Back Home Again

I suppose I should have posted before now to let you all know that I was finally able to stop puking and go home.  It’s pretty bad when my dad’s calling and saying, “Hey, how are you doing?  I haven’t seen any new posts.” 

 During the 14 hours post-op that I spent throwing up, I managed to puke everything from my anti-nausea meds (they don’t work so well if you can’t keep ‘em down) to the small amount of water and 7-Up I ingested, to the whopping two saltine crackers I’d eaten, before erupting into my grand finale which involved the aforementioned beverages, and approximately 1 teaspoon worth of cinnamon crunch bagel. Oh yeah, and because I’m such an overachiever I did this while simultaneously shuffling back from the bathroom and pointing mutely to the puke pan. 

 It was great. 

 Nothing says, “See how cool I am” like tossing your cookies (or bagel as the case may be) between your fingers and all over the floor because your Hubster and nurse aren’t quite speedy enough at charades.  They’re over there guessing, “Uh…George Washington crossing the Delaware?….No, no, I’ve got it, you’re Michael Jackson in the Thriller video!” And I’m all: Must. reach. puke. pan. *bleechhrrghh*  

 I eventually managed to stop throwing up, but not until the night shift nurse offered me the option of taking my anti-nausea meds intravenously.  What a concept!  After that, and a change in my pain meds, I was actually able to stop throwing up and go to sleep.  When I woke up the next morning, I was no longer nauseous, and very much ready to go home.

 And, so here I’ve been, because I’m not allowed to drive yet.  You’d think I’d have been writing since it’s one of the few things that fall within my current restrictions, but being an invalid makes me pretty doggone crotchety, and I just haven’t been in the mood. 

 Now, there are parts about this can’t-do-anything-for-myself gig that I don’t mind so much, like not doing laundry or dishes.  On the other hand, there are many more things that are just a pain in the bum. One of the most annoying things to me is that I can’t hold the phone to my ear with my left hand.  At least not without causing my pectoral muscles to completely spazz out.  I know, you’re wondering what the big deal is.  You’re thinking, “So hold it with your right hand.”  Well, this is one of those quirky little Rainman sort of things that I can’t explain—I cannot stand to hold a phone to my right ear.  Don’t ask me why—I told you, I don’t know.  It’s like the telecommunications equivalent of wrong side up saltines, I guess. 

But, I’m able to do a little more each day, despite the fact that I’ve shunned all of the narcotics Dr Grasee prescribed in favor of extra strength tylenol.  You may think I’m crazy, but all those pain meds make me nauseous, and there ain’t no way I’m goin’ back to that summer camp, Skippy.

No Clever Title–No Witty Post

Just a post to let you know I’m out of surgery.  I have been for a while, but so far I’ve been too sick to blog.  It’s pretty bad when you puke your anti-nausea meds.  Repeatedly.  It makes me sick to read, and to type.  In fact I just stopped in between sentences to throw up again.  But, I’m so stinkin’ bored, that I’m writing this anyway.  Vomiting just isn’t very entertaining for me. 

Anywho, thanks for all the prayers and encouragement.  Keep them coming.

Holy Scare-Hair, Batman!

Went to see Dr Birhiray yesterday—that’s pronounced Beer-Hurray, in case this is your first visit here.  The appointment was pretty uneventful, except that I had Hubster take a new picture of me and Dr B, since in the old one I’m bald.  Unfortunately, I forgot the camera, so Hubster used his cell phone to take the picture, and doesn’t know how to get it off of there.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to post it sometime in the near future.

It also occurred to me the other day that I haven’t uploaded a picture of myself recently.  After several months of attempting to straighten my hair, it’s finally gotten to the point that I think I can walk around with it curly without looking too scary.  Or maybe it’s just that my slothful nature got the best of me and I couldn’t handle having a hairdo that was so doggone involved for crying out loud.  And besides, I’ve always thought it would be fun to have an afro, so why not? 

At any rate, my ‘do these days is kind of a cross between Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees, and Richard Simmons.  Like, you know, old school Richard Simmons, not middle aged Richard Simmons with the ‘fro over thing.  (Though he’s got a mighty impressive fork, dontcha think?) 

 Think Whitney Houston, from about 1986, before Bobby Brown slapped the curl out of her hair-except white, and with no talent. 

That’s the look I’ve got going. 



Hubster keeps saying things like, “Your hair’s kinda crazy.”  (He doesn’t adjust very quickly to change, you know.)  And I’m all like, “Yeah, I just made it that way—I like it!”  But, otherwise, I’ve gotten lots of compliments on it.  I think it’s just too large and in charge to ignore, and really, what kind of jerk is going to be hatin’ on a cancer girl’s 1 year post-chemo hair growth?  So, pretty much anything anybody says is going to be positive.

My curly hair and I will be reporting for surgery tomorrow morning at 6:30 AM.  Ugh.  6:30.  Without the benefit of coffee.  That’s just wrong.  I certainly hope Dr Grasee is a morning person.  I’m sure not—I can’t even complete a sentence first thing in the morning, let alone perform surgery.  Add that to my top ten list of reasons I’m not a doctor.  Right alongside the fact that I’m the absolute least sympathetic person you know.  Really.  Most of my appointments would consist of me telling my patients to suck it up.  “What?  Your arm hurts?  Well, it’s not bleeding, so suck it up.”

Fortunately for me, my doctors are all way nicer than I am.

Name that Name

So, I’m shopping at Penney’s the other day and over the intercom a voice says, “Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk….Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk.” 

 Seriously?  Somebody named their daughter Lacey Baum?  Because, you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe Molly was working at JCP these days.  If I ever hear Phil McCracken, or Bea O’Problem paged, I’m going to be really suspicious.

 But apparently this is a real person, because it’s not the first time I’ve heard this poor girl paged at Penney’s.  The first time I heard it, I ended up doubled over, snorting and laughing as I propped myself up against a rack of baby clothes.  I have to say, though that I am impressed that ol’ Lacey Baum is gainfully employed.  You know, a name like that might be some sort of self-fulfilling prophesy sort of deal.  It’s not too hard to envision ol’ Lacey, 40 years old, sittin’ on her parents’ couch, eatin’ cornies, watchin’ Springer, and becoming irate when her mom asks her if she’s looked for a job yet.  You can almost hear her snarl, “No, Mom, I’m a LACEY BAUM, remember?!” 

 Still, I’m thinking maybe the reason I hear her paged every time I’m in the store these days is because, indeed, you have to holler at least twice to get her to do anything.  She’s all like, “Hel-lo, I’m on break over here—yeah, that’s right the Lacey Baum is on break–again.”

 Really, people, let’s think this through before we hang some horrible curse of a name on our kids, k?  Maybe that needs to be something that’s discussed in those pre-natal classes.  Or maybe it’s something that should be included in baby name books.  Forget the meaning of the name—let’s point out that it rhymes with some bodily function, or sounds like something obscene. 

The future Harry Butts of the world will thank us for it.

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