It wasn’t me, honest, I didn’t do nuffin! It was the upgrades, Officer, the upgrades! I followed them rules to the letter. And, and, and…
And now I’m in FB purgatory for (return in 23h, 58 min).
Sigh, I suppose this is a good thing, though apparently some folks are feeling desperate withdrawal symptoms from lack of Little Miss Mayhem updates and comical photos (I love it when my ‘pets’ have a bigger following than most celebrities).
It does put one out of sorts as I have a routine in the mornings and now that routine’s been shattered and I’m not sure how to cope.
So I vacuumed. I wasn’t supposed to, not yet. The good doctor said, “You can do small things around the house, then rest,” so I took that go ahead rather liberally.
Yes, Little Miss Mayhem, we're in Face Book hell for a full day!
The surgeon called yesterday to check on my progress and to inquire if I had any questions (it's a woman... I've never had a male surgeon call for any reason).
I had a few niggling concerns, worries that my miscreant behaviors (doing things I shouldn't) had finally caught up with me. But no, the symptoms were 'normal' and would go on for 4-6 weeks while the staples do whatever they do when hidden out-of-sight but not out-of-mind.
And I'm so very pleased to report I've nothing damning in the way of purple or blue tidbits that would indicate parts unraveling in my inner landscape.
But, the bestest news of all: the biopsy was 'clean'.
The reason for the hysterectomy were wayward polyps that a biopsy revealed as pre-cancerous (to date I'd avoided using the C-word because it sounded alarmist and I was in that State of Denial that isn't a river in Egypt). The odds were 50-50. I'm no gambler and that didn't sound terribly promising to me.
During the polypectomy, the surgeon couldn't get a good enough look to determine if anything else was amiss. So it was out with the lady parts and holding my breath for the results of the big picture biopsy.
Thankfully, the results were positive. Cancer free.
It wasn't until I'd heard those words that I realized just how much of a pall I've been living under. The tight-lipped route is my usual path when faced with things medical (relating to myself, not others). Actually, I'm rather good at sublimation.
The fact is, if it had been cancer, the next question was going to be... where else? Not a prospect I was comfortable pursuing.
So it was Happy Dance time. The good doctor also gave me leave to drive (short distances) and to do little things around the house (then rest).
Yes'm, I shall do that.
I'm not coming around, knocking on your door, or distributing pamphlets, but I feel relieved enough to declare this my personal Good News Day!
The day after surgery wasn't so bad, nor was the next after that, but as you might expect, the feelings of relief that it went okay degraded to a wee bit of woe is me.
I'm not a good patient. I don't do rest and recover well at all. I was gathering up laundry, eyeing the vacuum, rearranging bookcases, bending over and cleaning out the litter box and otherwise giving my son fits. He'd arranged to work at home 'just in case'.
I'm sure he felt like he was keeping after a three year old, with 'don't do that' and 'I'll take care of that' echoing up and down the hallway. He did give in and allow me to go to the grocery store with him. I pointed, he secured the item and carted it, lugged the heavy bags and stuffed the goodies onto shelves and into the fridge.
I wielded the debit card and tried to look perky. Fact of the matter is: that little excursion wore me out.
So, in the midst of all this feeling sorry for myself, the UPS guy showed up, not once but twice last week. Bearing gifts. The first was from a florist: a beautiful, heavyweight squarish glass vase with tulips and irises poised on the cusp of blooming. Spring had arrived, compliments of a dear friend, Sessha Batto.
Here they are, a couple days later.
The next box came late in the day. This time it was chocolate covered strawberries. Kevin helped me open it, with an oh my look on his face.
The instructions suggested: best consumed within 48 hours. Really? Well, dang. It would be a hardship, but I would try.
The kindness, the thoughtfulness of a friend, turned my world around, brightened my day and reminded me that sharing love overcomes everything.
That's the Lehigh Valley Health Network facility at 17th and Chew, Allentown where I had surgery done on Tuesday. A laproscopically assisted vaginal hysterectomy, brought on by a dicey biopsy and 50-50 odds of developing the Big C.
I'm not much of a gambler and those odds did not appeal, so when the gynecologist said 'out with the lady parts', I was on board without hesitation.
But I had a fairly long wait, nearly two and a half months to mentally prepare myself and to do a little research so I knew what to expect. I watched the info video about the procedure, read up on aftereffects which, given my age, were rather innocuous, and otherwise gave myself daily pep talks that this would remove any source for further complications.
Temporary inconvenience, permanent improvement.
That said: I am not a good patient. I don't do 'rest' very well (I looked it up once, it didn't appeal) and when you tell me 'don't lift' I get the urge to manhandle 50 lb bags of grain. Dr. Molly also said 'no vacuuming', but strangely enough I can get down with that, no problemo.
I've had procedures off and on throughout my life and I have to say that today's medical facilities excel in patient care. Maybe not everywhere, but here in the Lehigh Valley I count myself blessed to have this standard of care available.
From the moment I arrived, I was attended to with the utmost attention to detail, with kind, compassionate good will and humor, and not once did I feel ill-at-ease or worried about the outcome.
I have also memorized my name and birthdate because if I was asked once, I was asked four hundred times (and the urge to fib hit me at the oddest times, just to see what would happen).
The procedure went well, if longer than expected. My bout with a ruptured appendix last year extended my 'it was a mess in there' into a new year and a new situation. Consistency is everything.
So I am stapled together (apparently they are blue and purple and I'm not to freak if I see odd bits lying about) and under no restrictions as to diet or much of anything aside from exertions and getting enough rest.
I don't hurt all that much other than feeling and looking like the Michelin Man: they inject a gas to separate the 'parts of interest' and they fluidize you to the point of gushiness. All that has to work its way out via normal channels and being alone to handle those details has definite appeal.
So here I sit, fantasizing about vacuuming, while providing a lap for Little Miss Mayhem who missed me and is making up for my absence with great misdeeds and misdemeanors.
Writer of fantasy and contemporary romance.