I returned to work yesterday after having two weeks off for my surgery. It was an uneventful day, especially since my boss is on vacation this week and out of my hair, oops, I mean, out of the office. I was hoping the rest of the week would go smoothly as well. Today proved that "smooth" is not in my vocabulary.
The day was going okay until it was time for the staff meeting. I hate staff meetings. They are long, boring and well, someone usually gets on my nerves. Either from talking too much, for being a dumbass, or for making us stay longer than three hours by their insistence that we talk about their issues until we have run them into the ground. I have to take notes, so I need to pay attention. It's exhausting. Today, however, the boss is out of the office and Life Coach Barbie is running the meeting. She says she is going to make it quick. I had hope. I never had hope.
Today was a prime example of why I don't have hope. The meeting was going on and on about this one topic. They were trying to set some parameters for a new process. They kept changing what they were saying and I was getting irritated, not that it takes much to do that. My belly was kind of throbbing, so I rubbed it a little and hoped the meeting would be over soon. Finally, it was. I stood up and as I did, my belly felt warm and I looked down and on the outside of my sweater there was a spot. It was a wrap around sweater, so I opened it up and my white tank top thing underneath had a huge orangey circle. My guts had exploded again. It finally happened, the staff meeting made my guts explode. It was just a matter of time, I guess. It was inevitable. A few people saw the spot on my shirt and their eyes got big. I left the room and retreated to the ladies room. I pull up my shirt and sure enough, we have a situation. My bandage that was fresh this morning was now soaked, it had gone through that, my FCD, my tank top and my sweater. Shit. I'm especially pissed because now, I am exposed and I am in an environment that could be breeding anything from Malaria to Small Pox to the Plague. AND, there are no paper towels in either dispenser. It was at that moment that Cupcake in the head Lady came in. There I was, belly hanging out, fluid dripping and at this point, I am so mad and frustrated, I am starting to cry. Cupcake in the Head Lady got me toilet paper and we stopped up the hole. I looked up in the mirror and what a site I was. I haven't showered in about five days because of this damn stomach issue. I mean, I've done liberal sponge baths and washed my hair, but it isn't the same. My hair looks stringy, greasy and it's up in a clip and then I have pins in it to hold back the falling pieces. I have a zit coming in on my chin and a big-ass bio-hazard stain on my belly. I'm a mess.
I returned to my desk and the consensus was that I should go home. Apparently, no one wanted me oozing at my desk, so I went home. I had been exposed, all I could do now was rush home to my Neosporin and fresh bandages. When I got to my truck I called the doctor's office and talked to his medical assistant. She says, "where you doing anything stressful when this happened?" I replied, "Well, I was sitting at a staff meeting with a bunch of managers I wanted to punch in the head, but it wasn't physically stressful." It was quiet as she typed her notes. Then she asked, "Is the incision warm?" I said, "Well, it is warm, but it is also under three layers: my fat controlling device, my tank top and my sweater, so you know..." Again with the typing. This girl has no sense of humor. I'm the one with oozing guts, cut me some slack. So, now, I'm pretty sure my permanent medical records reflect that I wanted to punch people and that I wear an FCD. After all that, basically, I was told to keep bandaging it and keep an eye out for infection. Oh, and come see the doctor on Thursday. Fine, if I don't bleed to death in my sleep, I'll be there.
I headed for home, but was feeling the meltdown coming on, so I did what I do when these meltdowns happen, I called Valerie. Valerie is a good one to meltdown with because she will listen, be sympathetic and then say, "it's okay, honey, we'll figure this out." And, mostly, no matter how hysterical I get, she's calm as a cucumber. I dialed her up and she answered the phone all happy to hear from me and I started the conversation like this, "Well, are you ready for the meltdown, because it's happening." She was quiet, preparing herself for the onslaught. I figure, why bother with "hello, how are you?" let's cut to the chase. Valerie understands this. I told her my guts exploded again, I told her how that was going to impact my next surgery, I told her how I burst in public, I had been exposed to malaria, yellow fever and small pox, I told her how I had really bad hair and it was stringy and I was ugly and that I had a zit and that I had a big stain on my brand new white tank top and how I had the potential to have bread baking in my "easy bake oven" thanks to the anti-biotics and how I was tired of this. Tears were streaming down my face. An occasional hiccup and sob was inserted. She did the appropriate lash-out at the doctor and told me this was just temporary and that we would get through this. She kept asking me where I was now, she wanted to make sure I made it home safely. She talked to me from Everett all the way to Silvana. After I finished the final drama filled synopsis of my utter state of repulsiveness, she said, "now where are you?" I wailed, with every fiber of my being, "I'm in freaking (sob) Silvana...(sob, gasp, hiccup) where all your freaking dreams come true!" Valerie is laughing, probably because she doesn't know what else to do, but I am out of control. I finally sucked it up and a couple big sniffs and a nose wipe on my sleeve and I give her a pathetic good-bye. I hate my guts.
So, I guess I'll double up on the padding and hope I don't need a transfusion in the morning. At the current rate of gut explosions, I gauge the next one to be on Friday. I'll be ready this time.
The day was going okay until it was time for the staff meeting. I hate staff meetings. They are long, boring and well, someone usually gets on my nerves. Either from talking too much, for being a dumbass, or for making us stay longer than three hours by their insistence that we talk about their issues until we have run them into the ground. I have to take notes, so I need to pay attention. It's exhausting. Today, however, the boss is out of the office and Life Coach Barbie is running the meeting. She says she is going to make it quick. I had hope. I never had hope.
Today was a prime example of why I don't have hope. The meeting was going on and on about this one topic. They were trying to set some parameters for a new process. They kept changing what they were saying and I was getting irritated, not that it takes much to do that. My belly was kind of throbbing, so I rubbed it a little and hoped the meeting would be over soon. Finally, it was. I stood up and as I did, my belly felt warm and I looked down and on the outside of my sweater there was a spot. It was a wrap around sweater, so I opened it up and my white tank top thing underneath had a huge orangey circle. My guts had exploded again. It finally happened, the staff meeting made my guts explode. It was just a matter of time, I guess. It was inevitable. A few people saw the spot on my shirt and their eyes got big. I left the room and retreated to the ladies room. I pull up my shirt and sure enough, we have a situation. My bandage that was fresh this morning was now soaked, it had gone through that, my FCD, my tank top and my sweater. Shit. I'm especially pissed because now, I am exposed and I am in an environment that could be breeding anything from Malaria to Small Pox to the Plague. AND, there are no paper towels in either dispenser. It was at that moment that Cupcake in the head Lady came in. There I was, belly hanging out, fluid dripping and at this point, I am so mad and frustrated, I am starting to cry. Cupcake in the Head Lady got me toilet paper and we stopped up the hole. I looked up in the mirror and what a site I was. I haven't showered in about five days because of this damn stomach issue. I mean, I've done liberal sponge baths and washed my hair, but it isn't the same. My hair looks stringy, greasy and it's up in a clip and then I have pins in it to hold back the falling pieces. I have a zit coming in on my chin and a big-ass bio-hazard stain on my belly. I'm a mess.
I returned to my desk and the consensus was that I should go home. Apparently, no one wanted me oozing at my desk, so I went home. I had been exposed, all I could do now was rush home to my Neosporin and fresh bandages. When I got to my truck I called the doctor's office and talked to his medical assistant. She says, "where you doing anything stressful when this happened?" I replied, "Well, I was sitting at a staff meeting with a bunch of managers I wanted to punch in the head, but it wasn't physically stressful." It was quiet as she typed her notes. Then she asked, "Is the incision warm?" I said, "Well, it is warm, but it is also under three layers: my fat controlling device, my tank top and my sweater, so you know..." Again with the typing. This girl has no sense of humor. I'm the one with oozing guts, cut me some slack. So, now, I'm pretty sure my permanent medical records reflect that I wanted to punch people and that I wear an FCD. After all that, basically, I was told to keep bandaging it and keep an eye out for infection. Oh, and come see the doctor on Thursday. Fine, if I don't bleed to death in my sleep, I'll be there.
I headed for home, but was feeling the meltdown coming on, so I did what I do when these meltdowns happen, I called Valerie. Valerie is a good one to meltdown with because she will listen, be sympathetic and then say, "it's okay, honey, we'll figure this out." And, mostly, no matter how hysterical I get, she's calm as a cucumber. I dialed her up and she answered the phone all happy to hear from me and I started the conversation like this, "Well, are you ready for the meltdown, because it's happening." She was quiet, preparing herself for the onslaught. I figure, why bother with "hello, how are you?" let's cut to the chase. Valerie understands this. I told her my guts exploded again, I told her how that was going to impact my next surgery, I told her how I burst in public, I had been exposed to malaria, yellow fever and small pox, I told her how I had really bad hair and it was stringy and I was ugly and that I had a zit and that I had a big stain on my brand new white tank top and how I had the potential to have bread baking in my "easy bake oven" thanks to the anti-biotics and how I was tired of this. Tears were streaming down my face. An occasional hiccup and sob was inserted. She did the appropriate lash-out at the doctor and told me this was just temporary and that we would get through this. She kept asking me where I was now, she wanted to make sure I made it home safely. She talked to me from Everett all the way to Silvana. After I finished the final drama filled synopsis of my utter state of repulsiveness, she said, "now where are you?" I wailed, with every fiber of my being, "I'm in freaking (sob) Silvana...(sob, gasp, hiccup) where all your freaking dreams come true!" Valerie is laughing, probably because she doesn't know what else to do, but I am out of control. I finally sucked it up and a couple big sniffs and a nose wipe on my sleeve and I give her a pathetic good-bye. I hate my guts.
So, I guess I'll double up on the padding and hope I don't need a transfusion in the morning. At the current rate of gut explosions, I gauge the next one to be on Friday. I'll be ready this time.
What a great friend - Valerie rocks!
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