Reading Rebecca's blog reminded me of my adventure with surgery after a car crash. My left wrist was crushed so they put titanium plates along the two bones and cut the carpal tunnel so the nerves could function. The first night they hung my arm up in the air so it wouldn't swell up and loaded up the morphine. It was very, um, surreal. They operated and couldn't close the skin so they grafted a piece of butt skin from my right butt cheek over the wound. Then they put a drain in the butt cheek area and slapped a big clear bandaid over the whole mess.
THEN
They sent me HOME. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. That's always the best part. I mean. How the fuck was I supposed to take care of myself. My left hand/arm is in a big honkin' cast and my right butt cheek has a drain attached to a vacutainer tube hanging down. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. You wanna jump my bones. Oh yes. And many narcotics were involved during this time. I couldn't drive, I couldn't do laundry, I certainly couldn't cook, I could barely wipe my butt and as for bathing, well, I'd get in the tub and kneel down by the faucet and sorta get parts of my body wet while holding my arm out of the way and avoiding getting my right butt cheek from getting wet too. Uh huh.
And I'm supposed to start physical therapy. They actually wanted me to bend and wiggle my fingers. While in a cast, my left hand became a frozen claw. The first time John, the PT guy asked me to touch my thumb to my index finger, (1) I couldn't and (2) I burst into tears because it hurt like a motherfucker. And I was on drugs. And I thought I might be one handed from then on. I have a serious scar from the middle of my palm and about 6 inches down the inside of my wrist. I look badass now like I tried to kill myself (and obviously failed).
One night when I had passed out in front of the TV, I awoke to some aqua suited televangelist exhorting the one and a half persons watching to come close to the screen for healing. So I staggered over and laid my arm on the screen so Jesus could heal me and take away the pain. Didn't work but maybe my faith wasn't strong enough. That's probably it.
I'm very grateful my hand works as well as it does. My downward dog looks a little funky.
I was looking for British Isles 'packages' tonight as I've gotten serious about saving money to go there with my children. The year I turn 65. I want to wander the moors and look all pensive. And visit Scottish distilleries. Stonehenge. Ireland. Castles. Pubs. etc. My mother's people. I do not want to eat spotted dick however.
4 comments:
Gawd. Just think- they used to keep you in the hospital for two weeks after a vaginal delivery. Now they do major surgery and send you the fuck home. "Good luck!" "Go buy your own bandaids!"
It's insane. It's a wonder anyone survives. Next thing you know, they'll direct you to a Youtube on how to do your own surgery. It'll all be done online!
Yeah. No spotted dick for me either.
Criminal, No other word. But I also know a lovely young doctor who often cries when she gets home because she had to send someone home after two days who should have stayed on for a week at least.
Look after your hand!
When you are ready to plan your trip, let me know where you want to be in Ireland and if you want to I'll give you some really beautiful links to the best places. Really.
Dear Mary-all in the name of cost containment! I might try bubble and squeak.
Dear Sabine-Yup, the wonders of the US health care system. I'm all better now.
And I'll get those recommendations for Ireland. I'm sure it's gorgeous.
Hadn't stopped here in too long and now I'm seeing you on your way to the British Isles. Let it be so. xo
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