I Share Becasue I Care
Since having xyz surgical procedure on Monday, I have resisted the Dooce-like compulsion to share every single detail of this physical experience with my readers. Guess what? I'm feeling a little better now, so get ready. You're in for it.

First of all, I would urge anybody who is facing a "should I have surgery" decision to JUST SAY NO. Elective or not, don't do it. This has been a very rough week. My entire body has suffered, piece by piece, day by day. I have been in pain for six days. First, it was my throat. My first thought upon waking up after the xyz procedure was "Ouch. WTF is wrong with my throat?" Well, really, my first thought upon waking up was "Oh Good." Then, I noticed the fire-like pain in my throat. I did not know that I had been intubated - a standard procedure, apparently, when they put you to sleep. They might've told me. In fact, I think they were supposed to. That pain lasted two days. Keep in mind that during this time my diet included a very steady stream of Tylenol 3. They didn't help.

As my fire throat was easing back to life, every muscle above my waist ached like I'd just built a barn by myself. I couldn't move my head from side to side for one day. I was, and am, certain that they'd dropped me during or after the xyz procedure.

Mid-week, all other ouches started sorting themselves out. Now that I could move my head, I made the mistake of examining the area where all the xyz surgical action took place. I look like I've been kicked in the stomach and left for dead. I'm bruised from my hairline to my belly button. Badly. The stitches are ghastly. I need help to get in and out of bed. Standing is good. Anything else is agony, despite the namby pamby Tylenol 3.

Late week, one of my two incisions opens up and becomes infected. A visit to the emergency room at 2:30 in the morning results in a very kindly surgical resident cleaning my gaping wound and giving me a bandaid. I can't remember when I was more humiliated. Apparently they don't re-stitch when this happens. At least she agreed with me that Tylenol 3 would likely not help me much, considering the kind of migraine meds I ingest on a regular basis, so she prescribed me Percocet. A very tired and slightly-passed-the-point of tolerant Mr. Crabby tucks me back into bed at 4:00 a.m. and says, "How's your bandaid?"

And finally, last night, at 6:15 p.m., I pooped for the first time since Sunday. Realizing this may have been the cause for a good part of this week's pain, I sat in the ladies' room in the lobby of the Hilton (closest/cleanest facilities at the time) and smiled. On top of the other gastro-intestinal implications of eating codeine for several days, severe constipation was something I had not counted on. I had to fast before surgery, and barely ate a thing the next day, so I didn't think this was a problem until about day four. "Eat a bran muffin," said Mr. Crabby. Finally, all is well. The bruises are fading, except where the IV was.

This morning, I was able to clean up cat puke by myself. Bending is OK, even though the second incision is now oozing and red. I had a five hour nap after sleeping for ten hours last night. And, I pooped again! Sorry if I offend. What I really wanted to do was phone you all and tell you, but even through a Percocet fog I knew that would be most unwelcome. Mr. Crabby was in bed sleeping off his midnight shift, so instead I told Tosca, who was watching with interest from the bathroom sink. "Look, kitty, look what Mommy did! Do you see what Mommy did? Yay Mommy!"

I'll end my diary of pain by thanking the pre-op nurse who told me "Oh some women who have xyz surgical procedure go back to work the next day." To those women, I say the hell with you. And to the rest of you, I say JUST SAY NO!