Whoopie

Henry went to a birthday party today. He had a terrific time and behaved himself and didn't blurt out what the present was or anything. Inside his gift bag was a little whoopie cushion. Henry thought it was hilarious. All the way home in the car, for the next five hours after we got home, Henry simulated various flatulent sounds. This evening I had to sit on it before he'd let me trim his hair. Ah, the sacrifices we make to ensure our kids look half way decent.

Another Day

Today was book club, hosted by me. The book was Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand. Since it's a huge thousand and something page tome, we only read the first two sections and are saving the last section for next month. In the book the main protagonist gets a mysterious cigarette imprinted with a dollar sign that's the best smoke ever, etc., so I made some of those "Neiman-Marcos" cookies and with a melted chocolate bar in a plastic ziplock bag I squirted dollar signs on them. I should have taken a picture, because they actually turned out decent, but alas, I neglected to before the locust plague of kids descended and devoured everything in sight. Ben will be sad. Oh, well. We had a long discussion that took up the entire two hours. Next month should be interesting when we wrap it up.

Last night I go the bill that is not a bill from the hospital for my surgery. Why is it that me lying in a bed for a few hours costs three times more than the services provided by a skilled anesthesiologist? I guess the world will never know.

Snow Day

Last night it started snowing around midnight. I was happy because I told Henry when he went to bed that the weatherman said their might be snow. Henry's only seen one snow in his life and he was only two so he doesn't remember it at all, and there was just enough accumulated on the deck to make a snowman. This morning Henry was very excited and I managed to get some ovaltine and a slice of bread in him before we had to go out to play. Ben stayed home from work and so we all went to the neighbors, who happen to have sleds and a steep driveway. It was one of those snows that are useless for making snowmen and snowballs and stuff, but Henry had a lot of fun. I was just happy to be feeling well enough to go outside and play. I refrained from sledding since the holes in my gut aren't quite healed, and flipping over into slush in the middle of the street didn't seem like a happy way to end a sled ride. Back home I made a snow angel and decided when it was time to get up that one was enough.

I thought it was pretty funny that the governor decided to call a state of emergency for the snow. It's not like there was an ice storm or anything. I guess she felt obligated to incite the bread/milk panic to help bolster the economy.

My Moment to Whine

Last Thursday I went in for what I like to call adventures in general anesthesia and waking up with three tiny holes in my gut. The procedure was to supposedly surgically correct what my doctor deduced that kind of could be the reason why I suck at getting pregnant; i.e., unblock or remove my right fallopian tube. Generally I'm not one to be squeamish and don't usually have any trouble watching those graphic discovery channel shows, except when it has anything to do with burns, which I find horrifically nauseating. Of course when it comes to me being the subject of the needle pokes I have no problem just so long as I look away while the poking commences, that way I don't flinch and cause a whole new series of needle jabs. I don't like the dental hygienist tampering with my mouth much, either, because there's always the slim chance she'll screw up somehow and shave off half my gums with one of her sharp scraper thingies. General anesthesia is not my favorite, basically because every time I wake up from it it sucks. I'm completely useless for several hours afterward and there's usually something pressing like being extremely thirsty or crazy pain or something and I can't do anything about it except sound completely undignified.

My wonderful sister Maggie took a day off work to assist me and my wonderful neighbor took Henry for the day, so there was nothing to worry about except something happening to me and Maggie being unable to reach my neighbor, something happening to Henry and my neighbor being unable reach Maggie, having an overdraft fee in case there wasn't enough money in my account to pay the huge prepayment, and a million other things you only think about five minutes before you're scheduled to be operated on. I was slightly nervous, as indicated by a heart rate that kept pace with that of a field mouse, and the anesthesiologist asked me if I'd like a shot that'd make me feel like I'd had a cocktail. I'd just finished telling her I didn't use alcohol, so there's no telling what a cocktail would do to me. Picture the results: me, dancing atop the gurney, whooping and swinging my hospital gown around my head. Not really, just me the same as before without the racing heart. Then there was the fun game of let's poke veins until we finally get one suitable for an intravenous line. Woo hoo!

One minute I'm breathing into a mask as directed and the next somebody's asking me to rate my pain. Rate my pain? Ten if it made me feel like screaming down to one if it barely hurts. I don't know; it just hurts. Okay, if it was ten I'd be screaming and they'd know it already, and obviously there was enough pain such that I was irritated enough to not play their stupid numeric rating game, so they just hit me with morphine until I said I was fine and went back to sleep.

I woke up after a nap and several ridiculous attempts to clear my head by shaking it. As I've said before, I am pathetic when coming out of it. Then when I was lucid enough, Maggie went over what the doctor told her. First off, he did not unclog my tube, neither did he remove it, but he did cut out some scar tissue. She showed me some cool photos of my innards. She said that the doctor told her I hadn't signed a consent form for him to do the tube procedure. What the crap?! I'd signed no less than two different consent forms and had explained what I was in for to at least three different people. I can imagine the scene in the O.R.: me, lying unconscious, looking vulnerable yet somehow attractive with a big plastic pipe sticking out of my mouth, the doctor poking holes in me, filling my abdomen with CO2, watching the dye mark my tube, readying his surgical tools... Then he hesitates. "Wait a sec, everybody! Where's that consent form? What? It's missing? Well, damn. Guess I'd better close her up." Five minutes later he goes out and buys a yacht.

Well, I suppose it wasn't exactly like that. But still. I paid good money for a procedure that was not done. Not only was it not done, that which was done will probably have a zero percent chance of improving my fertility, and I still had to go through the whole pain of waiting nearly four days for the stupid gas in my guts to dissipate. And let me tell you how much fun that was. Imagine a huge ball of pressure crammed right up in your diaphragm, so you can't breathe, plus it hurts like hell, and your shoulders hurt for no reason, and when you sit or stand it hurts more, and when you burp it hurts even more. The only thing that didn't hurt was the stupid little incisions. So no, I'm not looking forward to another laparoscopy, ever. And yes, I'm unhappy. And I'm glad I have a week to heal and cool off before I chat with the doctor.

Stupid doctor made me share my feelings...

Oh, and in case you were wondering, here's my belly button, and my bloated gut. It'd be naughty to show the other two bandages...

I Ain't Stupid

The other day as I was herding Henry to the car, he told me something about how the old man called the sheep poop. I whirled around and snapped at an unsuspecting Ben, "You let him watch 'Billy Madison,' didn't you?"

"Oh, I didn't think you'd find out." Or something like that.

Come on, give me a break. Henry repeats everything he sees; how could I not find out?

At least Ben tricked him into believing it was sheep.

Henry's Quote of the Day

"A good corn dog never quits."

I wish I knew what that meant.