the war against frogs
1. In the post-op guidelines: “It is not unusual to feel more fatigued after major surgery. It is common to need more sleep than usual.” They are not kidding. The first day home I went back to bed after Nora left for school and slept for three hours. On some of the other days I took two naps, morning and afternoon, like a toddler. Doing more than a few things in a row makes me want yet another nap. I feel feeble.
2. Also in the post-op handout, LT was quick to underline the “Sexual activity may be resumed” and I was equally quick to circle the rest of that sentence, “as tolerated.” Truthfully, I’d love to, and I would undoubtedly do way more than tolerate it, but the full 3-D IMAX Sexperience is going to have to wait until I can (a) stay awake and (b) shift into a different position without requiring forethought and advance notice and a careful assessment of my new, sad-ass, biomechanics.
3. Something that should be in the pre-op guidelines but is not: “When you wake up in the recovery room, you will feel fantastic. You will think your surgery has been no big deal at all. This is because you are still experiencing a shit-ton of anesthesia.” The following day was a whole different story, not made any easier by the fact that Mean Caitlin was on duty—a nurse who seemed to think it was appropriate to have ME ask for pain medication (which I only did once I was literally sweating and gripping the bed rails), to ask ME what medication I thought “appropriate,” and also to ask ME how long it had been since the last dose, as if I’m doing needlepoint and watching the clock while she fucking crowd-sources her RN job. She always eventually stuck a Dilaudid shot in my IV, but why such bitchery, Mean Caitlin? Twelve hours out from my intestinal resection is probably not the time to try to involve me in my own recovery.
4. After Mean Caitlin there was Kelly, quite different—always on time with the good shit. Also Jessica, Melissa, Jenny, Nina, Allison, Michelle, Tiffany, Maria, and Delores. They all sort of blur together, because they seemed to come in either short, dark-haired, Latina or Filipina or blond, ponytailed, Midwestern. Except for Delores, who was Jamaican, and who happened to be on duty when I suddenly puked up green Jell-O after a probably too-soon and too-strenuous walk. She had the greatest thing to say about it in her cool accent: “Vomit does not matter the least little bit. You just put it out of your mind.” Advice for freshman sorority girls everywhere!
5. Eventually I started eating tiny amounts of actual food and they let me go home. I still don’t care very much about actual food, but I eat it and it gets digested and everything seems to work out. I have two laparoscopy holes and a small vertical slice, all ickily bruised up and covered in slowly disintegrating Steri-Strips, so my abdomen is currently not a lovely sight, but it’s what’s inside that matters. Or rather what’s inside minus six inches of unpleasant intestines, which it seems I am better off without.
And thus concludes the stupid tale of my dumb guts, and from now on we can talk about other things, I hope. I go back to work in a few days, which my doctor sort of mildly frowned at, but I think it will be okay. Just nobody bump into sore-guts me on the El! Maybe I should wear a bulletproof vest.
—mimi smartypants, tougher than Kevlar.