I have to stay in the bathroom for about five minutes, as I can’t possibly walk. I can’t describe what the pain is like really. It’s not like anything else. It’s not sharp, it’s not like something you can rub away or stretch out or anything. It comes from the middle of your body, it comes from everywhere. It doesn’t even seem like it can be real, that pain. The whole time you’re feeling it you’re wondering if it’s even happening. Perhaps you’re just hallucinating your insides trying to escape. And there’s nothing you can do to relieve it. Just nothing. No position you can assume or thing you can massage or anything. It is a nauseating, breathtaking, just stand and sort of try to keep breathing until it goes away kind of pain. It makes me feel like an animal, caught in a trap my body is making. I just stand and pant and stay really still so the pain might forget I am there, and leave me alone.

Apparently there are lots of tiny tiny little ducts in there that never make it into the medical illustrations, and mine are all full of sludge and bits of leftover gallstones! Hooray!

I finally wobble back to my office, covered in sweat and scary pale. I sit for about another ten minutes, trying to stop shaking so that I can drive myself home. I finally think I can, so I tell my staff I am sick and leaving, and go home. I fall asleep at home, and when I wake up I feel somewhat better, except – wait, no I don’t. I have another attack around 4pm, not as bad as the first, but not at all nice. This time I take some industrial strength pain killers, and then I go lay down for another hour.

Now I am better, maybe. I feel as if I have been kicked in the abdomen by something really angry, and I can’t move very well, but I am OK. Unfortunately I am also high on painkillers and rather out of it. Which fucking blows. I wanted to do some shit tonight, but now I am too high to even watch a fucking movie, much less read a book or do some housework, which were my other plans. So basically, thanks so much body, for ruining my day and not letting me get my work done at work, and then ruining my evening too.

And all I can think is that if this is going to keep happening, what if it happens when I am out, or around people? It’s bad enough that I have to go through this, but what if I am in the middle of something and have some kind of fucking attack and have to like, flee the area and can’t? One more thing to add anxiety to my going out of the damn house. And there’s no point in calling my surgeon, he’s just going to tell me what he told me last time, that the leftover shit in my system will take time to clear, how much time he cannot say. If I have intense pain for 24 hours, go to the emergency room, blah blah blah. Thanks for nothing.

So I am crabby and pissed off and scared and resentful that this is happening to me. Go away, fucked up ducts or whatever the fuck. Seriously. I feel extremely childish and want to throw a tantrum and there is no one at whom to throw a tantrum. One more way in which being an adult sucks a giant bunch of donkey balls.

It’s like one whole side of my body went into revolt. And is infected with pig AIDS and syphilitic cancer cells and toe herpes. Look, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me and I DO NOT CARE. Just GO AWAY THING. You’ve been here two weeks and I have been REALLY PATIENT. NOW FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

And all I can do is keep taking showers. Like, if I take a shower, I will feel better afterward, right? I took three yesterday. THEY DID NOT HELP.

Fuck whatever this thing is. It’s nice outside! I’d like to go enjoy my life! Instead I am at home infested with twelve deadly diseases and I am exhausted and I can’t sleep and I feel TERRIBLE. God DAMN it.

Table of contents for Gallbladder Madness

1. So anyway
2. But that’s not the end of the story. Here’s what happened.
3. and THEN

So where did we leave off? Oh yes. Our heroine bravely struggles through surgery and a night of overheard puking which results in no sleep. She is all on her own, cruelly abandoned by her unfeeling family, possessing of a phone with a dead battery, an iPod with a dead battery and a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm which has now fallen off the side table and rolled under the bed. Oh and more surgery on the way. Things do not look at all rosy. (This is part 2. There might be a part three. I don’t know. Depends on how sick I get of typing all this up.)

Surgeon number two comes in and draws me a nice diagram of what is going on inside my body, and what he’s going to do about it. (All the surgeons and nurses and really every single person there was very nice. They took time to explain to me everything that was happening and make sure I understood it. I was impressed with that.) Surgery is scheduled for 1 p.m.. I am sleep-deprived, dehydrated, sore and cranky and lonely and scared. My parents are not there. I call them on the hospital phone to tell them that I have surgery at 1 p.m.. “I don’t know if we will be there in time.” my mom says. “We have to go to the vet’s office to pick up refills on their prescriptions.” “But they’re not out of medicine yet.” I told her. “We know, but it might snow.” WTF?

“IT MIGHT SNOW?” I wanted to yell. “SERIOUSLY? It might snow? Guess what? I am FOR SURE having surgery. I understand it MIGHT snow – but it’s 100% positive that someone is going to sedate and cut me open AGAIN today. You might want to, I dunno, BE HERE for that shit? Seeing as you’re my mother? And I am alone? And this sucks ass? And is scary?” But I did not yell those things, as there didn’t seem to be a point. Then pukey’s guests for the day arrived. All six of them. And their toddler. Who had a laser toy. Overnight, pukey had learned my name, and subsequently was telling stories about me to all of her offspring. They felt an overwhelming need to come and introduce themselves to me, and ask how I was doing. Now see, I subscribe to a lot of invisibility theories when it comes to stranger interactions. I do not think it’s at all wrong to pretend that people I do not know, yet am forced to be in close proximity with, are inaudible and invisible. It helps lubricate society, the invisibility theory. But no. All of them had to come over, say “Hi.”, inquire as to my health (obviously sketchy as I am hospitalized) and then nudge back the flimsy curtain separating my half of the room from pukey’s half. I kept leaning up and trying to push it back closed, and they kept using their asses to push it back open as they crowded around pukey’s bed. They were very loud. One of them actually sat in the chair at the end of MY bed, and stared at me. Seriously she did that. The nurse came in and I quietly explained to her that I was about to lose my shit if these people didn’t fuck the fuck off, and what was with the kid? She said “I know, I keep wanting to ask them – doesn’t anybody have to go to work?” She was a funny nurse.

It was 12:30 or so and surgery was looming. No sign of my parents, but I peed one last time and waited for someone to come get me. My mom finally showed at 12:50. “We’re here!” Like I was supposed to be surprised and grateful? “Did you bring my phone charger?” was pretty much my only grumpy query by that point. She had (the accomplishment of necessary, practical things, aside from actually showing up, is my Mom’s forte.) I asked her to plug the phone in, then a nurse came to get me to take me to the second surgery. They wheeled me down to the surgery area, and they explained to me that this was a much nicer surgery, as I was not going to be fully unconscious, but was going to be “twilighty.” I explained with great fervency that I had no desire to be “twilighty” and that I in fact wanted to be “knocked the fuck out.” We got to the room, which was not like a proper surgical area and was more like a place where they take you for x-rays. I had to climb a little step stool and get up on the table. Then they told me to lay on my stomach. With some alarm I inquired as to whether anyone had informed them that I had had surgery on my stomach quite recently, in fact less than 24 hrs prior. They did know this, and yet wanted me to lay on my stomach anyway. I did so, as I am a trooper, and was also outnumbered. They started sticking things to me, and then got this big white sticky square, which they said was going to be cold when they stuck it to my back. “What’s it for?” I asked, and then wished I had not when the answer was “To ground you.” They then stuck this plastic gag thing with a hole in it into my mouth and strapped it in with some kind of rubber band. This was so I did not bite down on all the shit they were going to stick down my throat. It was Not Sexy. Then Pam, the anesthesiologist said “You should be feeling sleepy. Are you feeling sleepy?” Frantically I shook my head, I was not sleepy AT ALL. After this, I knew nothing.

When I woke up from this surgery it was to great excitement from the nurses. “YOU HAD SIX LARGE STONES IN YOUR BILE DUCT! It was almost TOTALLY BLOCKED!” they seemed to be cavorting with joy around my bed. I held up my hand for a high-five, as this seemed somehow warranted. “I dreamed we were at the Deacon.” I told them. “What’s the Deacon?” they asked, which is when I started to realize where I was. “It doesn’t matter.” They handed me a color photo of the inside of my pancreas, filled with white mucous-y looking things, ostensibly for a treasured keepsake. I clutched at it and drifted in and out of consciousness. After 62 years of laying there freezing to death, they wheeled me up to my (new, private) room. My mom was there. “You had SIX LARGE STONES!” she said proudly. “Where’s my bra?” I asked.

So I was installed in the new room, my phone was charging, my breasts were back under control, my bladder was emptied. I settled into my new bed and saw that it was around 4:30 p.m.. I looked over to my mom, expecting she’d want to sit and hold my hand, or commiserate with me about the pain I was in, or hear stories about the night before which was so hellish, or get me a glass or water, or tell me how worried she’d been, or amuse and divert me with funny tales of people we knew. “Well, if you’re all settled in, we’d better get home to the dogs.” she said. And then they left.

(It is a strange thing, they way we react to illness. I know that I am a grown woman, and I know that I should be independent and not expect my mother to take care of me. I am also a private person, and would not want or expect most people I know to come hang around my hospital bed, observing my dishabille and accompanying me to the toilet. I DO expect that kind of thing from one single person though, the person who birthed me. Once she decided to have a kid, she assumed a life-long responsibility to hold my motherfucking hand when I am injured. I am sorry, I don’t think there’s an expiration date on that. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am childish. But being left all alone, two days in a row, post-surgery, by the one person in the world I felt I could legitimately ask to help and support me in such a scenario, was absolutely shitty. I am trying very hard to get over it, but it sucked in ways that I want to temporarily resume therapy to explore.)

That night was so much better than the night before. My private room was a-maz-ing, and then they informed me that I could have Demerol shots in my IV every four hours. Those are floaty and magical, and I recommend them most highly.  I had my working/charged phone so I could talk to my friends, and I chatted with some people which cheered me. Katie and Jason sent me flowers, and they were very pretty and made my room smell nice and made me feel quite a lot less sad-bastard. Overall that second day, especially without the specter of more surgery floating over my head, was restful and nice. I watched the Olympics (ice-dancing, yay!) and floated in and out of consciousness. I also had my handbag, having wrested it from my mother’s worried grasp, and in it I found some earplugs, which I inserted to block out the rest of the hospital noise. I slept like a baby.

The next morning I was told that if I could eat solid food I could go home, and some weird hospital fare was delivered to me. I ate it, I could tolerate it, my urine was back to yellow, I was discharged. My parents were coming to pick me up (I thought) and I was warned not to drive. Of course, when they got there my mom informed me that no way could she drive “in the city” (Brentwood?) as it was way too nerve-wracking, and I was either going to have to leave my car behind, necessitating them coming back another day to help me get it, or I was going to have to drive myself home. Guess which of those I chose? So we all went in a big ridiculous troupe over to Dierberg’s so I could fill my prescriptions and get some food for the house, and then they followed me home. They installed me in my bed with my laptop and painkillers, and then they had to rush home to the dogs. God forbid the dogs have to spend any time on their own. They might get lonely. At this point, safely at home, I was desirous of their absence anyway. And for the next three days I think I slept 20 out of 24 hours.

Table of contents for Gallbladder Madness

1. So anyway
2. But that’s not the end of the story. Here’s what happened.
3. and THEN

Been ramping up for a detailed post regarding last month’s organ extraction, and this is it. I warn you, it is both long and has details about medical procedures. I would recommend emptying your bladder before you begin and perhaps forgoing the snack.  (Edit, this is actually going to  have to be in parts, because it is so damn long. This is part one. Next will be part two, as I am kind of traditional in regard to sequences.)

So anyway, yeah I had my gallbladder out. Bad gallbladders run in families, from what I hear, and we grow them very faulty in mine. My mom, three aunts, one uncle and my grandmother all had them out, and I had one previous (hospitalized) episode with mine back when I was in college, so when the pain came back I was pretty sure I knew what it was. It’s not the kind of pain you forget, up high under your ribs and radiating downward—kinda like an alien trying to fight its way through your body. It shoots through to your back, and your right shoulder blade too. You can’t move or stretch or lay differently to walk it away. You can’t do anything but lay there and breathe very shallowly and wish you’d pass out. But I’ve never really been a fan of doctors, so when that particular pain started a few weeks ago, I thought I could tough it out. I figured I was passing gallstones, from the location and the way that the pain came, in waves over the course of the day. It was excruciating, but at the same time, not sufficient to make me do anything about it, as I figured that if I would go to the ER they would run tests which would be inconclusive and I would have wasted a whole day and $75 just to have indifferent nurses poking and/or looking at me while I was in agony. I knew I could be in agony privately at home and save myself some cash—so when I wasn’t in pain that day I was sleeping, and the next morning when the pain wasn’t gone I took a painkiller and slept all day that day as well. And then I was fine. Fine, I tell you. That fine lasted about a week. The next Tuesday night it started all over again. At that point I determined to go to the doctor, as I had developed some other complications, namely that my pee had turned dark orange and I had broken out in hives. Pain, OK I can take it. Hives and orange pee had me a tad concerned. My regular doctor was out of town, so I saw an alternate doctor who was very nice. She agreed it was likely my gall bladder, and wanted blood work. (it was awful, the dipshit lady punctured a vein in my hand and then there was this pool of blood that was rolling around my knuckles all afternoon. Well, admittedly that was cool, but the part where she pierced my vein hurt.) She also wanted for me to have an ultrasound. I didn’t understand why I would need blood work really, if it was just my gallbladder what does that have to do with my blood? Oh so naive. We will get to that later.

I went for an ultrasound. I have had my fair share of ultrasounds, and of all possible medical testing, they are the very nicest. They’re almost spa-like and very relaxing (when you’re not in pain.) Honestly, having this latest one has convinced me that I could really see the appeal behind medical fetishism. You go to a place, they tell you to take off your clothes and go lay in a dimly lit, warm room. Someone comes in and assures you that they’re going to make you feel better, if you just lie back and let them spread warm gel on you and let them rub your body with a special device. It might hurt just for a moment, but there’s an implied promise that everything will be fine if you just lay back and relax. It was the best I’d felt all day.

Turns out that everything was not fine, of course—the lady with the warm gel and the special device told me “Oh you’ve definitely got gall bladder trouble alright.” And then she sent the results to the pinch-hitting doctor, who said she wanted me to see a surgeon the next day. But by the late afternoon I was starting to feel better, so I went home and rested, then proceeded to craft night, where I was sure hot chocolate and laughter would make me OK, and everything would be Fine Just Fine and my body would heal itself. But it was not. As I was there I felt the strange cramping pain start again, and knew I had to get out of there. Instead of going straight home I drove to the home of a very kind and generous friend who I knew had some narcotics on hand, and I do believe those things saved my sanity that night, because the pain was quite excruciating and I was covered in hives and itching everywhere. (By the way, I googled “hives and gallbladder” while this was happening and I did not find any conclusive results or documented connection between the two. In case someone has found their way here by googling the same things, YES you can hives as a result of a gall bladder problem. more specifically as a result of choledocholithiasis, the hives are the body’s reaction to the excess bilirubin and other liver toxins in your blood. It’s serious. Go to the doctor.)

Finally I fell asleep and the next morning at 11:00 a.m. I went to see the surgeon, having the blood work from the previous day sent to his office from the first doctor’s office. I won’t even trifle with your patience by explaining how tedious and aggravating it was to get that done, having blood work results sent from one floor of a building to an office one floor up, I will only say that I was tired and still in pain and I was in tears more than once that morning. I will also admit that I knew I had a serious issue going on and on the off chance I would not be coming back to my house in the near future I took care to tidy up my house, throw out perishables, take out the trash and wear nice underwear. I also brought a book with me.

My surgeon was tall and lanky, and looked like a perfect cross between James Frain and William H. Macy.

My surgeon looked like a perfect cross between these two men. It was odd and distracting.

He listened to what I had to say, and then wanted to examine me. As I got up on the table he commented on my necklace, a cameo of a creepy little girl. “That’s interesting.” he said. “What is it?”

“A creepy little girl.” I said, as I am usually pretty straightforward when a doctor asks me a question.

“Huh, a creepy little girl. And I see you’re wearing a black sweater. Are you a goth?”

“Not really.” I replied, beginning to feel as if I maybe hadn’t woken up properly after all, and was having a Vicodin dream.

“Ah, but you’re also wearing sunglasses on your head. Those sunglasses are not goth.”

“No, I don’t suppose they are.”

“Your socks are striped though. Now you’re starting to give me more of a Tim Burton vibe.”

“Really?”

“Did you know that new Alice in Wonderland movie is coming out?”

“I did.”

“I bet you’re a big fan of his.”

“Ummm, yeah, OK?” I don’t know if I am all that big a Tim Burton fan, but was it worth getting into it with this guy, and possibly offending him? No it was not.

“OK, let’s see your stomach here.”

It was a surreal kind of conversation. Then he poked my belly for awhile and looked at the results of my blood work and heard about the orange pee, he went to check his schedule and then came back to explain to me that I was going to go next door and check myself in to the hospital, as I would be having surgery that afternoon. “Do I have time to go take my dogs to my parent’s house?” I asked. “No. You’re going right now.” he replied. And so I pretty much stopped processing anything other than what he told me, and got on the phone. I couldn’t think “Oh, I am going to have surgery.” I just needed to be hyper-efficient and get my business sorted out, and let someone else worry about the surgery. I called my mom and told her what was going on. That I needed her to go get the dogs, that I needed her to get their food and medicine. How to corral them in the house and what kennel to take for transporting them in the car. Which hospital I was going to, and what I would like her to bring me from my house (Clean underwear for when I checked out of the hospital the next day. I presumed I could wear my same rocking goth outfit, but I wanted clean underwear, dammit.) And then I walked out of the doctors office, got in my car and drove out of his parking lot. That’s when I realized I had neglected to ask which of the buildings in the complex was the actual place you go to check in for surgery. There were lots of buildings. I had to call information, then call the hospital, then ask them for directions from their own parking lot. It was at this point that I started to lose my shit, in case you can’t tell.

I parked valet because I couldn’t deal with finding a place to leave my car. I found the check-in desk and announced I was here to check myself in for surgery. “Are you here by yourself?” the check-in lady asked, and I replied in the affirmative. They sent me to a waiting room which (naturally) had no cell-phone reception. I told them I would be in the hallway making calls and called work to let them know what was up and arrange for someone to attend an event I had promised to go to the next day. By the time I had made the call they were ready for me, and I had to blurt out a few instructions and then go. I went to the processing lady. “Are you here by yourself?” she asked me. I replied in the affirmative, starting to resent being asked. She took my vital information, and then my surgeon popped his head into the office to hurry her along. “Is anyone here with you?” He asked me, and I wondered if he thought I had Helena Bonham Carter stashed in my giant handbag. How would there be anyone with me?

They finished processing me and then took me down the hall to a room, where they told me to take all my clothes off, put them in a bag put on a horrible hospital robe with a discomfiting number of snaps in strange places, and then pee in a cup. I was also told to put footies on my feet and a cap over my hair. I did all those things, because I can follow simple directions. Someone came in and took the pee, then came back and asked me if I was alone. I began to feel like the saddest bastard in the world. “I am alone.” I replied, “This happened quite suddenly, my parents are on their way.” Now I was defensive. Much furtive whispering ensued, wondering what to do with my things while I was in surgery. Lots of people began to ask me if I was pregnant and what I had eaten that day. They asked me if I knew what was happening, I replied that I did. (I was sitting braless in a room with a rotating parade of strangers, and a man I only met an hour before was going to have me sedated and cut out one of my organs.) Someone came and inserted an IV in my hand. More people asked me if I was pregnant and what I had eaten. A new woman came in and asked me if I was alone. Someone bar-coded me, someone bar-coded my belongings, as they were going to be removed to the security office as I was there *gasp* ALONE *ungasp.*

Someone came in and told me I was not pregnant (pee test) and asked if I had eaten anything that day. Then my parents arrived. My mom came into the room and immediately started telling the nurse about her gall bladder surgery, and how after it she thought she was having a heart attack and had to spend the night in the ICU. I crossed my arms over my unrestricted bosoms and wished I was already unconscious. They gave me something to relax me, then they wheeled me away to a room where they made me get on another bed, by then I had only a hazy idea of what was going on. Next thing I knew I was waking up to someone yanking a tube out of my throat, and I thought I was going to barf. The surgeon came over. “I think you’re going to need more surgery.” he said, which was not what I had expected to hear at that point. I tried to talk. I coughed instead. He said some more stuff, my throat hurt me and I did not pay attention. I wished he would fuck off. They wheeled me to a room. It was probably 4:30 or so. My mom was there with my clothes and my purse. I wanted my bra back, but I couldn’t move and had all this shit attached to me and I didn’t think I could get up or put it on. My throat hurt. “They think you need more surgery.” my mom said. “uh huh” I said. “Well as long as you’re settled,” my mom said. “We’re going to go ahead and get going, we need to take care of the dogs.” What? Huh? They were leaving me? My throat hurt.

“I am not going to leave your purse or clothes here, I am going to take them home. What if they get stolen?” my mom said. I snatched at my bag, not thinking enough to argue with her, but knowing damn well she wasn’t leaving me alone there without my phone. I plucked my MyTouch, my iPod and a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm from my bag, and sadly handed it over to her. “Take care, and we will see you tomorrow.” she said. And then they were gone.

Shortly after they left, the woman on the other side of the curtain, who had three female visitors (I think they were her daughters) began vomiting. Copiously. Retching and gagging and coughing, I had rarely heard anything so horrible. Apparently her morphine drip did not agree with her. It went on for a long time. A nurse came in and strapped giant Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man plastic cuffs on my calves, and attached those to the bed. They began inflating and deflating at regular intervals to keep me from getting a blood clot. They made my legs sweaty. I was informed I couldn’t go the bathroom without help, and told I had to pee in a “hat” so the nurses could have a look at it. I got a giant glass of ice water. It was never going to be enough to make my throat stop hurting. I got help to pee. My pee was really a weird color now. The surgeon came back, he explained that I had gall stones stuck in my common bile duct (the aforementioned choledocholithiasis) and my liver was not draining. (After the surgery they attempt to push dye through the duct to make sure it’s clear. He said he pushed the dye in, but none came out, so it was pretty much totally blocked.) They were going to wait and see if the stones cleared overnight, but if they did not I would need more surgery the next day. He went away.

Pukey lady kept puking. I spilled my giant glass of ice water on the floor, and all three of pukey lady’s daughters came over to help clean it up. I thought maybe the nurse should do that, and eventually she came. I peed again. My pee was now the color of strong tea. I shared a TV with pukey lady. “Unbreakable” was on. I laid there and looked at my phone, wanting to not be all alone in the horrible place, with no bra and a sore throat and more surgery on the way. I didn’t want weird sweaty things strapped to my legs, I wanted that lady to stop throwing up, and I wanted her daughters to stop talking, especially to me. I watched “Unbreakable” and I also watched the battery in my phone start to drain, and with it any connection I had to the world outside this hateful room. The nurses switched shifts. I turned my phone off to conserve the battery and I snuck to the bathroom on my own. I got caught out and got in trouble. I got scolded for wanting to wash my hands with soap and water instead of the antibacterial goop from the dispenser, but whatever, I know soap and water is better. They forgot to turn my leg cuffs back on, now they were just laying there all sweaty and uninflated. I could not bend or turn or move. I lined my three possessions in the world up on the cart next to me. iPod, MyTouch, lip balm. The sum total of who I was when I was not here. I put my iPod on and used a rainstorm white noise track to drown out pukey. I dozed off.

Half an hour later I awoke, and at approximately half-hour intervals all night I was constantly woken. Pukey, the TV she wanted on at 2:30 a.m., her IV beeping, my IV beeping, the nurse coming in and not understanding about the indoor, middle-of-the-night voice. I snuck to pee again. Now my pee was cola colored. My throat still hurt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked insane. No wonder no one gives you any respect in the hospital, you look deranged and you have no bra. I went back to bed, I fell asleep, pukey woke me up to ask my name. The nurse came in to check if I needed to pee and then she made me breathe into a contraption that made me feel like I had pneumonia. (Apparently the anesthesia pushes fluids in your lungs and you have to cough them back out, but you don’t want to cough because there are holes in your stomach.) They took away my water, as I wasn’t allowed any food or liquids anymore. Someone came in to draw my blood at 6 a.m. and I told him that I was not above punching a phlebotomist if he fucked it up and hurt me. I don’t think he liked it. I didn’t care. My phone was almost dead. The results of that bloodwork came in, and I was in worse shape than I was before. Definitely more surgery.

My throat hurt.

All I know is that I haven’t been going out there, and it’s nice to forget there’s a there that I have to eventually go back out to. There’s no “what’s going on fun out there” since I am not going out there, no matter what fun is to be had. That’s a big relief, actually. I am not missing anything, because I am missing everything. And that’s fine with me. Go away, world, I find you to be unnecessary. I am pretty sure you will still be around when this wears off.

Table of contents for Gallbladder Madness

1. So anyway
2. But that’s not the end of the story. Here’s what happened.
3. and THEN

So yeah, February always seems to be my month for health-related or other types of weirdness, and to keep up that tradition I had my gallbladder removed last week. I might do a longer post on the details of that once I can comfortably sit at the computer for a longer period and type more. (My hands are ouchy from the IV and blood draws and my belly doesn’t like to be bended, so much.)

So anyway I was just laying in bed looking at the new holes I have, and everything’s kind of ouchy, and I can’t move really well, and I keep getting these weird pinchy sensations where my gallbladder used to be, and I think – holy crap, someone cut three holes in me and stuck some implements up in there and snipped away one of my organs and yanked it out through my belly button. And despite that seeming as if it’s a big deal, kinda, I also feel as if I should be immune to the effects of it. OK that happened to me yesterday. Why do I still feel badly today? It’s both too big of a deal to be processed and something I would like to be entirely done with as of now, if you please.

I understand that I should probably be all “modern marvels of medicine!” and epiphany-laden, but really I am just a chick with the same exact issues she had last week, now with three extra holes and one fewer organs and a bunch of dried blood in her belly button. And also, you know, ow.

But I will say this for being a girl. Although there are many, many shitty things** involved in being female in our world, the fact that I was able to come to work this morning wearing the functional/comfort equivalent of pajamas is a pretty awesome feature for my sex. Floor-length cozy skirt, cotton camisole and baggy cotton hoodie sweater are about as comfortable as it gets while still imitating appropriate office wear. And since I knew all of today was going to be hiding out in my office down here in the catacombs, avoiding morons, I feel pretty comfortable in my slob-tastic attire.

Bought some discount liquors yesterday at the alcoholic warehouse at 44/Jefferson. One of the things I picked up was Cafe Boheme, which turned out to be just a really, really inexpensive ($8.99!) yet tasty knock-off of Bailey’s, in a pretty, French-looking bottle. Anyway I was sipping on a glass or two of that during the evening, and imagine my surprise when I left the room only to return to Jake having his snout buried in my glass, happily lapping away at my coffee-flavored-liqueur goodness. Moron dog.

I don’t think he drank too much of it, apparently not enough to hurt him, but still it was startling to see, because you know I love to worry.

Anyway, overall life-status is devastatingly horrific bordering on colossally depressing with a dash of heart-pounding, middle-of-the-night panic, somewhat ameliorated by an absorbing creative project I am working on for a friend and a 6-week (probably fantastical) time-line for health improvements proffered by my doctor***. Just when I think one more thing can’t go wrong in my body or my world, it does. And almost none of the other wrong things have gotten any better, so it really is a lot to deal with. And it leaves me just sitting around looking at the two or three things that AREN’T wrong in my world, and wondering how long it will be until they also go totally fuckwire. And probably when the next thing goes wrong it won’t even be one of the things I am dreading, it’s going to be some other bizarre thing that I thought was safe that turns around and bites me in the face.

But fuck it, right? Nothing I can do about anything, so no point caring.

*RevCo concert at the Firebird  – still pissed Al wasn’t with the band AND they didn’t play Attack Ships on Fire. Bastards.

**cramps, PMS and other hormonal surges, eyebrow plucking, bleached wads of cotton shoved up your ladyparts, leg shaving, pantyhose, high heels and underwire bras, to name just a few.

*** I am now on two medications and FOUR supplements, one of which requires I take 8 pills of it per day! It’s the awesome.

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In some kind of world record, I totally lost my shit IN THE WAITING ROOM. Yes kids, in a model to capable competent women everywhere, I sat there with a bunch of strangers, weeping most piteously over the forms I had to fill out. Seriously. I didn’t even know until I got there that I was going to freak out so hard. You never can tell.

So anyway, I had to take some calming medications. Then I saw the doctor, and tried to maintain my cool. She was a cool doctor, very matter of fact, which I appreciated. She seems to believe in some concept called… let me think… oh what did she CALL it again…? Oh! The “quality of my life.” Whatever that is.

She thinks mine is not high! I agree! It’s just that no one I’ve seen wants to focus on the fact that my medical issues are making me miserable, and making my life a pit of despair. They just want to focus on the one thing in front of them, not weighing whether treatment of that thing might actually make me feel worse, and if there are other options to consider. Anyway, she did some bloodwork and made me pee in a cup, and she wants to see me back in a month and “assess my mood” (I swore to her that I was not normally hysterical, but she did not believe me, and I can’t blame her.) In the meantime she’s sending me to two other doctors for other stuff.

So anyway I hadn’t eaten anything b/c I thought they might want to do fasting bloodwork. So I was hungry, and I was on calming meds. And then I had blood drawn. So then I was woozy and hungry and on calming meds. Then I was starving, so I went to Jack in the Box. FAIL on the eyes bigger than stomach level. Oh well, at least I am no longer hungry, I am going into a food coma.

Anyway, now I am at my desk, preparing to work. But I am woozy, low on blood, in a food coma AND still with the calming meds. I don’t know that I am going to be super-charged here in the office today, is all I am saying.

The doctor says that the heart itself is strong and undamaged, so they’re confident that the surgery will go well. But still, triple bypass? WTF. The funny thing is, that staying in the hospital from Friday to Monday – or I guess beyond since they won’t let him leave the same day as his surgery I guess – will be the longest he’s gone without drinking in approximately forever. I don’t even know how his body will react to that.

I don’t really know what to think right now. I mean, this is not entirely unexpected. He’s a 70+ overweight diabetic alcoholic with high blood pressure and high cholesterol. He eats like crap, drinks constantly and gets no exercise. Heart trouble isn’t what you’d call a surprise. I don’t know what to think about all this, or how worried to be. I guess I have been trying to brace myself for a long time, it’s inevitable that his health will deteriorate. My Mom is one of five sisters, and all their husbands are dead. Not that I am cavalier about it, just that I don’t want to freak until I have a reason to. This just feels like the next logical step in the sequence, right? Don’t take care of yourself, suffer ill-health, see if our modern medical technology can save you.

Basically I am just refusing to process this until I get more information.