One hundred and three weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: I genuinely don’t know or care today
I’m writing this in the middle of the day because I want to document where I’m at. Last week I wrote about my wife having surgery this week, and she is currently under the knife as I type these words.
We got to the hospital at 7:15 this morning, as requested, and thank god we weren’t late or we’d have missed all that sitting around in the lobby, which was a hoot (#hoot). They eventually took her back and a while later I was allowed to come hang out
and party All That Jazz style in her tiny room for a few minutes before they took her to the OR. I got to meet all the people who are going to be taking care of her, and I genuinely feel confident despite the black cloud of terror and dread that’s slowly seeping out of my ears. They wired her up so much she could be plugged into a wall outlet. These are her hands:
I took a picture of her smiling face and it was beautiful but she’d punch me in the dick if I made it available for public viewing. Then the surgeon came in and marked her neck (which he said is required by California law) by drawing a tiny purple Mickey Mouse silhouette, which was festive as shit I thought:
Kind of a deformed Mickey, but whatever. We sat together with the few minutes alone we had and we laughed and remembered various excellent moments from the last 19 years, and said, “I love you,” repeatedly. When they came back to get her, I kissed the shit out of her (and she kissed back by the way (#woohoo!)). I think the nurse might’ve been a little surprised by it, but there’s no overstating how little I care. I asked her if she wanted a high five and she told me to go away.
So I walked downstairs and over to the building next door and got a bunch of blood work done for my two-year follow up next week, and then drove home. I had a 1pm lab hour that I had to be online for. It was 11:30 when I got in my car. I hadn’t eaten in over four hours and was pretty damn hungry, so I went to the Starbucks by my house, ordered one of those egg bite thingies and an iced tea. I pulled around to the window to pay and in the process, hit a small square curb that just. fucking. destroyed. my front tire:
You’ll noticed that that little curb is black as fuck. GUESS WHAT THAT’S FUCKING FROM?!?!?!
I couldn’t have been driving more than 7 or 8 miles per hour. The air was blasting out of my tire and I drove around to a parking spot – OUT OF MY MIND WITH RAGE – and went inside. I told them what happened. They were confused. I made them stick their heads out of their drive through window and look to the right. They said, “Ohhh.” Then they went and called the store manager and I went and had a piss (no one needed to know that, but I’m generous with the unnecessary info).
Eventually the guy gave me an incident report number and a phone number to call. Turns out it’s the second time this shit has happened. THIS WEEK. I got the car towed to the tire shop. I called the tire shop to let them know to expect my bullshit Fisher Price car to be arriving by tow truck in the immediate future. My mother-in-law, who lives five minutes away, came and drove me home. I walked in the door and told the dogs how beautiful they are and gave them a snacky snack because they’re dogs and because they’re beautiful. And then I logged into my lab hour and it was exactly 1pm.
It was like a reality TV show except there were no rich, drunk assholes yelling at the help.
And that’s where I’m at right now. Five minutes left in my lab hour and then I’m responsible to no one but my wife for the rest of the day. Interesting side note: On the best of days, I’ve got room on my plate for about four or five things. Tops. Add another thing to the plate and I start stressing out. Add two or three things and I completely lose it (short term). This surgery is ten fucking things on my plate, and the Starbucks thing was another five. At the Starbucks – where, I’ll remind you, I was out of my mind with rage – I totally kept my shit in check. The only time I came close to misspeaking was when I said, “I don’t want the food anymore it’s gonna be an hour and a half before I can eat that shit.” On the phone with AAA, the nice lady asked if I had a spare tire and I said, “I don’t fucking know, my wife’s having surgery, I just need a tow.” I felt a little bad for the second one, but she handled it well (I could tell she’s not sending me a Christmas card this year, but whatever). Six months ago, I’d have had a meltdown they’d be talking about at that Starbucks for the next few years. So the Celexa and Wellbutrin are working nicely, which I need to keep in mind for when I meet with my psychiatrist in a week or two and tell her to fuck off (but, you know, professionally and politely) with her stronger meds.
Three things I’m grateful for:
- My wife, Annette, who is the finest person I’ve ever known.
- Science / medicine / quality healthcare / California. Thank God for all of that.
- Mostly though, I’m grateful for my wife and the last 19 years. I’m the luckiest man on earth.
I’m good right now. Earlier today I posted the following to Facebook:
My wife Annette is going in for major surgery today. She’s having her C5 and C6 fused (and maybe more, the doctor won’t know until he’s in there). It was determined that this was necessary last October, and it’s been hovering in the background ever since. This is a complicated procedure with a long recovery time and to say I’m worried is an understatement. I’m truthfully scared out of my mind. So I’m asking for all the prayers, crossed fingers, positive energy, psychic messages of love, and good thoughts all of you fine people can muster. I need today to go well.
I haven’t been on FB since due to the clusterfuck, but so many people love us, I know they’re doing their good work.
I almost never update posts, but I’d like to keep this story in one place. I posted this yesterday, and about an hour later, the surgeon called me and told me the procedure couldn’t have gone better (and about six hundred pounds slid off my shoulders). So I went to the hospital, and she was in recovery, and awake, mostly, and wearing her new neck brace, which she has to wear for the next month and a half. I spent a few hours there texting people for her on her phone and letting everyone know she was well, and then I went home to feed the dogs and sleep.
This morning, she texted and told me to meet her at the hospital around 11:30. When I got there, she was walking around the halls, wearing her neck brace, but otherwise you couldn’t tell she’d had surgery 24 hours earlier. According to her watch, she’d already walked 7400 steps. Unbelievable. She’s home now. I just made her dinner and she’s taking her pain meds diligently. She got a little sleep earlier and then took a walk around the block with Val. To say I’m relieved is an understatement. Thank God for science / medicine / quality healthcare / California.
Here, have a picture of the best human there is: