I'm still alive, wee fan base.

The picture is from a few weeks ago, the beginning of December to be exact. I remember because I was in my apartment recovering from my wee surgery so took the picture out of my bedroom window.
I'm three weeks out of that wee surgery now and I am still alive. Perhaps one or two of the wee fan base were wondering, after my last posting, if complications had arisen and I was, you know, in the hospital.
Ha.
Actually, I think I've driven the wee fan base away with my inconsistent blogging.
Speaking of which, I'm mighty pleased to see Marty back in the blogging world. Wonderful.
What else?
Oh yes, I'm very much alive. After a difficult first week back at work, I'm basically more recovered now. I'll save you the unpleasant details but I'm still having some owies and ickiness, but that is apparently par for the course. I won't know for a good six months if the surgery accomplished its mission, so I'll get back to you in June.
Ah yes, June, when the weather will be delightful and I can go to Kitsilano outdoor pool every day after work. Heaven. It is, I believe, 3 times the length of an Olympic-sized pool. Amazing and very very relaxing, even when crawling with people. It is now only a ten-minute walk from my house. Right on the beach, the views are stunning.
I plan to be jogging and swimming most afternoons/evenings starting in May or so. I'm not supposed to swim for another two weeks or so, which is too bad because I have a month's pass to Vancouver Aquatic Centre, an excellent indoor swimming facility. I need to exercise regularly for many psychological reasons but haven't been doing so lately as I've recovered. In desperation, I decided to go for a wee jog after work yesterday. I had about a 40-minute window of time before complete darkness descended (not in my soul this time, but rather outside). I quickly changed and went to the seawall in my neighbourhood. It was drizzling quite hard, so oops. I couldn't see out of my fogged up glasses after about two minutes, so I took them off. Then I simply couldn't see, ha. There were puddles everywhere and soon it was, well, really, really dark. The rain picked up. It was me, the wall, the ocean, the puddles.
Oops.
Uh well.
Tangents here.
I went into MAC cosmetics on Robson after work to get lip gloss. They do make a nice gloss. There were many, many, many x 800 people there. MAC, to me, is what I imagine Hollywood to be like. Women of all sorts, walking about in their designer this and that, their heels, their, their . . . stuff.
I like the lip gloss.
I can be, as you know very well, wee fan base, a judgmental cow. But it's almost always a double-edged thing, where I judge myself as harshly and more harshly.
That's no excuse really for judging others, but there you go.
I was just so so overwhelmed by the overwhelming, I'll say it, dammit, shallowness of the whole atmosphere of the store.
The tragic thing is this is what is so so validated in society. The "right" look, the designer bag, the hair, the right shoes, clothes. The beauty. I checked myself to see if I were actually, in fact, jealous, of these women. Was that it? Was that even part of it?
I analyzed this while I waited in line.
And I realized, much to my relief, that no, that wasn't it.
The feeling I get is so so strong in MAC - I'm tired so I'm not sure I will word this in any way correctly. Simply and again - look right, look good and that is what counts, that is number one.
But if you are in a bookstore, aren't books number one?
In an umbrella store, don't umbrellas reign? (ha! I just made that up on the spot!)
Oy, I am tired, I think I'm losing my train of thought but I think you, wee wee fan base, get the idea.
You are not enough if you are not this.
Look at me, look how amazing I look.
Watch the world
revolve around
me.
MAC
I like their lip gloss.
I do love a good bookstore.

And there it was

"I was chewing gum for five minutes." The youngish woman came out from behind the closed doors and plunked down into her seat.
Several of us said, "oh,no."
We were all sitting in the day surgery waiting room. About 5 or 6 people and me all sat, dressed in blue gowns, robes and oddly warm and long socks. Most people had paper slippers too but I couldn't find my pair. I vaguely worried I would get into trouble for this.
ha.
Chewing gum woman had been sitting since about 6:30 a.m., waiting for leg surgery. I'd been there since 10:30 a.m. and it was now 1 p.m. Her surgeon kept coming out to talk to her, saying that they'd get her in, possibly today, possibly not. Sit tight. Hubby came along to sit with her, telling her about the x-ray he had to get done and his visit to the walk-in clinic. Her cell phone kept ringing, despite the fact they were sitting right under the, "no cell phone" sign.
All of us sitting there are both dehydrated and hungry, well, except I guess for the nauseous and those getting epidurals. I hadn't had a thing in 6 hours, I was cranky. Every time her phone rang I mumbled, "turn of your cell phone."
Hubby says something to her but she says she doesn't care.
Phew, she can get surgery despite the gum chewing.
I continue to wait. It's minor female type surgery (enough said) and after, it's going to hurt to some degree, from nearly no pain to excruciating, depending on what story you read on the internet.
The corners of my lips are cracked, the meds I take for sleeping dehydrate me.
I'm fascinated by how ticked off I am about this cell phone thing, I think low blood sugar does affect my mood.
uh huh.
When they call my name an hour late, I'm off nervous peeing, so a nurse comes to get me.
oy.
I hadn't had general anesthetic in 22 years and that had only been for my wisdom teeth.
It's an interesting thing getting into the operating room. A sleep doctor (can't be bothered to spell his real title), a trainee nurse, a trainer nurse, another nurse and the doctor are all there.
"I haven't had this much attention in years," I say as they put my arms into the Christ position, attaching blood pressure cuff here, heart monitors there.
"Are you allergic to anything?" asks Scottish trainee nurse.
"Yes, pain. Pain of all types. Low low pain threshold. low."
The sleep doctor slips an oxygen mask over my face.
"Breathe in and out deeply."
He is cute.
The surgeon gets impatient when Scottish trainee has trouble adjusting the bed.
"Oy," I think, "an impatient surgeon."
Turns out I'm getting just a light anesthetic (I can't spell that word either) and will only be out for about 45 minutes.
"Think of something good," says sleep doctor, "this anesthesia gives vivid dreams."
Oh boy, I think, worried about nightmares. I quickly turn my mind to Hawaii.
"If I don't wake up," I say to the surgeon, "Remember, I died doing what I loved."
He is not amused.
About 45 minutes later I wake up, breathing out of my mouth as usual and the tail end of some song going through my head.
"You were really deeply asleep," says the nurse in recovery.
On first waking, I remember thinking, "oh please, please, let me be just home in bed."
Ah well.
"How's the pain?" asks recovery room nurse.
Uh yes, out of 10. I seem to remember reading that 5 is the magic morphine number.
I say 4 because i'm not fully awake yet. When I am fully awake, I realize the cramping is kinda heavy.
Actually 7, I revise.
7 gets me dialotid (spelling not correct, too lazy to look it up) in the IV.
Stronger than morphine, I'm told.
Yippee! I think.
It doesn't seem to do much and then i'm nauseous so they're pumping gravol and reducing the happy drug that's not making me happy anyway.
"I have an anxiety disorder," I remind them, not knowing if she has the chart.
"I must admit I'm feeling anxious."
And I was. Claustrophobic come to think of it. Something in the anesthetic (toaster, no need to comment the correct spelling! I'm just too lazy to get it! god bless you, toaster) has made me restless and it is hard to lie on the small stretcher. A fellow two beds away is moaning in that creepy way and the nurses repeatedly tell him that it's just gas, Paul, let it out and no don't take out your tubes.
Poor Paul.
I'm shaking and told this is a common side effect. They figure I'm cold so they put in some kind of heater vacuum thing.
"I'm too hot," I say.
"Good sign," they note and take away the heater.
Pulse is monitored.
"Your pulse is high," I'm told a lot.
"Yes," say I, "I have anxiety."
This seems a bit of a hard concept for some of the nurses. To be fair, one of them was very sweet and calming. A couple just looked rushed.
I felt wimpy but well, anxious.
"Do you want an Ativan?" asks one.
Does the pope want to outlaw condoms? "Yup," I say. I hear them calling my surgeon about it and the next thing I know i've got one nestled under my tongue.
Seems I've developed a bit of a tolerance for the Ativan.
Soon enough I'm wheeled into day care and left to rot. Ha, no seriously. I get up and pee about four times and discover wow, they can do a lot to you when you are asleep.
"Your pulse is high," says another nurse. They keep giving me different nurses, maybe I'm too needy.
"Yes, I have anxiety," I say again, "it's always high. So, it's not really high high right now."
"Well, yes, it has gone done somewhat."
"Yes,"I say.
A lovely senior woman walks around and gets me some ice chips. She's a volunteer and lovely. I overhear her tell another patient she used to be a nurse. I admire her doing this type of thing - I don't think I could handle being in a recovery room with people in all sorts of moods.
I love ice,as you may recall, wee fan base, so I'm in ice heaven. But I'm still feelng throw-uppy and that trumps my love of the ice.
Dehydration trumps all and soon i'm chomping down.
god love the ice, i think, getting up to pee.
"Well, your friend is here and here are your clothes," says another nurse. "Your friend is outside, she's got crutches?"
Right, my pal Sue is in need of a hip replacement and can't walk any distance without incredible pain. Because she's incredible, she'd offered to drive me, wait in North Van and pick me up and take me home.
Tylenol 3's are thrust in my hand, along with a pamphlet.
The senior woman pushes me in a wheelchair down to the door. This feels odd that this older woman is doing this. She helps me on with my jacket.
She will not, however, be my mommy, I asked her, ha ha.
Into the car I get and oy the cramping and the general ickiness.
Turns out there is a Canucks game and the traffic is horrendous but Sue gets us through.
I go to my across the street neighbour, Roma, and hang out with her and her family for a few hours. At about 9 p.m. I decide to go home. Roma is lovely but she has a full, loud and lovely family, Being just across the street is perfect,I say, I'll leave my blinds open.
I go home and sleep.
I bet this is actually boring.
Wow, this minute detail of my minor surgery may not be fascinating.
ah well.
I think medical stuff is kinda cool and would love to hear your own surgical stories in the comments.
So I've been lying around Friday, Saturday and today, Sunday. Friday was weird as the restlessness was really strong, I actually paced for awhile and researched the restlessness on the net. My wonderful pal Michelle brought over a roast chicken and some other things.
I've been nauseous and crampy but nothing as bad as I'd feared. And if it solves my problem - wowza and dellightful.
Back to work tomorrow - a light intake day so that's good. I could take another (unpaid) day off but i think i've sat around alone long enough. I'll take it easy and if i feel weird or bad or whatever, on home I will come.
So there you go.
A Grey's Anatomy type blog entry or for those of you who remember that far back, St. Elsewhere.