I'm really trying. I'm drinking spinach smoothies. I'm walking. I'm snacking on fresh fruit. But recovery is long, the pain is lingering, and my will power dwindles.
So when my dear husband asked me what I wanted for dinner, I smiled guiltily and answered:
"Soft serve ice cream?"
But never fear, dear readers.
Four year old Spiderman immediately turned on me with a serious scowl. "You can't have ice cream. Ice cream," he informed me, "is not healthy. You need to eat healthy food."
Remind me to keep my mouth shut the next time he rolls his eyes at his green peas.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
A Quick Summary of Events Thus Far --
"How may I help you?" the uniformed concierge asked.
"I'm here for surgery!" I answered brightly. Nothing like the House M.D. episodes, where someone runs screeching down the hall, "SHE NEEDS SURGERY!" Just me and my dh and my father in law and my pastor standing in a well decorated lobby and asking for surgery like we do this sort of thing all the time. (We'd like a table for four - oh, and do you have room for an appendectomy?)
Anyway, the concierge misunderstood my initial request and made me say the word, "Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. HYSTERECTOMY!" three times in successive degrees of volume. And when he finally did understand me, he blushed. "Oh."
Off to a fun start.
Then I was scolded for my lack of veins by a nurse, for which I apologized profusely.
My support team came in to pray for me, which was greatly appreciated.
The dh gave me a kiss.
And all the prayers must have been heard, because I didn't feel the least bit nervous. Okay, at least I didn't think I was nervous about Surgery, but I wouldn't stop talking. The anesthesiologist eventually stopped answering my questions and just popped the big mask thing over my face. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, which is a real failing in a doctor, but I suppose the power to make someone shut up really goes to one's head after a while. Anyway....
The surgery went great. And the hospital stay was made completely worth it because I discovered that Blue Bell makes popsicles! Rejoice, oh civilizations! Lift up your heads, oh ye drugged patients! There are orange Blue Bell popsicles!
They sent me home after 24 hours - before I ate all the popsicles. I was awfully glad to see my own bed. And my son promptly diagnosed me: "Your tummy hurts!" he said in a sage and serious tone.
"Yes," I admitted, "but that's okay. It's going to help Mommy get better."
He disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with the Children's Robitussin that he had managed to get out of the bathroom cabinet. "It's for you!" he said sweetly. "To make you all better!"
"Oh, sweetheart, that is so kind of you!" I answered, adding, "Never, never, never, never get into the medicine cabinet, okay? Let's tell Daddy to get a lock on it right away..."
The amazing in-laws helped me up and down the stairs and wrangled the bebes so well that I was hardly missed and mostly ignored (which can be a good thing when one is so loopy that one forgets to use punctuation in a text message. It was a low point). My darling MIL bought pretzels for me, the real Snyder's quality pretzels, and my friend, Bear, brought Red Velvet Cake ice cream. (Let that sink in, friends. It exists. Red. Velvet. Cake. Ice cream. This world is a glorious place).
Of course, no one expected that my recovery would go smoothly.
The next morning, I woke with a headache. I have had headaches in the past, even migraines, and I'm not sure that this deserved the same term. I can't really find a better word for it, but it outranked the pain of my labors, my C-section, and my appendectomy. Whatever happened to my head, it took forty minutes for me to stop the tears and be able to take deep breaths again. Even now, I shudder to think it could happen again. And the nurse we called told me to go to the E.R. and get a C.T. scan.
So we went back to the hospital. E.R. doctor ordered scans and, unfortunately, said the words,
brain bleed'. At this point, the poor dh was looking a little pale and worried, so I begged him to go and get some lunch. He refused, in a very gallant fashion, to leave my side. The male nurse entered and heard us in the midst of our loving disagreement. He looked at my husband and said, "Go. Go get lunch. I'm taking her to get the scan."
"No, I should stay," dh said. "How long does the scan take?"
"An hour at least," the nurse said brusquely. "Go eat lunch."
"See?" I said, relieved. "Go, my love, and eat a burger. I'll see you soon."
Dh kissed my forehead. "All right," he said. "But I'll hurry back."
The nurse wheeled me away. "He seems like a great guy," he said.
"Oh, he is the very best," I said. "Does the scan really last an hour?"
"Of course not," the nurse answered. "It's like three minutes. But he looked like he needed lunch."
"You are officially my favorite nurse ever," I informed him.
The dh did look so much better when he came back. The scans came back clear, the doctor was kindly and sympathetic and said that some people react badly to anesthesia and hopefully the headache wouldn't happen again. Home again.
All this to say - thanks to all who have prayed for me this week. I am healing quickly - I think; at the very least, I am able to climb stairs and use commas again. Pray mostly for the children, who are grieved that Mommy will not pick them up. And pray for the dh, who is temporarily nurse, valet, chauffeur, cook, diaper-changer, and morel support.
Much love to you all. I have a whole stack of books that ought to be read at once.
"I'm here for surgery!" I answered brightly. Nothing like the House M.D. episodes, where someone runs screeching down the hall, "SHE NEEDS SURGERY!" Just me and my dh and my father in law and my pastor standing in a well decorated lobby and asking for surgery like we do this sort of thing all the time. (We'd like a table for four - oh, and do you have room for an appendectomy?)
Anyway, the concierge misunderstood my initial request and made me say the word, "Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. HYSTERECTOMY!" three times in successive degrees of volume. And when he finally did understand me, he blushed. "Oh."
Off to a fun start.
Then I was scolded for my lack of veins by a nurse, for which I apologized profusely.
My support team came in to pray for me, which was greatly appreciated.
The dh gave me a kiss.
And all the prayers must have been heard, because I didn't feel the least bit nervous. Okay, at least I didn't think I was nervous about Surgery, but I wouldn't stop talking. The anesthesiologist eventually stopped answering my questions and just popped the big mask thing over my face. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, which is a real failing in a doctor, but I suppose the power to make someone shut up really goes to one's head after a while. Anyway....
The surgery went great. And the hospital stay was made completely worth it because I discovered that Blue Bell makes popsicles! Rejoice, oh civilizations! Lift up your heads, oh ye drugged patients! There are orange Blue Bell popsicles!
They sent me home after 24 hours - before I ate all the popsicles. I was awfully glad to see my own bed. And my son promptly diagnosed me: "Your tummy hurts!" he said in a sage and serious tone.
"Yes," I admitted, "but that's okay. It's going to help Mommy get better."
He disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with the Children's Robitussin that he had managed to get out of the bathroom cabinet. "It's for you!" he said sweetly. "To make you all better!"
"Oh, sweetheart, that is so kind of you!" I answered, adding, "Never, never, never, never get into the medicine cabinet, okay? Let's tell Daddy to get a lock on it right away..."
The amazing in-laws helped me up and down the stairs and wrangled the bebes so well that I was hardly missed and mostly ignored (which can be a good thing when one is so loopy that one forgets to use punctuation in a text message. It was a low point). My darling MIL bought pretzels for me, the real Snyder's quality pretzels, and my friend, Bear, brought Red Velvet Cake ice cream. (Let that sink in, friends. It exists. Red. Velvet. Cake. Ice cream. This world is a glorious place).
Of course, no one expected that my recovery would go smoothly.
The next morning, I woke with a headache. I have had headaches in the past, even migraines, and I'm not sure that this deserved the same term. I can't really find a better word for it, but it outranked the pain of my labors, my C-section, and my appendectomy. Whatever happened to my head, it took forty minutes for me to stop the tears and be able to take deep breaths again. Even now, I shudder to think it could happen again. And the nurse we called told me to go to the E.R. and get a C.T. scan.
So we went back to the hospital. E.R. doctor ordered scans and, unfortunately, said the words,
brain bleed'. At this point, the poor dh was looking a little pale and worried, so I begged him to go and get some lunch. He refused, in a very gallant fashion, to leave my side. The male nurse entered and heard us in the midst of our loving disagreement. He looked at my husband and said, "Go. Go get lunch. I'm taking her to get the scan."
"No, I should stay," dh said. "How long does the scan take?"
"An hour at least," the nurse said brusquely. "Go eat lunch."
"See?" I said, relieved. "Go, my love, and eat a burger. I'll see you soon."
Dh kissed my forehead. "All right," he said. "But I'll hurry back."
The nurse wheeled me away. "He seems like a great guy," he said.
"Oh, he is the very best," I said. "Does the scan really last an hour?"
"Of course not," the nurse answered. "It's like three minutes. But he looked like he needed lunch."
"You are officially my favorite nurse ever," I informed him.
The dh did look so much better when he came back. The scans came back clear, the doctor was kindly and sympathetic and said that some people react badly to anesthesia and hopefully the headache wouldn't happen again. Home again.
All this to say - thanks to all who have prayed for me this week. I am healing quickly - I think; at the very least, I am able to climb stairs and use commas again. Pray mostly for the children, who are grieved that Mommy will not pick them up. And pray for the dh, who is temporarily nurse, valet, chauffeur, cook, diaper-changer, and morel support.
Much love to you all. I have a whole stack of books that ought to be read at once.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Idioms and Their Dangers
English is a difficult language, there's no denying. Who hasn't stumbled over a pronunciation of an 'ough' suffix (Through? Bough? Cough? Dough?)? And who hasn't blushed after hearing someone say, "For all intensive purposes -" ('Intents & Purposes', people) ?
And then there's my particular pet peeve: "I could care less". The correct usage is, "I couldn't care less", but no one remembers this. Obviously, one could care less, but how much less? And as opposed to what? What kind of power lies behind the suggestion that one might care a bit less?
*ahem*
All this to say....
English is a difficult language, even when you're being raised on it. My four-year-old son isn't the most amazing communicator at the best of times, so colloquialisms can be very difficult for him. Yesterday, while having lunch with our friends Auntie S--- and Baby E---, my phone rang.
"Hello, darling!" I answered.
"Hey," my husband said.
"How are you, oh delight of mine eyes?"
"I was just checking in on you," he replied, unfazed by my ardor.
"We are hanging out with S--- and E----," I said, adding, "Oh, king among men!"
"Are you feeling any better?"
"I'm having surgery in two days, beloved," I answered, "And I'll feel better then."
"Mommy!" Spiderman interrupted softly. "Mommy - please, may I talk to Daddy?"
I passed the phone over.
"Hi, Daddy!" Spiderman said brightly. He frowned, concentrating. "Yes," he said. Pause. "I'm eating lunch. We - uh..." he fought for the words, and his little nose crinkled. At last, he said, "Yeah. We are hanging Auntie S--- and baby E---!"
Auntie S--- nearly spit spinach omelette across the table. I managed to hold my guffaws long enough to whisper, "Hanging OUT, son. Hanging OUT with."
"Oh!" He nodded, too cool for embarrassment. "We hanging out, Daddy."
And then there's my particular pet peeve: "I could care less". The correct usage is, "I couldn't care less", but no one remembers this. Obviously, one could care less, but how much less? And as opposed to what? What kind of power lies behind the suggestion that one might care a bit less?
*ahem*
All this to say....
English is a difficult language, even when you're being raised on it. My four-year-old son isn't the most amazing communicator at the best of times, so colloquialisms can be very difficult for him. Yesterday, while having lunch with our friends Auntie S--- and Baby E---, my phone rang.
"Hello, darling!" I answered.
"Hey," my husband said.
"How are you, oh delight of mine eyes?"
"I was just checking in on you," he replied, unfazed by my ardor.
"We are hanging out with S--- and E----," I said, adding, "Oh, king among men!"
"Are you feeling any better?"
"I'm having surgery in two days, beloved," I answered, "And I'll feel better then."
"Mommy!" Spiderman interrupted softly. "Mommy - please, may I talk to Daddy?"
I passed the phone over.
"Hi, Daddy!" Spiderman said brightly. He frowned, concentrating. "Yes," he said. Pause. "I'm eating lunch. We - uh..." he fought for the words, and his little nose crinkled. At last, he said, "Yeah. We are hanging Auntie S--- and baby E---!"
Auntie S--- nearly spit spinach omelette across the table. I managed to hold my guffaws long enough to whisper, "Hanging OUT, son. Hanging OUT with."
"Oh!" He nodded, too cool for embarrassment. "We hanging out, Daddy."
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