Surgery, Recovery, and Loss

Well, I'm back. Apparently I DID get my surgeon on a bad day. On every visit after that, she was kind, attentive, and promising me that my nervousness was normal but unneeded. She corrected a lot of confusion and differences in her procedure as opposed to the ones I'd been reading about. There was no need for special procedures beforehand aside from showering twice with store-bought antibacterial soap and abstaining from food.
At 5:30 AM on September 30th, I arrived and was booked in a hospital room. Blue and Silly were allowed to stay with me through redressing, IV insertion, and pre-prep admissions. The IV sucked - it was bad. The nurse was awesome, very gentle and sensitive. The problem was my hands. She couldn't get in on one, and had a hard time getting the needletube in on the other. Then she had to reach for the bandages and pulled on the vein on accident.
While all this was going on, we were listening to the elderly trio in the other section of the room spout bigotry and insanity. Here's a special tidbit - which I heard several times before going under - "My name is BONE-ita. Not BON-ita. It's AMERICAN and you keep saying it the MEXICAN way. I am an AMERICAN."

Needles are EVIL.

So, we spent some time waiting after that, and eventually had a different nurse come in and tell me it was time to pack up the phone and go off to the final destination - essentially a loading dock of people on beds waiting for one of the surgery suites to be open.  The surgeon stopped by one last time to see if I was doing alright, and to let me know that I would be out of the hospital the same day, so long as they were able to do the laparoscopic procedure. The staff of the hospital was amazing. Very polite, very concerned, and full of praise for my surgeon's skill. Once I was in the suite, I was positioned and masked in short order. After a moment of claustrophobia over what seemed to me a facehugger of a mask, I was out.
When I woke, I knew immediately that they'd been able to go through with the surgery, but couldn't tell if it was done with the laparoscope or a direct (and large) incision. All I knew was the area where my gallbladder had been now hurt horribly. There was a nurse immediately at my shoulder, asking where I hurt and explaining they were successful with the minimal-invasion lap procedure. A spike of morphine later, I was being told that they were bringing in Silly with my belongings and that I would be on my way home in about an hour.

8 AM - thumbs up but eyes closed, holding son's guardian gift.

Silly helped me to roll into a sitting position and dress; braced me while I wobbled onto my feet and transferred to the waiting chariot. Once home, oh what a blessing. We would have issues getting my painkillers for the next THREE days, during which I would mostly sleep. All of my short circuits of the house required someone watching or bracing me, and I was afraid to even taste solid food. Eventually, I went from only having six kinds of fruit juice, vegetable juice, and juice-tea blends to having a supplemental half of a thin sandwich each day. A month later, I am on a *mostly* normal eating schedule. I'm still careful about what I take in, and watch carefully for reactions to everything, but so far so good.
My incisions have gone from big (and in one case black with bruising) to trim and sealed. It looks as though I'll have minimal scarring - a pair just a little longer than my thumbnail, one at the top of my abdomen and the other in the top arch of my belly button. Two dots on my right side to show where the clipper-clamps went in, and that's it! The surgeon, when I went back, was quite pleased with the status of my incisions. I'm well on the way to being as well - if not better - than I was before.
The report came back, listing no cancer (I had no idea that was something to worry about..), an inflamed gallbladder, and THIRTY gallstones. I was given four pictures taken during the procedure, but I won't torture anyone with those. Let's just say I now need to remember to say "Yes" when asked if I have any metal in my body. lol

As for the loss.. well.. I lost ALL of my links, thanks to a virus that broke my Firefox. That would be why I haven't written before now. I lost my link to my own blog, along with all of the carefully gathered links of blogs I love to read, informative sites, and items on my wishlist. I've since found a few of my favorite blog writers, but I'm still hunting down links for recipes, gardening, farming, and chickens. If you have a favorite, please feel free to share. :)

Yay! Surgery! -frets-

Yep. I've officially been torn between running around chaotically and sitting in a numbed fear. Thursday, 7:30 AM, I go under for gallbladder removal. I have high hopes that this surgery will mean an end to the constant "toxic" feeling and the marked decrease in mobility.
In Fate's usual sense of humor, I received the phone call to set up the requisite appointments while I was on the way to the emergency room to deal with the damage done to psyche and body by the passing of a stone from gallbladder to intestine via a very thin tube that seemed unnecessarily long. I was astonished to realise how LONG I've had gallstones! Several times in the past, oh, fifteen years, I've experienced this pain. Due to the way the human body reacts to it, you don't generally go "Oooo.. I hurt right where my gallbladder is." I've been told it was a pinched nerve in my back or arm, bursitis in my shoulder, even that I slept in the wrong position.
To find your gallbladder, feel the right half of your ribcage, starting at the chest. When you hit the peak, where your ribs curve to the bottom point. Your gallbladder should be right below, possibly to the right, of that curve. When a stone is lodged or passing, you feel ill. Then (in my case) my shoulder starts to ache. The ache builds until I could swear there's a ping-pong ball wedged between my shoulder blade and my ribs, forcing the scapula out and away from my back. The pain radiates clear down to my fingers, and in an odd transference, even the slightest jostling of my right arm causes me to want to scream. Eventually (if you already know something is wrong with the gallbladder) you realise that your back is inflamed, but only in one clear, red, raised band. This is a strip of the back that matches exactly where the gallbladder can be felt in the front (if it's abnormal or filled with stones).
After a short trip through the emergency room, an IV of morphine and fluids, and a scan of my blood to confirm the organ hadn't burst or otherwise become dastardly dangerous, I was sent home. The pain wasn't gone, mind you, but I was far too happy to care.
Now, about two weeks later, I'm finishing up a "recovery ward" nest, obsessively vacuuming every square inch of floor (and kickboard), and writing out letters to my family. The letters are meant to be a Just In Case item. Should something go wrong Thursday, they will reach relevant members. Mostly, they're a preemptive good-bye. The hope is, having written them, I will find I don't need them. Of course, there is the realisation that hit today that none of this will matter to me if something does go wrong.
As a last hurrah, I joined friends on a trip to the Northern California Renaissance Faire. A day or two before we were due to leave, The Box (our car) was stolen. Stolen from a busy parking lot at a mall. Inside were several personal items, including GRIM's most beloved Donald Duck snuggle. We were all gutted. We loved that car. GRIM loved that doll. Who knew what else was in there? How many times had we said "Let's clean out the car today" and failed to do it? Why didn't I go with my gut that I go along? We were fortunate to be able to borrow a car, since the trip was not only a fun time but also a catering job for Blue.
I bought a fancy new fox tail and wandered around in street-clothes with a vintage black parasol - a dearly loved gift from The Gypsy in happier times. I had been thinking quite a bit about The Gypsy. Debating whether to break the silence between us with a call or a letter, wondering if he would understand. The last he knew of me, I was planning to have moved out by month's end. That was in late April. Now, my prospective date is to be out by the first of the year.
While out roving the Faire, I found I had a text message. The Gypsy. "Are you ok?"
...Our first contact in months and I have to bite the bullet and give him the honest answer. Surgery upcoming, and still living here.
He didn't text another word.
He was hurt, I knew. The four of us have an old, long, and painful history; together and apart.
So that was a lovely night. Blue and I hurting on the drive home, while Silly dozed in the back seat. We talked a lot, but everything still felt unresolved by the time we pulled into town and went to pick up GRIM.
Once we had her tucked into her carseat beside Silly, she railed at us for leaving her behind. So, we did what any parents do.. we drove. Took freeways, quiet streets, lazed around in wide tracks. And then.. Silly saw something. In the parking lot across the street from where the car was taken, a car identical to The Box. We pulled closer. I immediately flipped out, recognising part of the license plate. OH. My. God. The Beloved Box had returned to us. I felt kind of bad for griping every time I got in and out of the low-slung sedan we'd borrowed. "I hate this car. I hate this car!" became my constant refrain. And, though I never said it, I was afraid of trying to lower myself into that car right after surgery.
This post is... well.. kind of all over the place. Mostly because my mind - right now - is all over the place.
I want to go back. I want to change some spending choices I made while we were out of town. I want to not have let the missing car so taint my last kicking up of heels before the surgery. And I really.. really.. want to be called "kitten", just once more, by that beautiful voice.

A Somewhat Eventful Week

So. Proudfoot came by bus, stayed with me a couple days, went to the surgeon consult with me. Blue paid her train ticket so she could go see Houdini, take him a present from me, and explain (with a brochure from the surgeon, even) why I haven't been out to see him.
We discussed property plans, my trailer, a Bill Paying account, and sharing the cost of a car. Despite having had to hit the brakes on moving forward, I am ever eager to participate in whatever limited aspects I can manage.

I hate the surgeon, however. She went beyond having a bad bedside manner. I have new-found respect for the animals I eat. Nothing like being treated like a piece of meat to remind you of how your food is treated when it's alive. She essentially entered the room irritated. Demanded to know what "we" are doing about "all this weight". No questioning about my dietary habits, nor about what I am prone to gravitate to. After a brusque prod-and-jab on my abdomen, she declared the incision will have to be larger than usual. I said I was fine with that. I know my weight can cause problems with ANY surgery, let alone one that happens in the abdomen. I mentioned worries about the prominent, high riding bulge on the front of my belly, thinking this in particular would likely be why she was considering either a larger incision or an old-fashioned "direct" incision and surgery (rather than laparoscopic). Oh, she said flippantly, that's either a fatty deposit or a hernia. A hernia?! And that's all you're going to say? Are you expecting maybe you'll just go inside, poke around, and maybe/maybe not find out that cutting into that specific area was a bad idea?
Anyhow, as she gave me an extremely shortened version of the surgery, she said I'd be "in and out, same day". Wow. Every site I've seen says under the BEST circumstances, you should expect a stay of one to three days with the lap procedure. And that's with someone of average weight. Also, it will (not could, will) take Medi-Cal 6 to 8 weeks to allow the surgery. Then, I get the appointment for when I go in. Then I have - at the least - another 6 to 8 weeks recovery time before I am given the okay to do more than go for very careful walks. Oh, yes, and I was commanded to walk every day after the operation. Again, this flies in the face of everything I've found, that says you should not do much movement at all for the first few days, lest you pull loose a clamp or a clip. And she forgot to tell me that there may be a drainage tube left in when I wake up.
So, why am I so irked with her? Well.. She chose - again, without a single question about who I am or what I do - to believe that I'm a fatty-fat-fat that sits around eating cookies and drinking oil. I'm not kidding about the cookies. As we were gathering ourselves to leave, she harassed me with a verbal tirade about diet and exercise, including: "NO cookies, NO sweets, HIGH protein, LOW carbohydrate, NO SODA, lots of vegetables, and START EXERCISING!"
By the time we were downstairs, Proudfoot was spitting nails. She sees, now, a big part of why every doctor I go to aside from Mia says that I have high blood pressure.
I eat several small meals throughout the day. I'm not a big one for sweets - least of all cookies -  and I vastly prefer my very slightly sweetened, very weak tea to any soda. I eat lean meats (generally thin to paper sliced and on sandwiches), love veges and fruits, rarely have a reason for a carbohydrate beyond bread for a sandwich, and I much prefer whole foods to fast foods. The meals I post up photos on are special and not terribly often. When I am given a steak or any other large bit of meat, I eat a portion of it and put the rest away to graze on throughout the day.
When taken out, I am ALWAYS the last one still eating, and without fail am taking home a fairly hefty take-home bag. I eat slow. I take my time to enjoy my meal, talk, and drink. I tend to gravitate towards tea (iced or hot) with my meals, or lemonade if it's available. I drink quite a bit with all meals, and in between. Drinking with meals, I've found, slows me down and fills me up faster. If I have a sweet, it's something small and occasional. Yes, I am capable of the occasional snarf-down of chocolates when a craving hits, but those don't come often and if there's nothing readily available, the urge passes. After all, I don't drive - yet - and I couldn't make the walk to the nearest store. Call it laziness, but I'm more than willing to keep sweets/fatty snacks out of the house and make it a non-issue than I am to ask for a ride to the store to pick some up. On the rare case that I DO bring home a canister of Pringles or a pack of mini candy bars, I put them on the highest shelf in the farthest room. Again, call it laziness, but if I have to go hunt them down and climb on a chair to have a handful of chips, I'm just fine with letting the urge pass.
It doesn't help that I don't seem to be processing most foods and as a result, whatever calories I AM getting my body seems to be stockpiling in fat as a response to its sensation of being starved of nutrients.