Day four of my captivity, a recap of recent events.
Well, my toe surgery was done last Friday. I strolled into the waiting room in my pink pony pj's, my pony socks, flip-flops and a sweatshirt. No make-up, no jewelry, no lotion, just squeaky clean. I was a vision. They said to dress comfortably, but as I walked into the waiting room, I don't think everyone else got the memo. The room was packed and everyone looked at me like I had just escaped from the mental ward. Whatever, haters. I guarantee no one else in that room was as comfortable as I was.
The surgery itself was the easiest thing ever. I get on the table, Bob, the anesthesiologist guy, comes over and asks me why I'm here. At this point, at least 10 other people had asked me why I was here. I even had to mark the toe with a marker that the doctor was supposed to fix. I should have marked my boobs with specific instructions on what cup size I wanted to be, but they don't give you much time to mark yourself and put that gown on before you do your runway walk through the surgery center. Anyway, I start to tell Bob why I was there and then it was like, "Whoa." I said, "Bob, that's some good stuff...." and that was the last thing I remember saying until I was in the recovery room trying to remember to swallow and lift my head up. Holy crap, did anyone see the truck that hit me? I didn't feel a thing, this was cake.
After coming fully awake, the nurses just really wanted me the heck out of there. They kept saying, "you can go home whenever you want to." Okay nurse Betty, if this is the case, then take this damn IV out of me and could I have my pony PJ's back? The nurse gets my pj's out and says, "oh, my granddaughter would love these...." Probably lucky for me her granddaughter wasn't fat, otherwise I would probably have had to go home half naked. They emphasize how you are not supposed to wear anything of value. Nurses must have a real problem with sticky fingers. I guess. I feel like I got away with murder as my pink pony pj's are one of the most valuable and coveted items I own. Anyway, as I am sitting there waiting to be sent on my way, they inform me that I cannot drive (duh), I cannot sign any important legal documents and I need to keep my foot above my heart for several days. Oh, and I'm supposed to keep weight off my foot. They ask me if I have crutches. No, I don't. I figured someone would provide me some if I needed them. The nurse gave me a dirty look. Perhaps someone could have advised me pre-surgery that I needed crutches, a walker or some sort of hover-round scooter. It wasn't a big deal during my pre-op appointment, but now, apparently, I get the dumb-ass of the year award. Oh, I don't know, let's see, list of things to tell the patient pre-surgery, "tell her she could die, tell her she can't sue us, tell her she will be put under....tell her she will need some sort of support to walk after the fact...nah." I didn't give it much thought because, hello, it's a bump on my toe, it isn't an amputation....well, it was for the bump, but not for my foot!
The nurse angrily rolled me outside to where Will had the truck waiting. As I go to get up she says, "Now, no weight on that, hop, hop, hop..." I turned and looked at Will's 4x4 truck with side rails to get in and then the nurse. I wasn't hop, hop, hopping anywhere. I stand up so I could attempt to get in the truck with the least amount of trauma. I got in, but it wasn't pretty. I hoist my foot up on Wills dashboard so I look like a soft flour tortilla folded in half waiting for some taco filling. Yeah, this is comfy. So, off we go to get drugs and rent a little knee scooter thing so I don't have to put weight on my foot. Fun times.
I probably should have unfolded myself from the truck and tested the knee scooter because upon arriving at home and crawling up the stairs into the house like a drunk, I tried to use it and it hurts my knee. I have bad knees, I should have known. I also have tendonitis in the shoulders, so thought crutches would be bad, a walker is kind of stupid, how is that going to help? So, here I sit in my house realizing that my body is so broken that I am truly an invalid if I can't put weight on my foot. A wheel chair seems extreme for a stupid toe surgery. My Mom brought over all the stuff left over from Dad being ill. I have his walker, his crutches, his cane and then the knee scooter we rented. None of which are helpful in my shoebox size home. I'm not even going to tell you how I get up the stairs at night to get to bed. It's too traumatic. You add the heating pad, the ice packs and all the drugs, my home is now a convalescent home. I just aged myself 40 years.
All this got me to thinking, this is how people give up and then end up 800 pounds and lying in bed with nothing other than a sheet over them and then their family and friends bring them McDonald's meals and then they end up on some sort of news program or health network. THIS is how that happens! The drugs make me sleepy, I have to keep the foot up or it throbs in agony and I watch TV all day in between naps. I'm going mad. Mad I tell you. And I want ice cream. How long is this going to last? How long before Oprah, Jillian Michael's and Bob Harper show up and start having me do hand exercises so that I can attempt to lose weight? How long before I can shower? Like a real person? Sponge baths are severely over-rated and I almost got stuck in the splits position trying to shower with half my body in and half my body out of the shower. It was just a toe surgery, it wasn't a knee replacement!!! It was just my big toe, it wasn't a limb amputation and yet here I sit, an invalid. A dirty, stinky, crabby, hungry invalid. I may never walk again for all I know. What if I don't? Is this all I have to live for? Is it?
I know, I know, calm down. I think the Oxycontin is making me crazy, but I can't help but think that ice cream could be the antedote to craziness. I mean, it can't hurt to try, right? I better get back over to the couch and settle down.
Well, my toe surgery was done last Friday. I strolled into the waiting room in my pink pony pj's, my pony socks, flip-flops and a sweatshirt. No make-up, no jewelry, no lotion, just squeaky clean. I was a vision. They said to dress comfortably, but as I walked into the waiting room, I don't think everyone else got the memo. The room was packed and everyone looked at me like I had just escaped from the mental ward. Whatever, haters. I guarantee no one else in that room was as comfortable as I was.
The surgery itself was the easiest thing ever. I get on the table, Bob, the anesthesiologist guy, comes over and asks me why I'm here. At this point, at least 10 other people had asked me why I was here. I even had to mark the toe with a marker that the doctor was supposed to fix. I should have marked my boobs with specific instructions on what cup size I wanted to be, but they don't give you much time to mark yourself and put that gown on before you do your runway walk through the surgery center. Anyway, I start to tell Bob why I was there and then it was like, "Whoa." I said, "Bob, that's some good stuff...." and that was the last thing I remember saying until I was in the recovery room trying to remember to swallow and lift my head up. Holy crap, did anyone see the truck that hit me? I didn't feel a thing, this was cake.
After coming fully awake, the nurses just really wanted me the heck out of there. They kept saying, "you can go home whenever you want to." Okay nurse Betty, if this is the case, then take this damn IV out of me and could I have my pony PJ's back? The nurse gets my pj's out and says, "oh, my granddaughter would love these...." Probably lucky for me her granddaughter wasn't fat, otherwise I would probably have had to go home half naked. They emphasize how you are not supposed to wear anything of value. Nurses must have a real problem with sticky fingers. I guess. I feel like I got away with murder as my pink pony pj's are one of the most valuable and coveted items I own. Anyway, as I am sitting there waiting to be sent on my way, they inform me that I cannot drive (duh), I cannot sign any important legal documents and I need to keep my foot above my heart for several days. Oh, and I'm supposed to keep weight off my foot. They ask me if I have crutches. No, I don't. I figured someone would provide me some if I needed them. The nurse gave me a dirty look. Perhaps someone could have advised me pre-surgery that I needed crutches, a walker or some sort of hover-round scooter. It wasn't a big deal during my pre-op appointment, but now, apparently, I get the dumb-ass of the year award. Oh, I don't know, let's see, list of things to tell the patient pre-surgery, "tell her she could die, tell her she can't sue us, tell her she will be put under....tell her she will need some sort of support to walk after the fact...nah." I didn't give it much thought because, hello, it's a bump on my toe, it isn't an amputation....well, it was for the bump, but not for my foot!
The nurse angrily rolled me outside to where Will had the truck waiting. As I go to get up she says, "Now, no weight on that, hop, hop, hop..." I turned and looked at Will's 4x4 truck with side rails to get in and then the nurse. I wasn't hop, hop, hopping anywhere. I stand up so I could attempt to get in the truck with the least amount of trauma. I got in, but it wasn't pretty. I hoist my foot up on Wills dashboard so I look like a soft flour tortilla folded in half waiting for some taco filling. Yeah, this is comfy. So, off we go to get drugs and rent a little knee scooter thing so I don't have to put weight on my foot. Fun times.
I probably should have unfolded myself from the truck and tested the knee scooter because upon arriving at home and crawling up the stairs into the house like a drunk, I tried to use it and it hurts my knee. I have bad knees, I should have known. I also have tendonitis in the shoulders, so thought crutches would be bad, a walker is kind of stupid, how is that going to help? So, here I sit in my house realizing that my body is so broken that I am truly an invalid if I can't put weight on my foot. A wheel chair seems extreme for a stupid toe surgery. My Mom brought over all the stuff left over from Dad being ill. I have his walker, his crutches, his cane and then the knee scooter we rented. None of which are helpful in my shoebox size home. I'm not even going to tell you how I get up the stairs at night to get to bed. It's too traumatic. You add the heating pad, the ice packs and all the drugs, my home is now a convalescent home. I just aged myself 40 years.
All this got me to thinking, this is how people give up and then end up 800 pounds and lying in bed with nothing other than a sheet over them and then their family and friends bring them McDonald's meals and then they end up on some sort of news program or health network. THIS is how that happens! The drugs make me sleepy, I have to keep the foot up or it throbs in agony and I watch TV all day in between naps. I'm going mad. Mad I tell you. And I want ice cream. How long is this going to last? How long before Oprah, Jillian Michael's and Bob Harper show up and start having me do hand exercises so that I can attempt to lose weight? How long before I can shower? Like a real person? Sponge baths are severely over-rated and I almost got stuck in the splits position trying to shower with half my body in and half my body out of the shower. It was just a toe surgery, it wasn't a knee replacement!!! It was just my big toe, it wasn't a limb amputation and yet here I sit, an invalid. A dirty, stinky, crabby, hungry invalid. I may never walk again for all I know. What if I don't? Is this all I have to live for? Is it?
I know, I know, calm down. I think the Oxycontin is making me crazy, but I can't help but think that ice cream could be the antedote to craziness. I mean, it can't hurt to try, right? I better get back over to the couch and settle down.
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