I'll admit that I've been just a smidge more faithful in posting on Facebook than on my blog lately. It's much easier to jot a one-liner status and send it hurling off into cyberspace than it is to sit studiously for the length of time that it typically takes me to put my thoughts together in a sufficiently coherent manner as to call what I've written,"a blog post." If you happen to be a friend of mine on FB, you may have read a few status posts lately that could have possibly had you raising an eyebrow in wondering if I was of sound mind. Ummm... well... it appears that I probably shouldn't have posted while I was in the hospital and under the influence of pain pills and in a VERY, VERY angry state. (You know who you are, doctor, and I am in the process of finding out where you live so I can carve into you while you're awake. Be afraid... be very afraid.)
Anyway. Yes, I was in the hospital for a year last week trying to recover from some strange infection that settled in my breast (the cancer one.) IV antibiotics weren't quite doing the trick, so the aforementioned doctorsonofabitch drained the abscess and placed a drainage tube to hopefully
take care of the infection. I was sent home with the drainage tube and
a poor attitude, because I get that way when I hurt!!! Thankfully I am feeling somewhat better and instead of dreaming up ways of Killing Dr. Calldare (there will be MANY of you who don't get that,) I am now rethinking my hospital
stay and focusing on the humorous aspects. Because we all know that
there is humor in EVERYTHING. Sometimes you have to break your funny
bone and reset it to find the hee-hea-heal, but behind every hospital stay is at least one memory that will make you smile.
Mine happened on the night I was FINALLY moved to a private room. After three nights of listening to (GOD LOVE HER) wailing, hurling and quite frankly, sounds I'd never heard before, I was moved to a room that had GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP written all over it. I settled in with my pain pills and Diet Sprite and waited for the blissful 8-10 hours of unconsciousness that was ahead of me. I could see the end of the tunnel. I could envision me healed and forgiving Dr. SOB (after a round or two in the Confessional, of course.) I was just getting droopy-eyed and finishing the last of my 79 games of Words With Friends, when a janitor-looking-type walked into my room and into my bathroom. I think I played the word "it" for two points, clicked off
my computer, and waited for the man to walk back out of the bathroom.
Instead, two more "fix-it" types walked in shaking their heads. I waited
for the bad news. In my drugged-up mind, I'm thinking, "Shouldn't I be getting my death sentence from a physician instead of Larry, Curly and Moe?" I remained mum,
because that's always a good thing to do when you're zonkered and not
sure you're seeing what you think you're seeing. A nurse then entered my room and told me that I'd have to be moved to a different room because my sink was leaking. One look at the three wise men nodding and I knew that this was not a drug-induced event. I hoisted my 40 lb suitcase while my nurse carried my .05 ounce sherpa blanket and off we traipsed down the hall to my next room. I'm giggling by now, just because... well, just because. I was quickly settled into private room #2 and it was when I decided to change my gown that I noticed that the blinds weren't closed. I could see the people in the lit rooms in the adjacent wing. I'm not the sharpest scalpel in the operating room, but even I could figure out that if I could see them, they could see me. So I went to close the blinds. They wouldn't close. By this point I'm nearly hysterical with fatigue and the possibility of Ashton Kutcher jumping out of my closet screaming, "You've been punked!!" I'm still sane enough however to realize that the whole breast infection/abscess/drainage thingie is a little over the top, even for Ashton, so I call the nurse again. She (along with the three lads bearing ladders) returned to my room to give the situation a "look-see." The blinds could not be fixed that night and I was told to take all "private matters" to the bathroom. "I'm OK with that," I told them, "as long as nothing leaks out." Not. One. Smile. Apparently, you have to hit rock bottom before you see the humor in that.
I'm back to the doc on Friday to (hopefully) have my drain removed so I can get back to pole dancing and safely start my next semester at rodeo clown college.
those of you who did know the situation and were praying for me, thank
you. I hope you never take me off your list. I love you.