Well, the surgery is over and I am back at home to try to recuperate.
I wasn’t expecting four holes to be bored into my abdominal cavity but oh well ... there they are.
I thought I could get away with one, maybe two tops. Four? Seems like a bit much.
However, I am not aware of any mishaps during surgery, so that is reasonably comforting.
But when it was later suggested to me in my hospital room that I should “roll over” to get out of bed, I looked at the nursing assistant like she’d just suggested I should set fire to my hair.
I’m not in great physical shape to start with, but rolling over with four holes in my side?
I looked her squarely in the eye and hit the “up” button on the bed, raising my head and shoulders.
She and another assistant stood by, watching me inch my swollen left side across the bed and then I tried to push myself up off the mattress. It was time to hit the restroom and I knew if I didn’t make a move, I’d soon be floating down the hall on my makeshift life raft.
“Ahoy, me hardies!”
I got my feet just to the edge of the mattress and started to push myself up into a sitting position, when one of the assistants stepped in and took my arms, helping me to a semi-upright position.
I knew I looked like CroMagnon Woman.
I shuffled to the restroom and was informed I would need to lower myself to the commode.
Listen honey... if I could “bleep” a Twinkie, I would.
I managed to lower myself with some tips from Cirque de Soleil.
Getting back up was another struggle, but with hands and feet strategically placed, it was doable.
I realized that I had to just keep getting up out of bed in order to get stronger, so I didn’t sleep at all that night in the hospital. I rang for the nurse about every hour and a half and went to the restroom, whether I needed to or not.
The night staff was awesome.
The next day I was able to more or less get myself out of bed but it would take about ten minutes to do it, so I borrowed my room mate’s nurse at one point and she huffed a bit, saying, “Well, I’m not your nurse!”
Seriously? I don’t give a rat’s, just give me your dang hand!
The day staff was not nearly as much fun or as pleasant.
I managed to get a ticket outta there and got home late in the day.
A friend of mine phoned me that evening and insisted that I allow her to come the next day and tend to me while Hubs was off working.
She’s a physician’s assistant so I thought, “Oh well, what the heck...”.
I didn’t see her all that morning so I reckoned she found something better to do over the holiday weekend, and that was fine by me.
The Kid was plenty helpful, God bless his little soul. He had the decency to cry when he saw me in the recovery room, so I now get to hold that image over his head whenever he tries to get smartypants with me.
At about one o’clock, my friend dingdongs the doorbell.
I was in bed, feeling like a swollen cow on its back, wishing I could just roll off and answer the door.
The Kid answered and showed her to my room where I instantly realized she was in no condition to tend to me or anyone else.
The theme from “Psycho” immediately started playing in my head.
How she’d managed to even get to my house alive was beyond me.
I could smell the vodka before she came into the room.
Trust me, I didn’t know this about her. I had suspected it before, but now it was clearly evident that Kathy Bates had indeed arrived at my house.
I was just praying that she wouldn’t chain me to my bed and chop off my feet.
She must have stashed a bottle in her purse because she seemed to get more drunk as the afternoon wore on, and I was terrified that she would knock me over and I’d be back at the Chop House getting stitched up.
Hubs stopped in briefly, he was busy working and had on-call duty so The Kid managed to quickly relay all of the day’s events and he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Nurse Ratchett had crawled up onto the foot of my bed and passed out for a few minutes.
When she woke up shortly thereafter, she swore that she had slept all night.
I assured her she’d only been asleep for about 15 minutes.
I suggested to The Kid that he assist her in getting her blow up bed ready — mainly because she was totally lit and passing out was the best blessing I could ask for — so he got right to work.
Sure enough, shortly thereafter she crawled onto her bed and short of suckin’ her thumb, she fell fast asleep.
She slept blissfully through the night, not stirring till well into the following morning.
She insisted that I take a short walk with her before she left, which I agreed to do, but she hung onto me like I was coat rack. I was so terrified she would stumble and take me down with her. During our short walk, The Kid got busy packing up all of her stuff and hauled it out to her car for her, under the guise of being a gentleman.
He didn’t want anyone hurting his Mommy.
When the shadow version of the boozehound Martha from “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff?” drove off, we all breathed a sigh of relief.
After she left, Hubs chided me about her, saying, “I told you something was wrong with her! I knew it!”
The Kid stepped around him and said, “If anyone’s gonna take care of you, it’ll be me!”
I cherished that promise until I couldn’t wake him up in the middle of the night to pull me up off the bed. Not even after throwing pillows at him.
He will vacuum and do the laundry, so I guess I can’t ask for more than that.
I think any further “friendly assistance” offers will go under the “Don’t Do Me Any Favors” file.