debora-bora

life at a glimpse...

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

12:54 Wednesday Morning

I am up. Could be the Oxycodone and steroids I'm on - but I thought they were supposed to make me sleepy? Or maybe it's just the Oxycodone that makes you sleepy and the steroids that can hype you up - but either way, I'm up...With the neighbors' cat and some Chamomile tea. The cat actually being as much our cat these days as theirs, as we have had discussions as to such and so it's all in-the-know and over the table and on the books and really quite kosher. His name is "Happy Flower" because he was named by a very sweet six year old. I just call him "Meow Meow" or "Outdoor Kitty" when I'm referring to him (which is becoming less and less a good name for him as he is more and more an indoor kitty at our residence these days).

I could also be awake due to the fact that I must sleep at an annoying degree of angle which if you looked at me from the front would appear to be an obtuse angle. Which brings up the singular item that I would keep from my hospital stay since this past Friday, which would be the button-controlled bed.

Not the thin, slightly crunchy sheets or the "blankets" which come in two varieties: too short, thin and oddly textured - or - warmed, too short, thin and oddly textured. Not the pillows which were obviously designed for people whom have no necks; any half-respecting health-care professional knows that you need good support and comfort in order to cultivate descent sleep. However, since you are surrounded by many of these health-care professionals, even a brain-surgeon to boot - you have to believe that there must be some very logical system to the pillow-to-patient ratio, as well as the ratio of filling-to-pillow cases. I'm sure once the heavy drugs have worn off I will be blessed with these insights, and have a very clear understanding as to why having four uncomfortable pillows in my bed those three nights were actually a benefit to my health, and were not actually donated to the hospital by my insurance company in a ploy to get me the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible. At least here, in the "comfort" of my own home, with approximately the same pillow-to-patient ratio, I can chose different thicknesses and shapes of pillows. I know I'd be perfectly content if I could just hit the "UP" or "DOWN" button on the side of my bed to get that elusive angle just right.

In 39 minutes I have to take two more of the Oxycodones. And, if I am smart, and don't want any nausea, I will take these with a couple of crackers and a lot of water. AND, if I am really, really smart, I will take these two pills with some prunes or a stool softener if I want to poop again before Christmas. Gosh, that'd be a good holiday song......"All I Want For Christmas in My...."

I'm trying to think of the next worst thing about being in the hospital as I've just experienced it. I mean, the food is a given. Sure, they make jokes, and it seems so cliche' - but REALLY people? I will say that the meats that were lain before me were warm. And were probably a grade up from what I feed Outdoor Kitty, but do you really have to put some sauce on it? I mean, how DO you make a sauce that has a negative taste on the taste scale??! I can see flecks of things that look like they might be herbs or something...Enough said. Stick with the broth. At least there's too much salt in it, which means you can taste it which means it's actually registering on the taste-o-meter.

No...next has got to be the suction cup circulation feet thingamajiggers*. Picture a shlurp sound somewhere in between Sleestack and a Bart Simpson armpit fart. Now, have that sound incorporated into a living breathing machine-like thing that is now hooked up to the bottom of your feet. Now, picture these *S.C.C.F.T.'s alternately flating and deflating in the above-mentioned manner and sound which I attempted to describe. NOW, try to sleep with these crazy-makers on and you've got one night of my life in the hospital. As soon as I'd start to drift into my morphine and Delotted (sp?) happy-place coma, SHLURPSUCKSHUTTERSUCKPULLPOOOOF! and that was just the right foot. All fricking night long. The next morning I politely asked if I had a choice between those and the leg-warmer circulation thingies, and was told, "Yes." Well, I believe a tear may have stained my cheek.

I understand that I just had my head sawed open and a tumor removed from my meninges and a large vein on my brain, so I'm not even going to complain about the round-the-clock care that I received every few hours - or - every time I had just tip-toed on the edge of REM sleep. I'm pretty sure there's some conspiracy going on which involves one mob or another which has the corner-market on all hospital food and blood-pressure cuffs, and is in direct and shameless cahoots with the drug, S.C.C.F.T's, pillow/bedding and insurance companies. Just a thought.

The I.V.'s and other tubes inserted into you? Do not. I repeat, DO NOT, get me started.
Let's just say that having two I.V.'s in - one in each arm of course - does not make pushing UP and DOWN buttons any easier. Does not give you the dignity to even brush your teeth as well as a toddler. Does not make getting to the toilet where you have to collect any and all cc's of your urine - any easier. Does not make adjusting the four fricking pillows that surround your upper extremities - any easier. 'Nough said.

The number one suckiest part about brain surgery - especially if they have to drill-through-your-skull-kind-of-brain-surgery - is having brain surgery. Hands down. It just really, really, sucks. Let me liken it to this, and then I'll be done:

1) Ever seen those rodeo show play-backs of the poor schmuck that got his head bashed in by a really pissed off bull or bronco? Check.

2) Ever had such a bad hang-over that you actually can't get rid of it for at least two days because you alcohol-poisoned yourself within a half-inch of your life? Check.

3) Ever get off a ride at a fair or theme park and start making your way to the lost and found to recover your center of gravity because it's surely not with you any more? Check.

Now, combine that with just the S.C.C.F.T.'s and you've got yourself a whole heap of motivation to get OUT of the hospital and IN to the comfort of your own home. Add the rest, and well, you're practically ready to moon-walk down the aisles of Fred Meyer in a celebratory dance.

I am home. I survived brain surgery. I survived my stay in the hospital for three nights and some-odd days. I had great care, and lots of love. I come back to you with less hair, but my humor in tact. I come back tired and woozy and in a lot of pain, but I am back...
And I'm happy to be here.

Thanks for your well-wishes, positive thoughts and prayers.

Love,

Deborah
(and Happy Flower)

3 Comments:

At 5:23 AM, Blogger brian said...

I kinda want to make a wordplay joke about keeping a sense of tumor, but it's just not working. Neither is my internal monologue.

I'm glad you're home. That's always where you needed to be.

 
At 12:27 PM, Blogger Liz said...

ha ha. sense of tumor. that's very good, Brian. I love you Deb. Lucky the tumor wasn't where your intelligence lived, you're obviously still whip smart and funny as hell. And on painkillers, no less. Good work mama.

 
At 12:21 PM, Blogger Christopher said...

Yes! Welcome come back, Debora-bora! Glad to see you are keeping it together so well. Sending fast-healing positive vibes your way!

 

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