The Follow-Up

The dread gallbladder surgery finally had a face when Day Surgery called Monday afternoon to tell me to be in at 8am the next morning for the old slicity-slice. When I was there for pre-screening they assured me that they never keep anyone waiting for long beforehand.

This was a flagrant lie.

Dustin and I left around 7, and I signed in at the front desk promptly at 7:45. I even waited until the gaggle of people crowded there left so I could be sure the ladies at reception noticed me signing in. Not because I need all eyes on me, but because if I have to face the facts, my super-power is falling through the cracks. This isn’t a pity party, just an honest assessment of my life.

Two hours went by. At first I was mostly preoccupied with being nervous to get pissy about the length of time, but when people we heard getting called into surgery were having their families called into their recovery rooms—people who came in well AFTER us—then I started getting a little hot under the collar. My name was called to report to the front desk, and at the same time they called my phone to ask if I was coming in. It was 10 by this time. The receptionist asked if I had signed in.

” Yes. At 7:45.” She looked shocked, then looked at her clipboard. Then flipped up a page. Then flipped up another page until she saw my name, completely buried under the people they’d skipped ahead of me. I was supposed to have been first in line with my surgeon that day, but didn’t actually get into the OR until 12:30 thanks to that happy little snafu.

The nurse who prepped me was great. I barely even felt it when she put the IV in, and I wish I could have some of those compression wraps they put on my legs for home. They were like having a wonderful calf massage every thirty seconds or so.

The anesthesiologist came in to say ‘hello,’ and looked exactly like Ebinezer Scrooge. Luckily, I didn’t have to see him again. His weirdly exuberant aides wheeled me away to the OR and I immediately cracked up laughing—”Back That Azz Up” was blaring in the background. My surgeon was super into 90’s hiphop they explained. He was such a small, nerdy looking white dude, with an Egon Spangler-esque demeanor that I never would have guessed. I mean, whatever keeps him pumped and feeling like a boss, right?

The anesthesia ladies explained that the drugs may burn in my hand a little has they come through the tube, but that it should only last for a second. Boy were they wrong. It burned like a mother and lasted about twenty seconds. They put an oxygen mask on me and said to take a few deep breaths. I managed one before I was PTFO.




I came awake all at once in the recovery bay. A lot of people talk about having loopy dreams and conversations with people who aren’t there while coming awake, but no such fun for me. Just intense pain that I was totally unprepared for. The stout lady furiously mouse-clicking at the workstation next to my stretcher gave me a shot of dilaudid, which without exaggeration was just barely enough to ease the pain, and I was wheeled into a private room. A few hours later the pain started coming back with a vengeance and my nurse gave me a single pill of the weakest OxyContin possible. She said I could have another in half an hour if I needed.

I needed.

When I called her back for the other pill she said “You’re a little on the small side, I just didn’t want to over medicate you.” Thanks? But seriously, over medicate me. Most of the rest of the afternoon was spent between crying in pain, and drug-addled sleep. The tech told me I needed her help to the bathroom, so at one point I asked her for help, which she did, but then didn’t come back to help me out. Thank glob Dustin was there.

Around 8 my nurse said they were ready to discharge me whenever I felt ready to go. A minute in the hospital is too damn long, so I let her know I was ready. She said she’d put in the order for my meds at the pharmacy and then come unhook me from everything. About an hour later Dustin’s like, “They fucking forgot you again.” Sure enough, she’d gone home for the night and no one even knew I was still there. He flagged down someone and let them know what was up, and the night tech and nurse came in to get me ready to go. The night nurse seemed completely incompetent, but did say that she didn’t think she was in the right room because my chart said I was 34, but that I look 24. The tech was like, ” You ARE very beautiful.” Seriously, you ladies are crazy but I love you.

Isnt it funny how when you’re in pain even the shortest drive is the longest of your life? We had to stop so I could take a pill before we made it, but eventually we did. Lulah was asleep when we left in the morning, and when we got home. It was the first time I hadn’t seen my kid for an entire day. We really like our kid, so that sucked.

I feel much better today, with a lot less pain. I even ate some jalapeño poppers! There’s a list of food I’ve been dying for but couldn’t have while on the low-fat diet for the last two or three months. Can’t wait to start checking those bad boys off! I’ll probably have to take up running or something. I lost twenty pounds in those months, and could probably gain all that back in a week.

All that fuss and it hardly looks like anything!

Anyhow, the kitchen is soooo close to finished so I should have some after pics for that soon, and then we can get back to making stuff!


Remodels and Organ Removals

My friends, I have been horridly remiss (among many things) in keeping this blog up to date. While that has been the status quo around here since the blog began, I had real instant ions (I came back through on a proofread and was like ‘the fuck?’ I wrote most of the beginning of this on a tablet–yet another victim of overzealous auto-correct but who the hell knows what it originally said? Not me. Maybe you do) and plans for more regular posts that were derailed by insidious outside forces.

Okay, maybe insidious is a bit of a stretch, but when misfortunes come at you from all sides like they’ve been at my house, it begins to feel like you’re being attacked by some unseen nemesis. It’s gotten so bad that my normally logical brain started thinking about the Evil Eye and feeling superstitious enough to start hanging amulets.

It started with a pain in my side. I would very occasionally experience a muscle cramp-type pain in this spot when sitting in the car, but I never thought much of it because it would go away again and not come back for weeks. The pain started morphing into a stabbing type, and one night after a super delicious, super greasy dinner of tacos and fried tortillas, it morphed into HOLYFUCKSOMETHINGISWRONG pain. I almost went to the hospital, but the internet assured me that it was just my gallbladder pooping the bed and likely wasn’t an emergency yet. A trip to the doctor a few days later confirmed that, yes, my gallbladder has taken an early retirement and will need to be evicted from its high-rent apartment. 

Jokes on you, you little jerk
In the three weeks (!?!?!!) it took for my Dr. Office’s asshole referral department to get back to me with just a name and phone number of a surgeon that I had to call and arrange everything myself with, our house flooded.

“Flood,” might conjure more water to mind than there was, but water was under the floorboards of most of our music room, in the laundry room, and in the kitchen. That night I had just grabbed my violin to go back into the bedroom for a little night practice when I noticed a weird sound while walking into the hall. Then I noticed water squishing up between the boards. We turned off the water and spent all night cutting holes in the walls to find the leak, pulling up floorboards, and throwing all the towels we had at the flood like confetti at a parade no one really wanted to attend.


We found the leak in the main water pipe connection in the wall between the laundry room and kitchen, and also found that what was now a river had once been an unnoticed  stream for quite some time. There was so much black mold growing in all the drywall. So much flooring and trim were soaked and ruined, as well as all of the bottom kitchen cabinets. Our kitchen cabinets (entire kitchen, really) had been an eyesore since before I even moved in almost 7 years ago, so I wasn’t crying for them so much as the awful timing.  Pulling out floorboards, drywall, and literally everything from the kitchen left my home looking like a war zone. That’s not hyperbole; I know what a war zone looks like, friends, and my house fit right in.


Spot the child!

Building, repairing, or changing anything in this house is stressful at the best of times because of the work crew; my hubs and his grandfather, Jim. Jim was once a scientist in the Army Corps of Engineers, and I have yet to be able to successfully imagine it. Jim does not operate in a scientific way. When presented with a problem, instead of logically puzzling out the absolute best solution, he commits full-tilt to the very first whimsy that pops into his mind. Often, this results in many things requiring repair that hadn’t before, and inordinate cost. I once told him his work method was like that of a wrecking ball, and he laughed.

“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.” Yes Jim, but not the whole dozen and not the Fabergè for maths sake!

Hubs is a logical man and this behavior makes him suitably crazy. He tries to steer Jim into a better course of action, but it’s a lot like guiding a charging bull. Most projects I have to leave the house for because I can really only stand a half hour or so of shouting at a time.

I’m officially sold on yearly repainting of the ceiling

While they were working on drywall and plumbing and stuff I have no experience in, I decided to use our surplus of kitchen paint to tackle our bedroom–another of the craphole rooms in the house that have been sucking my soul. (Basically Lulah’s room is the only room in the house that doesn’t look like hobos squatted there for years and then vacated, and that’s only because we had a timer ticking down on the renovation of that room. Once that turkey was done, we would be SOL if we hadn’t finished fixing it up) Painting our bed had been on my to-do list for a long time so I went ahead and checked that off too. I think we died of paint fume poisoning that night while we slept, but got better.

In the middle of all this fun, this happened. We lost power before it even started raining.

The power outage from the hurricane lasted a full night and day, but was only a slight nuisance. We couldn’t really get any work on the house done, so Dustin plugged the TV and XBox into the generator so I could play FallOut 4 all night. Having no power was kind of a blessing, really, because I wouldn’t have allowed myself the RnR if real work could have been done.

Tomorrow the granite for the kitchen counters is getting installed, and I’m really going to be cracking the whip over us to get the thousand tiny little details wrapped up that are still unfinished that probably wouldn’t bother my husband but is seriously doing damage to my peace of mind. It’s been tough, as my energy level has been Pbbbbbllt for almost the last two months has been nil. In order to avoid any pain (and I assume exploding this bum organ) I’ve been on a very low-fat diet. At first I was having trouble figuring out what to eat aside from bowls upon bowls of raw vegetables. Many days I was only eating around 600-800 kcal. Eventually I got into the swing of things, figured more foods out, and am feeling a little less dead. Only a little though.

I can’t wait to share some “after” photos with you guys, but I just wanted to let everyone know where I was! The surgery is Tuesday, I hope to update around the end of next week.Wish me luck!