Post Blueberry

Life does go on. Here is a glimpse of our life post-blueberry...er...post-surgery. And post-fire. Or just...oh...here is our life. Good geez.

I had surgery Tuesday morning. I left the hospital Wednesday morning. And I spent most of the week like this:

Soft blanket, not-so-comfy couch, good meds.  

Notice I kept the phone nearby so I could have phone conversations I would not remember. If I spoke to you this week, please don't assume I remember our conversation. 

This is pretty much what I do remember of Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday: I wake up. I take a shower. I take a nap. I brush my teeth and put on something of my face. I take a nap. I change my band-aids. I dry my hair. I take a nap. I eat. I take a nap. Then it's time to head up the stairs for bed again. I have no idea why I'm so tired!    

I've also moaned, groaned, and whined 5 million and three times. Precisely. At first I was sure my rib cage was tearing away from my skin every time I had to get out of bed. Or move. Or just take a breath. Now the pain comes mainly when I take a big step. Or laugh. Or burp. Or hiccup. Oh my stars! The hiccups! Of the devil, I tell you.

I have 4 small incisions and 1 giant hole in my belly button. Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice if they put a hole in my belly button but I do. And quite honestly, I'm offended. They ruined a perfectly good belly button. It was the only remaining area of my belly without stretch marks. And now it is scarred! I'm also seriously disappointed in my surgeon. He poked five holes in my belly, stuck all sorts of ports and equipment in there, and did not even have the common courtesy to suck out some extra fat while he was in there doing his thang. So flippin' rude. I intend to take this up with him at my follow-up appointment. 

I decided it was best to keep band-aids on over the tape strips holding me together because heaven forbid my shirts would brush against my wounds. I'm a big wimp like that. But now the band-aids seem to be rebelling and are doing more damage to my skin than my t-shirt possibly could so I'm ending our relationship. Goodbye, band-aids.  

Notice I said t-shirt? Yeah. Because I haven't actually figured out how to wear pants yet. Someone should make post-gallbladder surgery pants for big girls. (I think they are actually called yoga pants, but I don't own any yoga pants. Sigh.)

Well...I couldn't whine around all week. My dear Fish had turned another year older while I was off at the hospital losing an organ and it was time to celebrate. I managed a skirt, folded down at the waist and a nice lose t-shirt and I slowly waddled my way into Michaels for a tie-dye party between my naps. 

Really, Tuna...the outfit cannot be that bad with flip-flops.

Clearly, Tuna was mortified for me. Actually, she was just embarrassed that I paired this outfit with flip-flops instead of black Converse Chuck Taylors. She'll get over it. 

My Fish is the most amazing girl, and so obviously the middle child. She was incredibly understanding that my surgery took precedence over her birthday dinner. She has said nothing of not getting to pick a cake or dessert for her actual birthday. She was completely okay with buying a chocolate cake at the store instead of me making her the tie-dye cake I promised. She just goes with the flow. 

Happy 12th birthday, Fish! Sorry life got in the way, girl. 

Happy birthday, Fish.