I Ain't Ded Yit
Sunday, Feb. 27, 2005, 9:31 a.m.

It's Sunday morn, and miraculously, my mother is still asleep, and Matt left early to play some tennis so I have approximately 23 minutes All. To. Myself where I can do whatever I want without the anxious gaze of my family eternally upon me! O Happy Day! The truth of the matter is that I am in fantastic shape following my surgery lo these 10 days ago, and I have been feeling downright dynamite since about day 3 after the surgery, but my loved ones have taken the doctor's advice as Gospel and insist on treating me as a petite flower. So I apologize, lovers, on the delay of the post-op update, but I been locked down in Camp Cupcake over here and sitting at the computer has been deemed a No-No.

So lemme break it down: my parents surprisingly behaved as adults with each other at dinner the night before the operation, exchanging pleasantries and even sharing appetizers. It appeared for a moment that my Mom was going to be troublesome and just plain ignore my father when we got to the restaurant, but rashly and unthinkingly I said, "Bobbie, you remember Vince, right? You might recall a marriage and some children oh about 40 years back?" And that seemed to diffuse the sitchy and reminded everyone to be on their best behavior. So all my worrying over that event was for naught. Praise Allah.

My surgery was scheduled for 12 noon the next day, but I had to be at the hospital at 9am, which seemed a preposterous amount of time needed to prep me for surgery (read: too much time for me to sit around anxiously) so I leisurely went about my morning and we arrived at the hospital at 9:10am. Lawd have mercy, when I got there, I was greeted by approximately 17 nurses cranked up on speed and hurried into the back where I was prepped in what can only be equated to a Nascar pitstop. One nurse was *taptaptap* busy getting an IV in my arm, another was all *heavy breathing* pulling hosery onto my legs, another was *panting in my face* taking out my contacts while yet another was furiously scribbling on my intake sheet, firing off questions "Diabetes? Legionnnaire's Disease? Bell's Palsy?" All supervised by the Head Nurse who had a unrelenting "Stat!" attitude towards the whole procedure. The Anesthesiologist immediately appeared to see if I had any last-minute questions and I said, "Uh, yeah, one question: can I pee?" The Head Nurse barked in reply, "The doctor wants her in the operating room by 10am!" So I said, "10?! Hokay then, my next question: Some valium? For me and for her?" Twenty ccs later, for me anyway, I was contently biding my family adieu, and being rolled into the operating room. Right before I went in, this decrepit old lady was being wheeled into the operating room next to me, and the nurse asked, "So this is your fourth surgery for this?" and she said "Heh Heh, Yip! And I ain't ded yit!" And that's the last I remember pre-surgery.

Apparently, as reported by the nurses to my family, I woke in the recovery room a time or two before being transferred to my room, to snap at the nurses there: "Wontchu shut it, you Jabberwocks? I'm trying to recover over here!" Meh, I don't mind. They repaid me by being totally incompetent bitches for the remainder of the evening so it all worked out. Oh, about my room, though, I have to say something. The night before at dinner, Matt was telling everyone how he seriously thought I had the ESP and other mindbending skills, and my father said, "I'm thinking of a number." Not between this and that or anything, just "A Number", which he wrote down on a piece of paper under the table. After concentrating and furrowing my brow, at last I admitted, "I just can't quite get it. I just keep getting 9.1.2." My dad held up the piece of paper: 972. Close, right?! Anyway, the next day, post surgery, they shuffle me from one room to the next, one floor to the next, and my final room number: 912. Oh, believe it. Why yes, large bills and credit cards are accepted.

Hennyway, in this surgery, even though it's to replace a disc in the back of your neck, they go through the front of your neck because there's no muscle there and the recovery without muscle tear is much easier. They move aside your esophagus and voice box, do the little shimmy sham on the busted disc, put the fake disc in place, and then *chopchop* close you up. But I thought it interesting to note: in closing you up, there are no stitches or staples. They crazy-glued the wound shut. For reals. A four-inch Frankensteiny gash from the middle of my neck to my ear and they're all, "Nothing a little glue won't heal." Modern Medicine Marvels! Just thought you'd like to know.

But all in all, life is Grand. I mentioned this elsewhere but it bears repeating because it is so incredibly miraculous in my world: two or three nights after the surgery, I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic because I thought I had gone deaf. Then I realized that it was because I didn't have The Constant Fucking Headache for the first time in forever. It was mindblowing. I totally forgot what it felt like for my head to be so silent. Neck pain: 97% Gone and it's only a matter of time before it'll be 100% kaput. Arm Pain: Gone. I really feel amazingly good and now I feel so silly wondering why I hesitated for so long and panicked for so long about a surgery that makes me feel like a human being again, after a really really really long time. Really. Aside from a little stiffness in the neck, my only other complaint is that the scar tissue on my throat seems to be pressing on my windpipe and voicebox so I'm a little more short of breathe and scratchy of voice then I would otherwise be. But that'll remedy in time, too. I'm pretty much quarantined to my house for a month (can't ride in a car for 4 weeks) so I'm like some crazy homebound Gramma and it's hard to be a patient patient now that I'm feeling so spry and ready to promote. But Sweet Fancy Moses, it's so worth it. Though yesterday I did walk a mile to a diner in order to get out of the house. Yes, I'll kindly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.

The start of My Year has just begun! Did I mention that today is two weeks of Not Smoking, too? I quit a couple four days before my surgery because I figured I might as well be miserable all at once. But in truth, it's been easy breezy on all fronts.

Shit. I just realized, once I'm all healed up, I'll be fresh out of excuses for being the lazy louse that I've always been. Jeezus. What am I supposed to do then?