Twenty-five was a great year. Probably my favorite. I had a great new grown up job paying me more money than I'd ever had, a new car, a new townhouse with great roommates, a couple of boyfriends, long-long time best friends that were ready to party any time, out to bars on weeknights, dance clubs on weekends, I had fun and spent lots of money on silly things. I was Sex in the City - Baltimore Style. And then I dreaded turning thirty because that's what I thought everyone did, and it turned out to be a fairly pleasant year though going out to bars was not on my top three list of things to do and skiing started to take a less than ideal ranking in my vacation plans because recovery from such activities was taking longer and usually involved more pain. Thirty-three is when things start going south a little faster. Eyes got worse, grey hair was easier to find, you start paying attention to those stupid wrinkle cream adds that you know really don't work because you know there's no such thing as "regenerist pearl mushroom fungi oils" but you want to try them anyway.
But as this past year has progressed I've been consistently reminded that time is ticking. Things are growing, moving on, getting advanced, not what they once were. I had gotten what I wished for. It started with the whole getting pregnant phase at thirty-four. At thirty-four they start treating you like you are of advanced maternal age and your odds of complexities and chances go through the roof by the time you have your 35th birthday. This means more tests, more monitoring... Oh smack! You're having twins! And they are having complications... Yadda yadda yadda... Well, you know the rest of that story.
While you are pregnant and after you have a baby, especially multiples, I really think your body goes into aging overdrive and there are many other facets to life that you now deal with that certainly I never thought of. Carpel tunnel syndrome in both wrists, bad knees from stooping, bad back, stiff and clicky joints, much more gray hair and where the hell did ALL of those wrinkles come from???, and as I've said before the increased likely hood that an organ may start to fail.
I had my gallbladder removed on Wednesday. It was supposed to be outpatient surgery done laproscopically. On the table at 2pm, home by 7pm. But it turned into an overnight stay because I had such a difficult time waking up from the anesthesia and then the amount of IV pain meds it took to ease the pain of the four incisions. I wish I could say that I had the best sleep since the last six months but they wake you up every 30 min until you've been there 4 hours and then they wake you up every 2 hours after that so really there was no rest.
And I wish I could say that I immediately felt better having had the gallbladder out but I actually have felt worse for the last four days. Today has been the first day where I've been able to eat anything without feeling like I needed to pay my respects to the porcelain god. The pain meds make me even more queasy, so I've stopped taking them and just deal with the discomfort. Can't really throw up too well while holding a squirming baby.
And I can't say that I was really thrilled with how everything went because the whole process is just like going to Jiffy Lube. You show up, they drive you up to the counter where you turn in your photo ID and insurance cards, pull you into the mechanic's prep bay to gear you up / strip you down and take your vitals, the docs give you the "ready, fire, aim" welcome to our fun house speech, then pump you full of fast acting memory erasers (and boy do I mean fast!! I didn't even get to take my glasses off my head), and promptly wheel you in for the slice n' dice. Afterward you wake up in a big room full of other equally miserably inclined patients with a nurse who has no information on how your surgery went or if you will be seeing your doctor at any time during the remainder of your stay. I never did see him after everything was done nor did he make any attempt to contact my husband to say everything was normal. I guess it's not really necessary, but it's nice to have a follow up conversation with the person whom you've just allowed to poke around in your gizzard and take a body part for his collection.
At home it's the typical discomfort and pill popping, trying to think of something bland to eat and still thinking of sneaking the slice of pizza that I'll pay for later on. There are four band-aids hiding steri-strips that hold my stitches together. The band-aids are supposed to come right off after two days and the steri-strips in about a week to ten days once the stitches dissolve in the shower. Instead the band-aids are stuck directly to the steri-strips which are holding my stitches together so when painfully peeling them off my steri-strips come off too. I guess I'll just cut the parts that aren't sticking and keep the parts that are sticking where they belong. And it feels very much like Mike Tyson had a practice session on my right side from my shoulder to my hip. And anyone who lies to you and says that it's easier than a c-section is delusional and has forgotten that they most likely had an epidural before their c-section and those last 24 to 72 hours after your surgery, then pain is masked by the IV meds and pills they give you in recovery. The epidural makes a BIG DIFFERENCE!!! After my c-section I was hobbling around from my room to the NICU in 4 hours. This time I didn't get up for 8 hours.
But it's finally done. I am less one organ.
Fare well to my delicious side of fries with everything. And trusty, reliable good friend KFC. Oh, and my always-desired-on-Sunday Chick-fil-A 8 peice chicken nuggets meal with ranch dressing. (Okay fine, I really get the 12 piece.) So long onion rings and Whisky River BBQ Burgers from Red Robin. I will only see you all once in a blue moon when my resolve and memory cave and I can't fight the desire to have you one more juicy time and I convince myself that it's worth the aftermath of gas and discomfort later.
Insult to Injury... While watching TV in my hospital bed I saw an ad for the new show "Life on Mars". WTF??? Is the year 1973 supposed to be a really long time ago? Why couldn't they have picked 1943 or 1982? Is thirty-five years such a far of time that we need to bring the retro back and splash it about prime viewing time so that I can't forget that I'm just that much older? What fortuitous timing that they should air this new show right NOW!!
I know I'm not 40 or 45 or 50 but I am hot on your heals. And Hollywood should know that I don't appreciate their rubbing in their youth and vitality. Not this year. Can they try it next season, when I'll be 36 and maybe feel more blase about the whole age thing?
At least wait until I can fit back into my pre-pregnancy jeans without a layer of binding assistance.
The Process of Articulation Therapy
1 year ago
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