Well, I'm positively horrid at keeping up on my blog, aren't I? I guess I should probably just own it. I suck. Know what else I suck at? Recovering from the surgical removal of an unnecessary organ.
A few months ago, I started having a pain between my boobies, but a little bit further down. No, not that far down, back up a little, ok...down just a smidge. Right there. Ow. It felt like a monkey was stabbing me with a dull banana right in that spot at about 15 minute intervals. After putting up with it for a while like a determined, hardcore Mexican wrestling champ, I whined to my husband that it was probably time for us to head to the emergency room to make sure I wasn't dying. They gave me some awesome drugs that made me hallucinate and then said "Go home. You have acid reflux." Ya know, this is the part where I'd like to say that I should've been a doctor because I know acid reflux, and this wasn't acidfuckingreflux. It was clearly an angry baboon stabbing me with the sharp end of a banana right at the very end of my sternum. All I wanted was for someone to kill the monkey. KILL IT! To make a long story short, I had gallstones, so they sent me to this nice Italian doctor who was going to kill the monkey making a rock tumbler out of my poor, innocent gallbladder.
Fast forward to last Monday. Surgery day. I was very excited because surgery is actually kind of fun! They give you medicine to make you sleep like you haven't slept since you were in utero and hospitals smell oddly good to me. Let's give this a go. Let's kill the monkey!
Step one in any surgery is to strip you of all your dignity. This involves the ritualistic instruction of a nurse coming in and saying, "Ok, we're gonna need you to take off everything from the waist up (waist down, depending on where they plan on probing you)." OR "Take off every goddamned article of clothing on your body and put on this paper-thin, ironically printed dress with a completely open back." So, I did as I was told. The worst part of having to wear hospital gowns with NOTHING on under them is that your lady/man bits touch things that they wouldn't normally touch and that's just weird and awkward and uncomfortable. I digress. I handed over my dignity to the nice woman in the scrubs and we proceeded.
Next, they wheel you into the operating room, which is ALWAYS pre-heated to a balmy 45 degrees. It's fucking freezing in an operating room. I've been in lots of them and they're all colder than a well digger's ass. But, the bright side to this gloomy step in the process is that you give a fuck about that cold operating room for about 30 seconds, because your friend, Mr. Awesomely Effeminate Anesthesiologist (they aren't always effeminate, but mine was, which was awesome because that's how I like my anesthesiologists), is about a millisecond away from injecting your veins with magical unicorn soma that would tranquilize even the most dangerous of unicorns. It's fantastic. Then they put an oxygen mask on your face and tell you to breath slowly and relax and the mask smells like sterile plastic andddddddoiaghakgzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
And then you wake up and things are blurry and your very nice, yet unfortunately unattractive Italian surgeon with halitosis is breathing on you and saying your name over and over and prodding you and taking your blood pressure and saying your name and leaving and coming back 30 seconds later and saying your name and taking your blood pressure and breathing on you. GO THE FUCK AWAY, IT'S NAPPY TIME PEOPLE!! But no, you must wake up or you fail at the game of Surgery.
So then, you wake up and OW! I THOUGHT YOU TOOK THE MONKEY OUT THAT WAS MAKING A ROCK TUMBLER OUT OF MY ORGAN! OW! DRUGS! OW! STRONGER DRUGS! Ahhh, that's better. Now, let's talk about peeing. They won't let you leave the hospital until you pee. I HAD to pee, but no matter how much I talk to my bladder nicely and told him we couldn't leave until he performed, all he said was "Fuck you. Me no pee." That was until the nurse said "If you don't go, we're gonna have to catheterize you." and my bladder said "No way, man, I've seen those commercials about the lady with the dirty catheters. I'll do it." And he did. And away we went.
After you have an invasive surgery, they send you away with some fantastic drugs and boy was I sad when those were gone, but turns out that developing an addiction to pain medication is low-brow and generally frowned upon, so I had to face the music and the pain. Also, you're sometimes left with a poofy, squishy belly after they jam their little cameras and utensils into your innards. Your innards don't like that. They rebel and they make you look like you're 5 mos pregnant for weeks on end. It's a little depressing, but I'm dealing ok. I had my husband hide all the sharp knives in the house. It's cool, really.
The really badass part about all of this is that my stomach looks like I'm the surviving member of a drunken brawl. Stab me and see what happens, bitches. I'm made of titanium. At most, your weak attempt at killing me will only make my titanium stomach look bloated! I don't have a gallbladder! You know why?! Because superheros don't NEED gallbladders!
I guess I don't suck so bad after all....suckers.
