I have a brilliant idea.
Let me know if you think it's worth pursuing a patent here...I've got this revolutionary new weight-loss plan...it goes kinda like this:
-> You get your tonsils taken out and then your throat feels like pain incarnate for a week + some, so you don't eat anything.
-> You have to take a week or two off life to make it work really well, 'cause all you'll want to do is sleep for, like, 5 days (or that might just be the codine...).
-> But at any rate, you can't ingest anything other than water and maybe certain fruit juices.
NOTE: all that stuff they tell you about eating ice cream & popsicles and stuff? Lies.
Your throat will be raw & bloody after two bites of ice cream. Don't do it!
But...12 lbs in 7 days? =\ Yeah, not even kidding.
I was thinking of calling it "The Tonsilectomy Diet", what say?
Think it'll go over?
6.05.2008
Surgury.
Numb.
Sore.
Contradiction?Maybe.
But it's not a lie.
Surgery at six am is a blessing – I have no desire to be conscious long in advance so there's little time to think about what is going to happen.
Of course I know they are professionals.
I hear about people getting their tonsils out all the time. And they live to tell about it.
But maybe this time it will be different.
My throat is the one that is being cut this time.
What happens if the scalpel slips?
I may find out. Or...I may not.
Sterile.
The only word to describe the surgical center.
“Please enter through Door A and give the receptionist your name”. So I do.
I sign paper after paper acknowledging that I understand the risks and agree to the privacy laws.
Is this post an infringement?
I might know...had I read the stack of papers before signing.
The nurse is very kind.
I can't even hate her for making me wear the purple foamy surgery gown.
At least I get to wear my bra and underwear; that's better then at the clinic.
My blood pressure is fine.
My lungs sound good.
My heart is beating, too, so they tell me.
The IV.
She warms my hand with a very hot washcloth and wraps it up for a few minutes. My veins are too small; they have to plump 'em up a bit.
“We'll just keep talking about something else and you look away, alright?”
I've never been good with needles.
As she talks about who will see me next and what the recovery process will be like, she jabs a needle into my hand and threads a piece of clear plastic tubing into my vein, taping it down with ten or 12 strips of clear adhesive.
She continues to talk, smiling and carefree.
Next comes the anesthetist.
He, too, bears a big grin and assures me of the simplicity of the process – just three drugs added to my IV which will knock me out, then they will start pumping gas in through my nose so I don't wake up before they're through and will slip an oxygen tube into my mouth and down to my windpipe to keep me alive. “Thank you,” I say.
I really will appreciate that.
And back comes the nurse; now more friendly, cheerful and soothing even than before – my first indication that this is probably going to hurt more than I was expecting.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep in Recovery 1.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and my mom is with me in Recovery 2.
And I wake up and only doze off and wake up and repeat again and again between cups of water and cups of apple juice and chips of ice and a heating device that attaches to my surgery gown and puffs it up like a balloon all down the front in Recovery 2.
And the nurses come back, three different nurses –
the one who got my ready for the IV
and the one who went in with me to surgery and the one whose son I took classes with
and who just wants to be there for me if I need a familiar face filled with reassurance instead of worry.
The worried face is worn by my mom.
She likes to worry about me.
I think she considers it her full-time job.
But it's not very soothing right now, since she is the one who talked to the surgeon right after he finished with me.
And they give me back my comfy clothes and they leave me to change and I do and I leave the room and my knees are gelatinous. But I'll be ok, they say, and they give me a carnation and send me off to my car and my mom drives me to the store to get my meds and some jello and some ice cream and some Sprite and some apple juice and some popsicles and some Jones Cream soda.
And I sleep for ten minutes then take a drink of water and then sleep for ten minutes then run to the bathroom and then take a drink of water.
And so it goes.
It has been 6 hours since I left the operating room.
I have slept in 10 minute intervals ever since, between walking down the hall to the bathroom and getting water.
And Shelbi is in London.With Noel and Tucker and Susan and the gang.
And when I changed pants I found a funny patch with a snap on it stuck to my side and I don't know how it got there or what to do with it.
Sore.
Contradiction?Maybe.
But it's not a lie.
Surgery at six am is a blessing – I have no desire to be conscious long in advance so there's little time to think about what is going to happen.
Of course I know they are professionals.
I hear about people getting their tonsils out all the time. And they live to tell about it.
But maybe this time it will be different.
My throat is the one that is being cut this time.
What happens if the scalpel slips?
I may find out. Or...I may not.
Sterile.
The only word to describe the surgical center.
“Please enter through Door A and give the receptionist your name”. So I do.
I sign paper after paper acknowledging that I understand the risks and agree to the privacy laws.
Is this post an infringement?
I might know...had I read the stack of papers before signing.
The nurse is very kind.
I can't even hate her for making me wear the purple foamy surgery gown.
At least I get to wear my bra and underwear; that's better then at the clinic.
My blood pressure is fine.
My lungs sound good.
My heart is beating, too, so they tell me.
The IV.
She warms my hand with a very hot washcloth and wraps it up for a few minutes. My veins are too small; they have to plump 'em up a bit.
“We'll just keep talking about something else and you look away, alright?”
I've never been good with needles.
As she talks about who will see me next and what the recovery process will be like, she jabs a needle into my hand and threads a piece of clear plastic tubing into my vein, taping it down with ten or 12 strips of clear adhesive.
She continues to talk, smiling and carefree.
Next comes the anesthetist.
He, too, bears a big grin and assures me of the simplicity of the process – just three drugs added to my IV which will knock me out, then they will start pumping gas in through my nose so I don't wake up before they're through and will slip an oxygen tube into my mouth and down to my windpipe to keep me alive. “Thank you,” I say.
I really will appreciate that.
And back comes the nurse; now more friendly, cheerful and soothing even than before – my first indication that this is probably going to hurt more than I was expecting.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep in Recovery 1.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and my mom is with me in Recovery 2.
And I wake up and only doze off and wake up and repeat again and again between cups of water and cups of apple juice and chips of ice and a heating device that attaches to my surgery gown and puffs it up like a balloon all down the front in Recovery 2.
And the nurses come back, three different nurses –
the one who got my ready for the IV
and the one who went in with me to surgery and the one whose son I took classes with
and who just wants to be there for me if I need a familiar face filled with reassurance instead of worry.
The worried face is worn by my mom.
She likes to worry about me.
I think she considers it her full-time job.
But it's not very soothing right now, since she is the one who talked to the surgeon right after he finished with me.
And they give me back my comfy clothes and they leave me to change and I do and I leave the room and my knees are gelatinous. But I'll be ok, they say, and they give me a carnation and send me off to my car and my mom drives me to the store to get my meds and some jello and some ice cream and some Sprite and some apple juice and some popsicles and some Jones Cream soda.
And I sleep for ten minutes then take a drink of water and then sleep for ten minutes then run to the bathroom and then take a drink of water.
And so it goes.
It has been 6 hours since I left the operating room.
I have slept in 10 minute intervals ever since, between walking down the hall to the bathroom and getting water.
And Shelbi is in London.With Noel and Tucker and Susan and the gang.
And when I changed pants I found a funny patch with a snap on it stuck to my side and I don't know how it got there or what to do with it.
