numb from sitting on vintage cushions (that stopped being soft in the 80s), and the man shut off his computer and decided he was ready for bed. If I wanted help back into my sick bed, I had to go right then. It wasn't until I was halfway up the stairs that I remembered I hadn't blogged, and now it's a race to see what happens first, I publish, or the two percocets take the option out of my hands. I will save some of today's material for tomorrow, and just hit the highlights.

I had a very good day of recovery today. A few moments of intense pain (I am 99% certain there is a nerve or a tendon or something down by my appendix that is twisted in a knot, because it pegs out the pain scale randomly once or twice every day since surgery, for no discernible reason), but most of the time I had more energy and stamina than the last five days combined. I had my first shower in a week, and it was glorious. I only put a half-assed effort into brushing my hair after, but baby steps are appropriate right now. I thought I was going to have to shower with a sports bra on, so I had someplace to pin the bulb at the end of the drain that is still sutured to my side. But then I remembered I had a huge collection of Mardi Gras type beads from CU games, and I had my clever waterproof solution. I walked around upstairs several times, took pictures out of the windows to add to my "boy and his ladder" photo album, of the man power washing the house, and I felt almost human again. But all that came at a price, and I find I am physically exhausted just from sitting up. The effort to make it as far into the Oscars as I did may end up biting me tomorrow. My sit muscles hurt now.

I have had surgery five times since 2008. I've had friends say "tell me if you need anything," but that is very vague and I have been reluctant to ask for anything specific. Usually all I ask for is company while I recover, and I almost never get it. The mah jongg master showed me what it's like to have someone more proactive in their wishes of love and help. She and her husband were the only ones who came to see me when I was hospitalized for four days, two years ago, for the beginning of this crazy ride, and today, she became the first person ever to bring me (and the man) a meal so we could focus on healing, not cooking. When she offered, I was so moved I almost cried, and even now I get that flushed sensation in my eyes and nose, like I am on the verge of doing just that. I have a million reasons to love her forever, and after a thoughtful dish of meat sauce over zucchini cut like fettuccine, I have a million and one.

Percocet says it's time for lights out. More tomorrow. Don't tell me who won best picture. I have it recording now.

Funky Cold Edema

Inspirational song: My Ride's Here (Warren Zevon)

My stress level is reduced by a factor of ten, at least. They let me come home, even though I still have a drain in my abdomen. There wasn't much more they could offer me in the hospital that I couldn't manage for myself at home, and for a lot of this, my conditions here are better. I'm relaxing easier. I keep falling asleep, and feeling like I'm sleeping deeply, even for twenty minute catnaps. I just woke up to find I'd blinked out halfway through this very paragraph, and after a snack of applesauce delivered by my handsome husband, and the next two pain pills I get to consume in about 70 minutes, I plan on powering myself down for the night to finish that good sleep. No blood pressure cuffs, no bed alarms, no IV tubes in my way. Heaven.

It takes Rabbit a whole day to forgive me when I go away on vacation. This is the longest I've ever been hospitalized, so she acted like I just left her and went to play in Colorado for the first few hours I was home. Eventually she curled up next to me and purred against my knee, to let me know she cares. The other black and white units aren't nearly so tough to recapture. Alfred has kept steady pressure on my ankles, proving correct everything I said to the nurses. Those compression socks were comforting to me (when they weren't binding me to the bed in a moment of crisis) simply because they reminded me of Alfred. Doesn't everyone feel better with the sensation of a seventeen pound soft kitty on their legs? The dogs didn't know I was home until dinner time. The man let them in, and after I gave them a minute to dance around like fools downstairs, I quietly said, "aren't you going to go see who else is here?" The two who are able to climb stairs took off like a shot to find me. I think Bump is most pleased to see me, even more than Athena, because now he gets to stand guard at my feet around the clock, just as he has for the last seven or eight years. He takes his role as my deputy very seriously. There was a visit from a therapy dog on Friday, but she was nothing compared to my loyal sidekick.

I know that I had a horrid birthday last fall, but I swear to you, that in no way did I use that to find pleasure or a sense of justice that today was the man's birthday, and it was basically a crappy day for him too. From the first moment I woke early in the hospital, to now, as he is trying to finish up his tasks and go get much-needed sleep, I have wished him happy birthday. I wanted to give him a special meal, or at least a treat like that gluten-free angel food cake I learned was easy to make. The best I had was to stop making him drive an hour each way, twice a day, to see me lie in a bed with tubes going in me. That, and no matter how many times I told the hospital and kitchen staff that I was gluten free, it never appeared on my chart, so when my lunch arrived with a peach cobbler, the lunchlady and i conspired to tell him we brought him birthday cake. He didn't buy it, but he ate it and smiled just a little.

It's going to take days, or even weeks, to work through all the swelling in my abdomen. I wore my loosest sweatpants to the hospital, so I would ostensibly have something come to wear home that didn't bind me around the incision sites. That didn't work as planned. I am shaped like the Fruit of the Loom Apple right now. So much water around my middle, and hourly trips to the bathroom are only now beiginning to help. I can see definition in my hands again, rather than the chubby paws I came home with. I have been rinsed clean from the inside out. Now I feel like a whole new woman. Not a springy, spritely girl, mind you, but there have been some changes. I think they will end up being worth it.

Lost Its Luster

Inspirational song: It's My Party (Lesley Gore)

I needed a lot of round the clock support over the last week, but I think today I am officially ready to take my ball and go home. I have been through a constantly changing cast of characters, some nurses and techs who were endearing, and some who seem to treat me like I am the one responsible for the critical failures of communication in their system. I don't know who answers the call button in the afternoons, but when she says "okay I will let your nurse know," she doesn't really mean it. Two days in a row, I had painful crises, and I am absolutely certain it was the same voice on the speaker in my room. The first one (discussed at length yesterday) caused me a major medical setback, with my pain wildly out of control, my fever spiking, and a very confusing change of personnel that was never explained to me. This afternoon, I finally had proof that my intestines were successfully reattached, but in order to take care of the sense of urgency it created, I needed to be released from my bed. I was plugged in to compression socks all week, and try as I might, I couldn't reach them to yank them free myself. I rang twice and asked for help to go to the bathroom, and at the fifteen minute mark, I tried to pull them loose myself and failed. At the twenty minute mark, a nurse I didn't know came out of a room across the hall, and since I was sitting up, I could see her clearly. I called out in a panic, "can you please help me? I'm about to have my first bowel movement in a week," and she waved me off and said she was working with someone else. But seconds later, my tech came rushing in the room, like she heard my cry. It was physically and emotionally traumatic, and I was upset for over an hour. My nurse came in not long after, while I was still shaking and upset, and starting to notice that my percocet had completely worn off right then, and she acted like I was being high maintenance and unreasonable. An hour later was shift change, and both nurses spoke quietly in the hall for a while before they came in to meet me. In the conversation, I made reference to the incident without assigning blame to anyone, but both nurses looked down their noses at me like I had just farted in church.

I consider myself a very understanding woman. I know I am not the only person here, and to some extent I have to wait my turn. But there is only so far down the queue I am willing to fall more than once. When I learn that my requests are being outright ignored, I stop having compassion for how hard the nursing profession is, and I start wearing the mantle of pushy bitch with confidence. Lucky for me, so far every night shift person has been gentle and cheerful. I think there is an excellent chance I will go home in the morning. I just have to make it through one more night here. I've been here long enough, I am afforded a little autonomy. It might make the next eight or ten hours bearable.

The man has started customizing our guest room for my transition space. He removed the box spring from under the mattress (and cut more slats to support it) so that the bed sits closer to the ground. The sheets were freshly washed, so of course the Minions walked all over the bed to sprinkle it with fresh cat hair. I'm ready to be back with my crew. Rabbit is the best nurse I know. She will never leave me in pain for hours. She'll drape her belly across my wounds and purr until it heals. The man will have more energy to devote to me when he doesn't have to drive an hour each way to check on me. I can't think of a single good reason not to move on to the next phase of my healing.

Two Steps Back

Inspirational song: Cryin' (Roy Orbison)

This was not my best day ever. It started out on such a high note. Last night's night nurse was an angel and I loved her. She got me set up with a pain med schedule that truly got a handle on things. Thanks to her I was able to sleep for long hours and feel rested and healing for the first time since I came here. But once we turned things over to day shift and I tried to explain the plan of action, all I got was a dismissive "we won't be doing that." I was ignored, treated like I was asking for the moon, and told to forget everything that helped me. I had to continually fight just to have my toes slightly elevated, a drug free option that made all the difference in the world in how well I slept. I had to ring the bell multiple times before my nurses were told of any of my needs. By the time pain woke me at noon, and I was asking for the injectible pain meds that were listed on the dry erase board I'm facing, I was blown off repeatedly. I asked four separate times for help, and when my nurse came in at 1:40, I had been arched up for 20 minutes, an unrelenting 10 on the pain scale taking my breath away, tears streaming down my face. No lie, she said, "Why didn't you ring for me? You have to call me. I won't just bring in the meds unless you ask." The other nurses on the floor came in and took me out of her hands after that. The man who cared for me from about three until six was more like the night nurse, efficient and ready to do what it takes to make me feel better. I think he and my new night nurse are genuinely appalled by what happened to me today. But it made for significant backsliding. My fever spiked to over 101 and I was nauseated and weak for hours. I had been optimistic that I would go home tomorrow. Now with the increased pain, nausea, and how often my drain soaks its dressing (4 changes already today and it's damp now), I don't think I can take care of myself at home.

The halls here are haunted. There is an old man down the hall who is very confused. He keeps ringing his bell and asking where he is. They tell him over and over, but he doesn't get it. All afternoon long, I have heard him call out to the room, "Hello? Hello?" All I hear in my head is Torden walking around my house, saying the exact same thing. "Meow? Meow?" It's even the same note that Torden called out on.

I'm due a percocet and a Zofran for good measure in 20 minutes. This time I have talked it over with my nurse and she knows that I want it on time, and I will want to "dash" into the bathroom yet again. I don't know who wrote this on my plan for the day, but they got one thing right. I'm really good at potty trips. I have to take comfort where I can.

Scenes from the Other Side of the Hall

Inspirational song: Institutionalized (Suicidal Tendencies)

All I wanted was a cat picture, and she wouldn't give it to me! She said, no, mom, you're on drugs!

I'm making progress today. I'm significantly more mobile than I have been in days, although that mobility is entirely dependent on the cooperation of other people. I have to ring a bell and wait for the person who answers to pass along my request to be released from bed before I get to perform basic human functions, but it is still progress. They now let me empty my own bladder, and they encourage me to get out of bed every few hours, assuming I wait for them to turn off the alarm first. (I learned from a tech today that having all four of the small bed rails raised counts as being "restrained" in their book, so the tech lowered one of them on purpose.) I even walked halfway down the hall and back once. No, to be accurate, I "shambled."

All this activity has come with a price. I let myself extend my pain medication schedule too far, and I lost control over the pain. This evening I was quivering and cramping, and I had trouble sorting out my needs. I am planning on turning out the lights early and snuggling in the arms of dear Morpheus. The night nurse and I worked out a new plan on getting me ramped back up to control the recovery and make me comfortable again. I am handing her the reins. Maybe tomorrow we can think about having a first cup of broth or something. Maybe.

This Sucks

Inspirational song: Love Hurts (Nazareth)

I have lived through some impressive pain in my day. Nothing compares to this for sustained intensity. The doc said the surgery went as expected, but I don't know whether my recovery is going as well. I just spent a very miserable couple hours trying to get my IV reset, so that I could get the injectible pain meds that were due two hours ago when I noticed that the old one was puffy and dripping. They finally got me fixed up and injected, so I have just a few minutes to say I'm here, I'm unhappy, and brevity will be my best friend this week.

The question I hear most: how long will I stay in the hospital? Answer: no idea. At least until Thursday morning, I think. If they say longer, I'm not going to fight it.

Anti nausea meds on top of strong pain meds. It's sleepy time. Now.

Recovery

High Ho, your neighborhood guest blogger here.

No"inspirational" song, so in a pinch I'll use "Be a Dentist" from little shop of Horrors.

Your regularly scheduled bloggess is recovering from surgery.  Doc said everything went well.

Despite some drug that is supposed to be 7x more powerful than morphine, she's still in some pain.

Hopefully she'll be back at the keyboard tomorrow.

Ready to Roll

Inspirational song: Jesus, Take the Wheel (Carrie Underwood)

Showtime is in twelve hours from right now, as I write. I'm hungry, sore, and cranky. I'm nervous, but I am so glad to be in the homestretch. I only have two jobs now, to take a last handful of antibiotics before bed, and to show up on time in the morning. From there, my active participation will be limited. I can handle lying still and letting the next couple days just happen to me.

I don't know whether I'll be posting tomorrow night. I don't want to miss a day, but I'm still negotiating for a sub. I asked the man to write a post-op update, but he's not keen on the idea of stepping in for a guest hosting gig. I'll ask another time or two, but I may end up ruining my perfect record of posting every single day. Of course, I have been known to crank out less than stellar essays when I had nothing interesting to say, for the sake of that record. I might poke randomly at the keyboard on my phone tomorrow night, in a morphine haze, just to preserve my perfect attendance. It might end up reading "wpeoi weian' 3 dadwe" (or whatever the Android AI autocorrects that to), but you'll know it's really me. I'd prefer something more coherent, but that might involve me skipping dose of pain pills, and as big as this surgery is, I'm not inclined to do that.

I'm off to take my last antibiotics and make sure I have my phone charger in my overnight bag. Think happy thoughts for me on Monday.

Good Trade

Inspirational song: The One I Love (R.E.M.)

It's getting down to the wire now. The only things I have left to do are to pack an overnight bag with comfort items (like electronics chargers) and to refrain from eating from now until late next week. Monday morning can't come soon enough. Now it's just a footrace to see what wins, the scheduled surgery or the cramps in my belly that keep taking me by surprise all day and night. My money is on the schedule, but I can't count the other out.

As I mentioned yesterday, I arranged a Valentine dinner with some of my loved ones, and it went off almost exactly as I imagined it would. The Bonfire leader and I bartered a little, an exchange of goods and services between friends, and we shared a lovely dinner. My hair had gotten so long that it kept getting caught under my arms as I rolled over in bed, and it was making me a bit cranky. She has been working on creating colorful dreads in her hair, half her natural color and half brightly dyed wool, and she has been accenting them with fat glass beads. I made good trade, beads for a haircut (just enough so that I don't feel like it's in the way while I'm laid up in bed, but not enough to justify a trip to a salon). I had purchased a couple packs of beads to fill up the charm bracelet I got for Christmas, so that it doesn't feel so empty while I wait to acquire the name-brand charms that go with it, and I had bunches left over. Probably not enough to buy the island of Manhattan back in the day, but enough for two inches of crunchy dead ends off my hair. We even threw the hair out in her garden for the birds to use, if they are so inclined. I feel like such a hippie today (but then, I do most days too).

The countdown has begun. Come on, already. Let's light this candle.

More of Gravy Than of Grave

Inspirational song: The Point of No Return (Phantom of the Opera)

I'm trying not to be too judgmental. I can't assume anything definitive about someone's skills based on my impression of the people who work for him.  I have faith in my surgeon so far. I got a really good impression off of him during our only meeting. But as forgiving as I am trying to be, I am not getting a warm fuzzy feeling from the office staff associated with him. It is my understanding that he had just started transitioning to a new location when I met him a few weeks ago, from the hospital a little closer to me to the newer one in the higher rent district in the neighboring city to the north. I've told myself that explains my difficulty getting information out of them. I've been waiting for instructions to be mailed, and they still have not arrived. I had to get them emailed, so I am set for my prep this weekend. I've called them more than I have called any other person this calendar year, and as much as I hate telephones, you know the situation is dire if I keep calling over and over.

I had a few good days over the last week, enough for me to bargain with myself, thinking maybe I was pushing too hard for surgery and maybe I didn't really need it. Then I had some bad days, and knocked sense back into myself. There's no going back now. This is necessary. The surgeon wouldn't have agreed to it on a lark. They don't humor hypochondriacs with surgery and several nights in the hospital. It's real, and I am committed. I couldn't walk this back now if I tried.

I went shopping today for my last meal. I probably won't get to eat solid food again until the end of next week, maybe even later than that. I am going to have a special Valentine's dinner with some of the people I love, and it's going to be good food to tide me over for a week. While I was hunting through the meat case for another tri-tip roast, I couldn't help but remember one of those "You know you're from Oklahoma if.." lists that went around years ago. One of the lines was, "You've thought about your final meal if you were ever to face execution, and that meal involves cream gravy." Not going to lie, I made bacon cheeseburgers tonight, and I looked at that leftover grease and considered making gravy with it, just for fun. (It's too late to do it now, it went into a dog or two instead.) Come Thursday or Friday, when I'm finally starting to eat soft foods like mashed potatoes, I'm going to wish I had it available.

Something Incredible

Inspirational song: Turn It Off (Book of Mormon)

I've had my priorities straight, and nothing anyone says will convince me differently. I knew once I said it out loud that this surgery was going to happen, and that it was best done without delay. However, as the appointments fell into place, and I watched the calendar, I was determined that it would not happen this particular week. I had tickets to see Book of Mormon, finally, after waiting years for it to come close enough to me that I could get to it without plane travel and overnight lodging expenses. I wasn't going to let some pesky surgery get in the way of seeing this musical. I am so glad I was able to make the dates line up. This was so worth it. We had fabulous seats, dead center and close enough to see the actors faces clearly (which is important to someone like me who needs new glasses desperately). I only knew a few of the songs going in, so almost all of the jokes were fresh and new to me. I absolutely loved it. It wasn't exactly like I thought it was going to be, but considering it is a Parker-Stone collaboration, I really should have expected it to be exactly like it was. My BFF back in Colorado has tickets to see it later this year, and I'm not going to say any more about it, so I don't ruin the surprise for her. If you get the opportunity, and can handle earthy humor, I encourage you to go see it.

I'm keeping it short tonight. My mind is entirely obsessed with what is happening on Monday. I'm nervous and excited and scared and determined, and I just need to keep rigid control and compartmentalize so I don't freak out. Rather than ramble on here about my anxiety about the surgery, I'm going to try to turn off my mind and go to bed. I'll see whether I can't come up with a good distraction for tomorrow's post.

Taxing

Inspirational song: Taxman (The Beatles)

I spent a torturous hour watching a woman begin to sort out our taxes this afternoon. I have no tax preparation skills, and I must rely on the kindness of strangers for this activity. The man used to do it himself, and I would avoid him for the week or two it took him to sort them out. He was always a cranky beast, as he started at, "Oh, crap, we are going to owe thousands!", transitioned through, "Wait, no, we only owe a little," and, "We'll get a refund but it will be small," to ending up at, "Okay, I figured out out, and we'll get an okay refund." Every time. But in the last several years, since we became landlords of three properties, the level of complexity for our taxes has trebled. We started getting our taxes prepared around the same time we bought the first condo, and every year we overwhelmed the poor entry-level soul tasked with dealing with our Gordion knot tax situation. This year, finally, we went straight for the lady at the top who really knew her stuff, but even so, we were barely able to get our files arranged into the proper piles before our time was up. She's going to research some of the questions we have about the big-time losses we have with one condo uninhabitable, and thus unrentable, and the other barely chugging along at half-rented due to its "slum" level condition while we wait for the repairs. And it's going to take twice as long to sort out two years worth of returns, since we took deferments while the man was out of the country.

The worst part about the appointment today was that I couldn't focus on it to save my life. My surgery is coming up on Monday and I bounce between happy that it is coming so soon, terrified of how it will turn out (and feel), and feeling exhausted and ill and wondering how I am going to make it this long. Lately I have no energy, and all I want to do is sleep. I'm making myself stay awake through the days for the most part, but physical activity is severely limited. We parked across the street from the tax office today, and the walk through a parking lot and across to the correct building was the limit of my energy reserves. I am trying to think positively, that once the surgery is over, I will regain my vigor and enthusiasm for life. I refuse to believe anything else is possible.

I have breaking news this evening. The police called my daughter, and said that they found her vehicle. She had to drive across several communities to get to the right city, so we have very few details at this point. She is in motion as I write. We have no idea what condition the truck is in. It may be fine, it may be the merest shell of a vehicle. They might hand her a rear view mirror and a VIN plate. I will let you know tomorrow. Thank you to everyone who shared the message and got the word out to SoCal friends. I don't know how it was found yet, but I'm glad for her sake that it was.

Dare Me

Inspirational song: Gonna Get Ya (Pete Townshend)

I'm starting to learn a few things about determination. I didn't really get into that whole business with "The Secret" ten years ago, but I sort of heard people discussing it, and I surmised that its premise was you just needed to determine what it is that you want, and then laser focus in on getting it, and you will succeed. Back then, I rolled my eyes and said "uh-huh" a lot, but now, I'm starting to wonder if there isn't a little Jedi magic to the idea after all. But really it isn't magic at all. When you tell yourself you're "asking" for what it is that you really want, what you're really doing is changing the dynamics of your risk assessment, and eliminating choices that don't lead to your specific goal. Avoiding distractions along the way, it's a lot easier to get what it is that you truly want, and maybe that can seem like magic.

I took my mah jongg play to a new level today, and I won so many times I started to feel guilty about it. We were talking smack before we started, and I brought up the master's daughter, who has a flashy style about how she plays. She picks a hand that she likes, and she plays it, whether she has the tiles to match it or not, and it is surprising how often she wins doing it. So the mah jongg master dared me to play like that. She opened the book of hands, and gave me a category (like, "play a gate hand"), and I cannot resist a challenge. I usually agonize over choosing a hand, and I vacillate between two or three of them over the course of play. This time, I picked one, and stuck to it, and never second guessed myself. I won. So I had her choose another category, but it was a difficult one I'd never played before, and I missed a key detail. Tried again, and won. Two more times, was one tile away from winning when someone else mah jongged. One last time, and won again. I felt bulletproof. I realized it all came down to determination. I saw a clear goal, and I went for it. I didn't let anything change my mind.

By the end of the game today, I decided I need to find a way to apply today's lesson to real life. I don't mean like two weeks ago when I had a hankering to cook tri-tip, and I went to Publix to get this rarely available cut of meat, and there it was, as if I'd ordered it. I am not even sure I mean doing the Jedi thing like my man does, going where he wants by just acting like he belongs there. (Apparently there was a doorman in Vegas who was supposed to stop us from going up to meet our friends at The Palms? Nobody questioned us as we walked confidently to the elevators...) What I want to do is find away to use this for my major life goals. I need to ditch the noise and distractions, and laser focus on my biggest desires. Maybe I need someone to dare me first, to get my back up, so I have something to prove. Who wants to issue a challenge?

What Do You Do When the Boogyman Dies?

Inspirational song: Stolen Car (Bruce Springsteen)

I may have told part of this story before, but bear with me here. The last time I lived in my old hometown, I had arrived there with my daughters, to live with my grandfather for several months while the man needed to do several short work assignments in three different states. The idea was that I could provide assistance for my grandfather, and the kids wouldn't have to attend three different middle schools over the course of only one or two grade levels. Unfortunately, a month after our arrival my grandfather was diagnosed with a third round of cancer, and he died not long after. Three months before he died, he had leased his garage apartment to a man who was a couple years behind me in high school, who apparently did not follow the straight and narrow after graduation. This man never actually paid any of the rent he owed (and had gotten away with running an extension cord across grandpa's back yard to an exterior plug, so he also didn't have to pay for his own electricity, and my nearly blind grandfather never caught on), so while grandpa was still in decline in the hospital, I informed this former schoolmate that he had worn out his welcome and should find other living arrangements. In the filthy apartment he left behind, I found several items purloined from the garage below and from inside the main house, that he had intended to sell, and my uncle found a page printed from the internet right after this guy had moved in, titled, "So you want a cheaper crystal meth recipe." Even after I evicted him, we had problems with break-ins, especially at our ranch where he had been going and cutting down trees to sell for firewood (claiming that he had been given permission to do it the year before by my grandfather, who was long dead by this time). Things went missing and locks kept getting mysteriously cut on the ranch gate. One day, I went to the cabin to find a parade of household goods and appliances abandoned on the road up the hill. The cabin itself had been completely emptied, but a massive thunderstorm had interrupted their attempts to drag everything down the hill and raise it over the gate that now sported an un-cuttable lock. I called the sheriff, and told them who I believed had done it, but there was never an arrest. Weeks later, he was finally caught with someone else's stolen goods at his house, and arrested. And then we learned that he had suddenly and unexpectedly died while at a rehab boot camp. We were thrown for a loop. Some of my friends remembered the little golden-haired boy that he was when we were in school together, and some of my extended family grieved for the loss of a cousin or brother. (It was a small town. Of course there was a cousin-of-a-cousin-of-an-in-law kind of relationship.) My children and I had had such a different experience with him. Until he died, we were constantly looking over our shoulders, making sure doors were locked and blinds were pulled. We had been traumatized by the thefts and were convinced he was outside every dark window at night, looking in, seeing us when we were vulnerable. After he died, we spent several days looking at each other, saying, is that it? Is it over? The question that kept coming into my head was, "What do you do when the boogyman dies?" I couldn't celebrate. Property theft does not warrant a death penalty in my book, not by a longshot. But was I allowed to feel relief that we were ostensibly safe? I never fully sorted the conflict out in my heart.

The reason I bring this up is I am experiencing a similar cognitive dissonance. As I was stepping into the shower this morning, the man got a call from our daughter, telling us that her truck (the one on semi-permanent loan from her dad) was stolen from her apartment complex overnight. I am horrified that someone stole such a vital tool from my baby, as she needs it to get to work, especially now that she finally has an archaeology job and could take it into the field as she has dreamed of doing since she first rebuilt the engine on this thing ten years ago. She had just texted us a picture of it on her first field assignment, and it was the culmination of so many things she has worked for her whole life, in one photograph. And two days later, the truck was gone. But where does my conflict come into this? I hate that truck. I mean red hot heat of a thousand suns hate. I think it is ugly and uncomfortable and a bucket of crap. But she and her father have this obsession with it. They don't see ugly. They see rugged and outdoorsy. They see a simple engine design and a decent four wheel drive capacity. They see a classic. I am still scarred from being forced to take it on a January ski vacation two years ago, when the emergency brake kept freezing in place, and the heater did not work. (Picture driving over Loveland Pass, right at full dark, the temperature outside was -7, and with five bodies in the car, the temperature inside was only warm and humid enough to freeze a thin but noticeable layer of frost on the inside of the windshield. I used my Lowe's club card as an ice scraper, in constant motion for about an hour. The kind of rage I was feeling was not pleasant to be around.) I don't want my daughter carless. I am angry that someone stole it from her and from us. But god help me, I don't really want it back. Am I allowed to admit that? Because it makes me feel like a bad person to say so.

Snug as a Bug

Inspirational song: Wiegenlied: Guten Abend, gute Nacht (Johannes Brahms)

We have a nightly routine around here. The dogs get dinner a couple hours later than they used to (now timed based on Murray's digestive patterns) and then they get kicked outside to burn off energy and bark down the neighborhood. At some point between 8 and 11, I decide I'm done listening to them destroy the peace outside, and I start bringing in the troublemakers. If Murray fails to get himself onto the deck, I have to convince the man that the barking has hit critical mass, and enlist his help bringing in the straggler(s). (Tonight it was difficult, because we either had a return of the Bunnies Under the Deck, or of the Evil Rodents, and Murray was all kinds of excited about that.) Murray gets a minimal amount of inside wheel time, and then he gets tucked into his cage at for bed. He used to complain about it, like any child might, but lately he has discovered he really likes it when the man wraps his security blanket around him, even covering his head. He spends the rest of the night wrapped up, and often stays tucked in all the way until morning. He seems to like the routine.

When I was a very little girl, when we lived in Germany, my mother used to tuck me in every night always with the same words, and I absolutely refused to settle in until I heard them. "Good night, sleep tight, sweet dreams, gute Nacht, bis Morgen." Every once in a while, when one of us is visiting the other, that phrase still gets trotted out. Lots of children have these routines, and I suspect I am not the only one to make it well into adulthood still enjoying it immensely when reminded of certain childish habits. But I am beyond amused to realize just how much dogs like bedtime ceremonies too.

I packed up more boxes today. My best guess is that I have exactly one week to completely de-clutter my house, before I am no longer allowed to lift anything heavier than my smallest cat. I want the house as clean as I can get it, and as low maintenance as it can be for those first several weeks after surgery. Right now, it's all about the calculus of what I will use between now and when we move. Books I won't read, boxed up. Flower vases? Probably not needed, boxed up. Wine glasses, pint glasses? There will most assuredly be one or more big party before we leave here forever. Left in place. I'm still at the point where completing three boxes in a day feels like progress, but I know that when the move is less than a month out, that will equate to a wasted day. I'm dreading the day when the art starts coming off the walls. That day always brings an outsized sense of loss, making it feel like I've already lost my sense of security and comfort in my own home. I leave the art and mirrors up as long as I can get away with it. It's my only way to maintain that tucked in feeling.

Happier

Inspirational song: Please Please Me (The Beatles)

I had an excess of people greet me today--making eye contact, smiling, and talking to me--while I was out and about. I know that I live in the Deep South, a place that is entirely powered by politeness and charm, but this was taken to a higher degree, enough to make me wonder what was so different about today. Lately, I've been feeling so crappy, I've pulled into myself and been invisible in yoga pants and pony tails. I even went to the movies last night buried in a cat-hair covered hoodie and scarf. But today I put myself together a little better, including putting the effort into full makeup (with heavy "smoky eye" and everything). I wish I knew which it was that so many people responded to, my appearance or my improved attitude, as I held my head a little higher and walked like I had a purpose today. It's almost enough to make me want to do a few social experiments to find out.

I have been working on a lot of new recipes over the last few weeks, but I haven't prepared any for the blog in a while. I am facing several weeks of a soft foods diet, when I'm able to eat at all. In anticipation of that, I'm indulging in every spicy, crunchy, or rich dish I can think of, to tide me over while I'm stuck eating scrambled eggs, applesauce, and mashed potatoes every day. This morning I made oeufs en cocotte (eggs, bacon, and greens baked in ramekins), and I learned the easiest way to make hollandaise sauce to drizzle on top of them. Then this evening, I discovered how perfectly well angel food cake translates into gluten free. (At the same time, I discovered that cream of tartar has an expiration date, but it appears to just be a suggestion, but cornstarch definitely doesn't last forever. Next time I'm using tapioca.) I think I will be putting up several test kitchen posts over the next week, to clear out the backlog, so I don't forget some of these good ones.

My mother in law always made angel food cakes for every birthday gathering (which was nearly monthly--their family was so large by the time all the grandkids showed up), but we have been away from the core Colorado group for so long, the man hasn't had one for his birthday in years and years. He has a birthday coming soon, and I just found a way to give him a taste of home without hurting my own digestion in the process. He perked up like a little kid when I offered him the whisk and bowl covered in cake batter. I made him quite happy today.

Several years ago, I was trying to con my younger daughter into making hollandaise sauce, to go along with whatever it was we were making for breakfast. (I think I just didn't want to wear my arms out on the whisk while I was also responsible for the rest of the meal that day.) She was a senior in high school, and my reasoning was that if she learned how to make hollandaise, she'd have a great skill to have while she and her friends were in college or just beyond it, for those hangover mornings when only eggs benedict and bloody marys would do. I think she humored me and made the sauce as I asked, but I don't know whether she ever made it again. After I found out that with a wand blender, it takes about 30 seconds tops, maybe I'll revisit that conversation with her. I still think her friends would be pleased if she cooked for them. It seems to go over well here.

Rebel Without a Clue

Inspirational song: Into the Great White Open (Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers)

I couldn't be a good girl tonight. I've been good for too long, and I had to break some of my own rules, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I still can. That, or perhaps merely to reinforce that what I was doing was the right thing after all. For the first time in months, the man and I went out to the movies on a Friday night, and I rebelled and ate movie popcorn. By the time we left the theater, my stomach was swollen and pained (and not just because of the jumbo coke I had as well), and my ears were popping like I was at altitude. My eyes felt like they were bulging out as well, and I can't tell whether the ringing in my ears was louder (tinnitis is a constant companion). The ride home was uncomfortable.

I don't know what inspired me to feel the need for rebellion like this. Maybe it was the impending surgery. Maybe it was just a minor ruckus dreamed up by my inner child. My rebellions tend not to be large, dramatic events. They're small, and usually the only person damaged by them is my own bad self. I always said my biggest teenage rebellion was quitting piano lessons. I have regretted doing that ever since. I will always wonder whether I could have been a concert pianist, had I not gotten frustrated by my second instructor's insistence on a Chopin piece that had rolling triplets that were too big for my hands to play comfortably. (I could try to dig out the music to be accurate, but my memory is of tenths, while my narrow hands only easily spread in a single octave, maybe a ninth if I'm really stretching.) I suppose since my rebellious streak never extended to a life of crime, or damaging other people, I should feel okay with myself. Doesn't mean I won't pay for tonight's foolishness with a stomachache and maybe a migraine.

One of the things I promised to do when we finally move back to Colorado is to help my BFF keep tabs on her kids after school, making sure that they do their homework and practice piano before they wander off into videogameland. The kids have only been playing a year or two, but already they are taking to it like they were born with their hands on a keyboard. This is something I'm really looking forward to, and I feel like I need to start practicing again myself, as well as brushing the rust off of my musical theory knowledge. I must temper my expectations, however. I can't live vicariously through their own musical accomplishments, having given up on my own, and I can't push them into the same rebellion I had when I was fifteen or sixteen. But it will feel good to get a daily dose of piano music again. I can hardly wait.

Ready for a Change

Inspirational song: Repetition (The Kinks)

It's time for another postcard from the war. Three months in, and Zoe still refuses to integrate into the Pride. Every day is filled with stalking, growling, suspicion, and the occasional howling, swatting fight. I keep forgetting to check what's in my path as I'm drenching one cat or another with water from a squirt bottle. I've risked my electronics on many occasions. All I get for my efforts is a mad, wet cat running claws-out across my lap or my bare feet, several minutes later when the action has died down, meaning they are totally doing it for revenge. My confidence as a cat-whisperer is flagging. I don't know how to bring peace to the middle east coast. I've never met a more contrary, jumpy cat than Zoe. I often wonder whether moving to a new house will change the dynamics of the situation. If they all start out at the same level of displacement, will they compete for territory differently than they do here, with the four black and white units already established? It's the best justification yet for uprooting ourselves and moving yet again.

I think the only thing left to do now is to try to disarm the opposing forces, as much as I can. I'm not talking about de-clawing, of course. That is a war crime in my book. (Side note, the nurse prepping me for my screening on Monday said she was about to have it done to her cat, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and let her finish giving me an IV. I was done with her once she said that. She was dead to me.) We are trying to clip the claws, as best we can. But while most of the cats tolerate it with only a little squirming, in the almost two years of Athena's life, I have still managed to cut exactly one claw ever. And for my efforts I received the hardest, meanest bite, that tried its darndest to get infected. Yesterday the man thought he would give it a whirl. Athena - 1, Daddy - 0.

Today was yet another day of me calling for a surgery date, and of the surgeon's office staff taking my name and birth date, telling me they'll look for the test results and call me. Still no news. I have gone from wanting to avoid surgery at all costs to nagging the surgeon's office for a time slot, and the change happened in under a month. It's amazing what daily pain will do for one's priorities.