Day Five, Post-Surgery

Hello. Hi. Whatcha up to?

Oh, me? I am sitting in bed. Still. Yeah, it's a thrill ride. Just an hour or so ago, one of the cats licked my right big toe, and I said Aw, thanks, nice kitten!, and he said Myeh!. Those were good times.

No, wait. I think the codeine has squelched some of the synaptic firings through my grey matter, because I forgot that That Girl took Savia, the Palinode, and I out for lunch. I ate this guacamole-chicken-brie sandwich thing, which was really quite good, I think, and everyone talked and talked about stuff that I kept missing chunks of, because I was staring out the window at this dull expanse of leveled earth that stretched for blocks west and south of the restaurant. All that was left for it was to become more warehouse stores and asphalt slaps and knots of cheap condominiums painted grey or salmon. I wondered what was there before the faux mongolian grill moved in to service the shoppers trapped in the webwork of big box stores.

Parking lots are depressing.

ladder 2

But I wasn't depressed. Not really. I think I was tired, but I was too busy to know, what with the view and trying to cut my open-face sandwich in such a way that the bacon stayed with the other ingredients.

Part of this disengagement stems from my complete lack of patience with enfeeblement. That Girl had to help me open the door to the women's bathroom, because it was too heavy for me. My hysterectomied gut has been swollen and hanging out like I am six months along, and none of its muscles have the wherewithal at the moment to do any complex activities that involve flexing. Also, that door was really heavy. I betcha it was solid wood.

I am not even allowed to pick up my favourite cat, because he is at least three pounds over the ten-pound weight limit that has been set for things I can move. There are benefits, though, which I have to keep in mind. I just pressed the Palinode into service so that I could get my hands on another bottle of beer, and not only being allowed but being expected to stay in bed and watch television and make requests for beer and various food items is a gift I should not begrudge.

Of course, I would probably be more thankful if I did not have to rip out all my baby belly hairs with first aid tape every day to redress my incisions. The little roll of tape the nurse gave me at the hospital to get me started turned out to be Eat Through Stomach Skin Tape, which I don't remember specifically requesting, but then I went through twelve doses of morphine and four of demorol in a six-hour period, so my account of the events cannot be trusted. I tried some other first aid tape from the pharmacy, but it left far too much adhesive behind. I looked like a marshmallow had exploded onto my abdomen. Now I am relying on the creative use of band-aids tailored with scissors to cover my incisions. My belly looks like an alternative game of tic-tac-toe, only O left the game and X kept playing. At least the band-aids leave me my skin. Almighty.

I think codeine makes me a whiny bitch.


Da Schmutz.

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