We interrupt the scheduled program for an update on the state of the Sarah.
So, I had surgery Monday, and first I want to say that the anesthesia was a oh, wow. Partly, I was lucky getting an anesthesiologist with a sense of humor. When I told him I started problems with anesthesia by not going under with chloroform (Portugal 65) he solemnly promised me not to use chloroform.
But the fact is he put me under at 2:30 and next I was aware of was at 7, and I was very cold, and they were piling blankets on me. (Took till 9 for my temperature to stabilize.)
I’m sure he talked to me before that, because he said I should be able to partly respond to him as I left the OR. I have no memory of this and am somewhat curious about it. You see, I’ve been known to answer from deep in a story, where someone talks to me while asleep. Like, say, Dan comes in to the bedroom, doesn’t realize I’m asleep, and says “Sarah, did you see my wallet?” He’s likely as not to get “Oh, Dragons. Yeah. You kill them with magnets.” Or something of the sort.
Don’t care. Though there might be an anesthesiologist wandering around town going “But she seemed like SUCH a nice lady.”
Hopefully I didn’t regale him with my political musings, but who knows? I hope he had his asbestos underpants on.
Anyway – sat up for the first time middle of the night, and was raring to go by morning, so they let me come home. Where I promptly passed out for several hours.
They sent me home with Super Motrin! Or something like that, by prescription only. I’ve been taking it religiously every 8 hours. They also sent me home with one of the many variants of morphine and that I’ve been trying to avoid taking, because as always it makes me woozy and useless. (I say I have a sensitivity to it, but I don’t know if that’s true. It’s entirely possible that’s how it’s supposed to work.)
I’ve been editing, between bouts of sleeping ( a lot of bouts of sleeping.)
Yesterday I had to take the opiates because the alternative was curling up in a ball and crying like a little girl – and that meant I slept a lot, and at night had a very weird dream about a guy named Eno and one named Pepto, in a murder mystery set some hardscrabble farm in rural Colorado.
My first thought on waking up was “Pepto didn’t do it” and the second was “I’m tickled pink” which as you see is a good reason to avoid the strong stuff.
Today I’m feeling better. Not pain free, but bearable with Motrin, and I’ve finished editing, and I’m hoping to get some writing done in the missing Through Fire chapters, so I can finally deliver this thing.
I took a mile walk (could use better weather) and am doing laundry.
Now on what was wrong… More was wrong than we thought. Apparently my first caesarean really was butchery and things weren’t… right. Which makes second son even more of a miracle. (We just wish we knew WHICH side.) The first one too, I suppose, since we probably should both have died.
Over the years there’s been explosive scarring in my abdominal cavity as well as hormone-bearing tissue which probably is responsible for some if not all of my… interesting health issues. (Not the respiratory ones, though there’s something as always being a little under.)
I didn’t realize I’ve been in low level (mostly, sometimes medium level) pain most of these years, until I was given pain killers. Sleeping without pain is… different.
Most of this pain should go away once it’s healed. Right now it feels like someone scoured my body cavity with an exacto knife. Which I gather is not exactly true. They use scalpels.
And that’s about it. If I don’t answer your emails/am late on stuff poke me with sharp sticks, as I still only have at best half a brain.
But… the state of the writer is improving.
And now I work.