Friday, August 8, 2014


A couple of weeks ago I underwent surgery to be spayed. I'm okay with that. Little Man will forever be the only Little Man we have. Even if I didn't have my girl parts removed, he would still be the only off-spring because I am *ahem* over thirty-five. Okay, I'm over thirty-eight. Aside from no longer needing the parts, in my family bad things start to happen to the parts and they turn on us and become toxic. My parts were heading down that road. Rather than take a "let's monitor the progress of trouble" stance, my doctor offered me the choice but told me that eventually we'd reach the removal part. I was all onboard. Just get it over with.

Medieval Barber from Saturday Night Live
There's a whole lot of trust that goes on when you place your life in the hands of other people. I'm not good with that. I know me better than anyone else. I know what I need and what I can and cannot tolerate. When you go into surgery, you have to hope they listened and they are paying attention. And that is usually the case. But always keep in mind they are still practicing medicine and so were Medieval barbers. Yet it's after surgery that I dread.

First, there is discomfort from the surgical procedure. Then there's all the tubes, the uncomfortable bed, the really bad food, and lack of privacy and dignity. Most of the nurses are fine and know how to draw blood and hang a new IV bag. Just remember, they have a number of patients and you are just another alarm going off that needs to be checked. They don't know you and your "things to watch" unless they read through your chart. If you survive for two days, they let you go home. Ahhh, home sweet home.

For me, recovery is tortuous. I can handle the discomfort or pain and I stop the narcotic medications before I go home. If I need something to take the edge off, well, I'm good with ibuprofen. For me what is so difficult about recovery is the idleness and isolation. I can't drive. I can't lift or pick up Little Man. I can't easily go up and down the stairs. I can't sweep, or clean, or cook, or do laundry. I can't sit too long or stand too long or lay down too long. I don't sit still vey well and being idle drives me crazy.

Sure, I've done a LOT on the needlepoint project for church. Yeah, I finished knitting my sister's sweater. Yes, I started a scarf for the church knitting group that resumes in a couple of weeks. Yup, I am working on starting a business, working on the final touches of the ghost writing job I've been doing and I've done some revisions on my novel. But, I'm used to doing all that, and everything else too.

But what I miss most is Little Man. While I was in the hospital and during my recovery he has stopped needing me to lay down with him to fall asleep. He goes to bed on his own. He has stopped asking to sit in my lap and goes off to be by himself. He has stopped giving me random hugs. He stopped needing me. I don't know if I'll ever recover from that.

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