Still Sober... And Healing

I’m baaaaaack! Yesterday was the first day since originating Fermented Fur that I didn’t post at least one new blog, but I have a really good excuse. By virtue of there being no football playoff games yesterday, I was able to spend the entire day with my husband, starting with errands and a muy delicioso lunch at Red Lobster. I had a gift card, and we managed to consume the entire value of the card, and then some. The leftovers resulted in my not having to cook the rest of the day, which is always a major plus in my book.

It was also another early test of my sobriety, because going out to lunch (especially with a gift card!) would have previously meant wine. The conversation would have started with me saying, before even departing for the restaurant, “I’ll just have one glass of wine when we get to the restaurant, then switch to iced tea.” (Knowing, already, that I was definitely going to drink the first glass really fast, so I could order a second one before the too-efficient serving staff could return with salads or appetizers)

Half-way through that first glass, I’d say, “Oh, since it’s taking so long (it really wasn’t) for us to get any food, I’ll just order one more.” (In the back of my mind, I’m already gauging if I’ll be able to justify a third, and beginning to plot my strategy)

By the time I’ve guzzled down Glass #2, you’d hear me saying, “I know I said I wasn’t going to have three, but I’ll be fine. This is my last one, I promise.” (This may have been somewhat slurred, because I’ve had a few pieces of tomato, a cucumber slice, nine croutons, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach)

I then order and consume the third glass of wine, and eat as much as I can of my meal, which (being a gastric bypass person) isn’t much. The remainder is boxed up for me to eat later, after my wine-induced nap. I probably stumble slightly on the way out of the restaurant, and everyone notices because I lost my ability to use my Inside Voice halfway through the second glass.

I’m proud to report that this did not happen yesterday. Today is Day 10 without alcohol.

Sam did take my stitches out on Friday, with nary a snark. The wound is far from totally healed, but it’s sealed over and the stitches are no longer necessary. Itches like a sonofabitch, though.

The real problem, which I totally did not anticipate, is my right shoulder and neck. You know how sometimes you just “sleep wrong,” and walk around the next day doing an unintentional impression of Quasimodo, with your shoulder up in the vicinity of your ear? I’ve been doing that for a week and a half, and it hasn’t gotten one bit better. Dr. Vet-Friend Two was supposed to do some acupuncture on it before she left for her third session of training in Texas, but she got bogged down in some accounting work (and OH the language!) and we ran out of time. She’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ve got to find time for her to figure out how to restore my ability to turn my head to the left.

Looking back over my blogs, I noticed how many times I have mentioned the Gaping Bloody Head Wound. I’ve always been morbidly fascinated with my own illnesses and injuries. I do not enjoy the process of becoming or actually being ill or injured, and in fact I rarely get sick. I imagine the injuries will decrease drastically now that I’ve taken alcohol off the list of potential contributing factors. Once I have a legitimate affliction, though, I do obsess. It’s not that I like to complain, or that I want sympathy (though a little bit is nice). I’m just fascinated with the whole biological process.

For example, while at this point in my life pregnancy would sure as hell be an “affliction,” (not to mention a medical mystery since I had that possibility removed at the same time as my bariatric surgery) at 19 it was more of a Very Special Science Project. I had the week-by-week guide, and quietly pondered, at length, every sensation and development. While the experience of childbirth and the subsequent years of life as “mother of a small creature that will one day grow into an actual human being” were of significantly less interest, pregnancy was pretty cool. When you’re pregnant, it really is all about you. Naturally, that only enhanced the whole experience for me. But once that baby shows up, you essentially cease to exist, and all the attention is on him. You might be able to disappear for months, except you are frequently needed to nurse the human-to-be, and to change the icky diapers.

When I was in my 30s, I had my gallbladder out. Now, maybe it’s unreasonable, but I would have thought that having one of my own personal internal organs, even a relatively minor one, ripped from my body should garner more than two crummy flower arrangements. That was all I got. Yeah, I know, people have things removed every day, but this time it was me!!!!! I did get to take some time off work, though, and my husband took very good care of me. He did not quite share my fascination with the whole process, including the nifty Discovery Health program I found, which showed someone having my same exact surgery in glorious, teeny-camera-in-the-patient detail. But he did realize that a bit of pampering went a long way toward keeping my mouth shut.

A little over six years ago, I had my gastric bypass surgery. I don’t remember if I got any flowers that time. I’m thinking “no,” though. Somehow, I didn’t mind as much, because I was absolutely consumed with the process. I was on the surgery support group daily, sharing my milestones, asking questions, cheering on others who were in the pre-surgical process, and documenting each pound lost. Nobody else, outside the surgery community, was all that interested.

For all my focus on my own maladies, I must admit that I really have no interest in anyone else’s.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I do care if it’s my husband or son. But, basically, if you don’t have some direct connection with the astonishing number of childbirth-related stretch marks on my abdomen, your medical issues don’t concern me in the least. The only time other people’s afflictions even register on my radar is when they affect me. One of my husband’s salesmen has the flu, meaning he has to work late? Hey, buddy, get well soon, ya hear? A friend can’t come for a long-planned visit because some stupid internal organ decided to malfunction? Well, get that sucker the hell out and get your ass up here!

On the other hand, I will watch those documentaries about people having bariatric surgery, or kids with hideous facial deformities having them repaired, and maintain a level of focus I rarely achieve otherwise. Why? I don’t know any of these people, after all. Maybe that’s the key. I can watch, cry, cheer them on, mentally rejoice at their amazing recoveries… and I can turn it off any time I want.

What just started scaring me lately, though, is that I could be turning into one of those old people who can go on and on and on (and on) about their doctor visits, their medications, and their symptoms, including the volume and consistency of various bodily secretions. The fact that I prefer my life to be as hermit-like as possible may spare most of the free world from my graphic medical narrative, but those who are unavoidably subjected to it would really hate it.

Unlike yesterday, there are football playoff games today (including the Packers!), so I have no husbandly supervision. The big TV in the family room has all of his attention for the rest of the day. Which means it’s time for me and at least one of the dogs to have a post-grilled-cheese-sandwich nap. When I wake up, I plan to blog about books, and I promise not to mention head wounds, ass-bruises, hunchback-like neck contortions, purple toenails, bleeding cuticles, healing pimples, elbows which might have a bone chip siding around in them, or toes that don’t appear to have any circulation today. (I do, by the way, currently have ALL of these.) I know you’re disappointed, but believe me, it’s for the best.

Otherwise, I might turn into my grandmother, and nobody wants that!