The inside story…..

It’s been a long week. Had my second Covid vaccination on Monday, which landed me in bed for a few days. My way of dealing with pain to discomfort is to sleep my way through it. Put me somewhere comfortable, throw me a pillow and a blanket, and leave me alone until I rise again.

I have some experience with illness. Over the years I’ve had my share of major surgeries. As I’ve said previously, with each marriage, I donated a body part to science. Having four marriages to my credit, this has required significant sacrifice on my part. I hardly show up on an ex-ray any more. If you look at it through that lens, I really can’t risk another “I do”. Fortunately, all the essential pieces remain, so I continue to chug along like a well tuned engine, or at least one with most of it’s workable parts. Each day I am thankful for that.

I’m not a particularly good patient. I hate being sick, but I’m sure no one really looks forward to it. As a child if I became ill, I hesitated to mention it. My grandmother, though having given up her career to raise her family, had been an R.N. My grandfather and two uncles were physicians, one a pediatrician. I can remember the first time I mentioned I had a tummy ache to my grandmother. Back in her day, they treated everything from ring worm to jaundice with a good dose of cod liver oil. You think it sounds bad? You should taste it. Before I could emit another burp, my grandmother was standing before me, spoon extended, telling me to open and swallow. Leading the lambs to slaughter, I say. I had no idea what was in that spoon. I was belching cod for two days. Next my uncles would show up or my grandfather. I would be prodded and poked like a significant find at an archaelogical dig. If anything was amiss, usually not serious, I would be tucked in bed with a hot water bottle and dosed back to health.

It wasn’t enough as a child I leaned towards, and landed right on top of, being chubby. My mother and grandmother, both fabulous hands in the kitchen, equated food with love, and I was ladled out a generous serving of both. To add insult to injury, I had been born with a lazy eye, my left. Surgery not an option until I was older, glasses were prescribed to help correct the situation. In an effort to strengthen the eye, one lens covered with a patch. It gave me the look of a pudgy, midget pirate. Lovely. Fortunately, I had childhood friends more concerned with my genius prowess at hide and go seek, or my fear of almost nothing they suggested, that kept me socially acceptable in spite of my physical limitations. This generosity did not always extend to kids who did not know me, however, leaving me open for comments like “four eyes” and “ahoy, matey”, making the glasses my least favorite accessory.

Corrective eye surgery was scheduled when I was seven. The procedure has to be done when you are young, with any likelihood of success. The opthamologist, a family friend, and colleague of my grandfathers, assured my worried mother all would be wonderful once the procedure was behind me. The day of the surgery I was a bit scared, but it was nothing when compared to my mother’s anxiety. Being her “only chick” as she always called me, she didn’t have a spare to replace me should I come to a nasty end. The doctor came in to reassure and explain what to expect, the pre-surgery relaxer was administered, and off I went. Unfortunately, the all would be wonderful part fell through a crack in the operating room floor. The surgical nurse tasked with dilating my eyes with a diluted solution of Atroprine, accidentally used concentrated, causing a huge reaction by my little body. My face swelled up, I got welts all over, and was generally a hot mess. The concern beyond the obvious physical reactions was my eyesight would be permanently affected. Sigh. So, home I went, still one lazy eye and now so much more. For two months my grandmother took care me. Every day I had eye washes and then gooey salves. Eventually my eyesight returned to where it had been pre-surgery and my face, though still fat, was no longer swollen. Mother, so afraid of having me lose my vision or worse never signed me up again for the procedure. The window of opportunity before my teens passed, and thus my eyesight has remained poor in my left eye the rest of my life. Thankfully, my right eye is a total trouper, and the aesthetics of the condition barely noticeable unless I point it out or I’m extremely tired. To this day I have one hazel eye and one pale gray. This particular side effect is rather effective, so I don’t mind it so much. One should have a little character in one’s face. Shear perfection can be such a bore. (Insert smile here.)

At nine I had my tonsils removed. We had moved to California at that point and started our new lives with my first stepfather. He had family in Southern California, so we were livin’ the dream in Fullerton not far from Disneyland. They don’t warn you ahead of time how sore removing those little soft tissue masses makes your throat. Tonsillectomies were a regular scheduled surgery back then. These days they are more hesitant about doing them. The bonus for an eater such as myself was the copious amount of ice cream coming my way once I got home. Often I attribute this first body part donation to my stepfather. As I remember he was always suggesting I be quiet, and the gods have big ears so I’ve heard, so he got his way. Fortunately for all of us he moved on, or was nudged on his way, three years later and Mother and I found ourselves on our own. For me it was Independence Day. There was no love lost between my stepfather and I, and whether my mother realized it or not at the time or not his being out of our lives was a breath of fresh air in her lungs as well. Kids grow up fast, in my experience, when their parents get dysfunctional. Sometimes we can see the clearer picture at our tender age, better than they can because they’re all wrapped up in the drama. Certainly I have been dysfunctional more than once in my life, and I’m sure my children’s therapists have benefited well from my missteps.

Other than losing my wisdom teeth around eighteen there was a blissful hiatus in the migration of my body parts until I was 24, married, and wrangling two toddlers. Along with two of my husband’s brothers and their families, we had gotten away for a camping trip in glorious Rosarita Beach, in Baja, Mexico. What a lovely spot to forget your problems. Gorgeous sandy beaches, fresh sea air, and margaritas at sunset. Lovely. While there I began feeling a bit under the weather. As the weekend passed my symptoms became more pronounced. Not the best timing. Though I’m sure their hospitals would have taken good care of me, it was a long drive for a family visit should I have to be admitted. Deciding our best option was to head home, we returned the following day. Monday I went back to work, still feeling far less than on top of my game. Around noon a co-worker found me in the ladies room in distress. Somehow I drove myself to Kaiser Hospital in Los Angeles where my husband worked. Unbeknownst to me I had begun to bleed profusely from a nearly ruptured ovarian cyst. Arriving in the E.R. where my husband had already checked me in I was quickly ushered into an examining room. Five serious faces stood over me discussing my body like I was a prize ham at auction. Within a half an hour I had signed a paper allowing them to remove everything from my right ear lobe to left butt cheek. Apparently this was exploratory surgery which meant they were going to gain access to your innermost selfness. Swell. Hours later I woke up in the recovery room lighter by one ovary. They told me I had an angel on my shoulder (I knew it!) because had I waited another 24 hours the cyst might have ruptured and we might not have been having this conversation. K. Back then there wasn’t laser surgery where they just drilled a little hole and vacuumed the offending organ out of you. Oh no. They honed their cutting skills on your skin. When I finally saw the incision it looked like a long smiley face below my belly button about three inches. They called it a “bikini line”. Looked more like a clothesline. The opening was secured with what looked like chips clips which were apparently the only defense between my insides oozing out to the outside. Ewwwww.

Once I had been checked out thoroughly in the recovery room a nurse came to take me to the surgical ward for a few days. By that time the discomfort had reached my brain and though still groggy I found myself able to enunciate, PAIN MEDS!!!!! In my new bed, I came up out of my drug induced fog enough to notice another bed in the room, unoccupied. Yay. No witness to observe the sniveling and whining I was sure I was going to be doing. That first day after major surgery is always a blur. Nurses and doctors flow in and out in a haze hanging bags of fluid on the tree growing out of the floor next to you, monitors beeping and blinking, and your mind willing the hours away until the pain backs off and you are home in your own bed. Somewhere later in the day a very large lady was wheeled in and deposited in the bed on the other side of the room. We didn’t exchange pleasantries because, a) my fuzzy tongue couldn’t gather enough energy to form words, and b) there was nothing pleasant about being in that situation. Blissfully sleep consumed most of my time. My mother’s face hovered over me a time or two, as did my husbands. He told me later I told him “Run, save yourself. The ants are coming. Take care of the children”.

Later that night a voice permeated my dream state. “Lady”, it said. “Yes”, my mind answered. Annoyingly, the voice kept coming in with the same message. “WHAT”, said my mind sending a message to my eyes to open. “Are the ants here”? Blurrily canvasing the room I could see the lady in the other bed waving at me. Really? Now we’re exchanging greetings? Somewhere in the fog I heard her say I needed to get the nurse. Now, the absurdity of that statement even in my condition did not miss it’s mark. I couldn’t even get out of the bed to relieve myself and this woman wanted to me to get the nurse? Not happening, no matter how many times you wave at me. Then she screamed. Okay, okay. The “nurse button” they had given me had fallen to the side of the bed. I reached with my hand trying to locate the cord without inducing any of the pain associated with any movement of my nether regions. Ow. Finally I found it and summoned enough energy to depress the button. Shortly the room was a bee hive of energy. People were moving in and out, words were flying, and the bed lady was in full voice yelling the top of her lungs. Help. Drifting back into my fog, a while later I thought I heard a baby cry. “Hi baby”. The following morning a nurse came in to change my IV drip. Relating a bit of my dream to her as best I was able, she told me the lady in the other bed had delivered a healthy baby boy about 3 a.m. Apparently she was scheduled for a C-section early in the morning but the baby decided to go ahead and make an early exit the normal way. Wow. She thanked me for pushing the nurse button. “Did I”? Wow. Later that day a small bouquet showed up on my tray table with a note reading, “Thanks for the help. Baby Boy Dalton”. Awwww, you’re welcome.

Had I stopped at that marriage, I might still be intact. Some lessons are harder learned than others but I was glad to help a little one on his way.

Have a great Saturday. Two vaccinations down, I am happy to say I am finally done and ready to greet the world again.