Sluggish

I'm sorry for the long silence. I've been swinging from vine to vine in the jungle of the crazy, and for the first time, most of the madness was not mine. 

During my post surgery recovery, I lounged around in my PJs and watched TV movies. Sadly, they got on my nerves after the first three days because the heroines fell for guys who look like they belong in a police line up or called out to criminals in alleyways instead of dialing the authorities. Thus, I showed up at my temp job less than two weeks after surrendering my gall bladder.

I don't know if it is related to the loss of a body part or not, but I have been rather exhausted since the surgery. My six year old, Lanes, and her schedule make me feel like the pit crew of a race car team on the best of nights.

She is easily side tracked and constantly on various missions that result in 'origami' hand drawn paper electronics propped up in between family photos. I am constantly trying to lasso her into doing things she deems unnecessary, such as taking a shower or having dinner.

Lanes has taken to hugging me and cooing every night because her father, P, placed an embargo on me after my surgery.  Lanes is notorious for elbowing and kicking vital organs while trying to be affectionate and he was on pins that she would puncture one of my wounds. He did not want me spewing my guts around the apartment like a fifth grade science project gone wrong.

The net result was that P was put on Lanes' naughty list and she has become rather obsessed with monitoring my abdomen, which she affectionately but not flatteringly calls 'squidgy and comfy'. She makes me sound like a dwarf that failed the casting call to be one of Snow White's little people.  

Speaking of tales, the going rate for the Tooth Fairy has gone up. Evidently, we pissed him/her off because Lane's two front teeth, missing since March, only just now made a cameo appearance. I guess they really are all she wanted for Christmas.

The days of milk teeth, chubby cheeks and extra small clothes are gone, and I'm clutching onto any attention from her with more desperation than that Rose chick clinging onto driftwood from that unnecessarily sappy movie where the big ship sadly sank. 

As it is, Lanes abandons me for long periods of time to chat on the phone with my nutty sister's family and her little friends. Speaking of which, I better line our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment with mattresses and pillows because P will most likely faint when he sees this month's phone bill because his precious spawn has memorized long distance numbers. 

When she can't get anyone on the phone (she finds it rude when people are not at home at her beck and call--literally), she talks to Siri or tracks me down in the kitchen, usually when I'm in the middle of rescuing something from turning nuclear in our cantankerous oven with sentences that begin with 'can I tell you something?' or 'let's have a conversation'.

In other crazy relatives news, my parents have descended upon my nutty sister, who might be even nuttier by the end of their visit.  My poor father, who never gets a proper vacation on account of visits to oncologists, decided to forget to mention that he forgot to take his blood pressure medicine when he went in for an infusion.

The results of his exorbitantly high blood pressure reading caused him to have an irregular heartbeat and in the meantime my mother and sibling nearly blew a gasket. We should have asked for a family discount from the nearest cardiologist. Surely, they do three for the price of one? 

If anyone knows of a Costco type place where we could get medical opinions in bulk, my next of kin and I would greatly benefit from a lifetime membership.

While this drama was going on in Seattle, I was set into a panic all the way across the border because my crazy sister sent me random e-mails of doom with no follow ups.  I was at work with no way to call, and P, my second in command who I put forth to handle my immediate family when they get too much for me, was at his office Christmas party, probably giving thanks that his family was normal.

After much ado, everything was sorted and my father went home sheepishly. My nutty sister, mother and I, on the other hand, probably needed to start drinking. Better yet, we could have done with an eggnog IV.

To make matters worse, that morning my father dropped his notorious blood pressure medication on the floor and my nutty sister's dog nearly ate it. That would have been the icing on the cake. Dog low pressure, old man high pressure, wife and daughters, no pressure. Not the best of days!

But there was some fun news since last I blogged. Firstly, P and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary! We survived years of P hogging the bathroom and me unwittingly landing in precarious situations.

Lanes went to her BFF's house and we had a date night at a restaurant that would scoff at the idea of mac and cheese and wouldn't dream of having crayons next to the cutlery.

I was also interviewed by a newspaper to give my two cents on what it is like to move to Canada and find a job. It was in context of a job fair that a magazine I once submitted an article to was organizing. The editor of that magazine recommended me to the journalist in charge of covering the event.

It was a quick phone interview over  lunch. I thought it was easy peasey lemoon squeezy as Lanes would say, but then they insisted on having a photo of me, much to my horror. I tried to convince them otherwise to no avail.  

I asked for a magical photographer who will hide any additional chins I might have and insisted that the hips would definitely be out of the question. That said, an appointment was made during my next break.

The morning of the shoot, I  actually looked at the mirror, combed my hair and slapped some eyeliner on, much to my chagrin.  In the end, I enjoyed hamming it up for the shoot, much to the amusement of my coworkers.  Sadly, I rocked crazy eyes in the picture and I think the double chin was pulling a photo bomb. Oh well.

I looked more serious than I normally do because Lanes and P told me my hair was out of control and that I really should try to tame it. In not so polite terms, everyone thinks that I need a major make over. 

After the article came out, my mother called insisting that I go and get my face done, whatever that means. P and Lanes keep looking sadly at my coif and I feel rather like a very bad before picture in a make over special for a TLC show.

With that I must sign off. Lanes has taken to decorating for the holidays. Right now there are three snowmen perched ominously on the top of each of our sofas.  P, in the meantime, has bumped his leg on the edge of the bed and the corner of the cabinet. I must go save the day as usual.  More musings from BC next week...

Here is the link to the article:
http://www.theprovince.com/Immigrant+Expo+aims+help+newcomers+find+what+they+need+started+including/9261888/story.html

It's Done!

One Week Ago Today…

The day finally came.  I had a surgery date—Friday, November 15.  I felt like I was given the key to diffuse the ticking time bomb that was my gall bladder.  Of course, I didn’t have 100% confirmation about it until two days before the actual date, when I had a phone consultation with a very pleasant, detail-oriented nurse. 

The good news was that she was very thorough.  The bad news was also that she was very thorough.  Thanks to my overactive imagination and penchant for drama, I easily visualized the play by play she gave me of surgery day, and by the time I put the receiver down, I was in desperate need of a brown paper bag to hyperventilate into. 

After several nights of maliciously sneering at my gall bladder and threatening to take it out myself with some pliers or a kitchen knife, suddenly, having it in didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. 

The only thought that got me through the rest of the day was that my nutty sister was coming down for the operation.  If I had to lose a body part for her to spend some alone time with me, it seemed like a good deal. What a sad state of affairs. But that’s another issue for another day at therapy.

Any old how, she came down on Thursday and claimed she would stay until Sunday.  However, as she got here, my esteemed brother-in-law called and said he had a migraine, and then deep down I knew that as soon as I was sliced and diced, she would dash across the border faster than a fugitive with a bounty on his head.

Considering I had lots to do like get my insurance cards and medication all in a row, plus sort out my six-year-old, Lanes, for the next day in between having palpitations and stress anger, I was a wee distracted on Thursday night to worry about my abandonment issues. 

Plus, I was told to shower using some special antibacterial wash and following instructions of any sort are in general, challenging to me. I was strongly put off by words like ‘caution’ and ‘pre-surgical’. They sounded so hostile.

Half the solution fell down the drain because I was expecting a nice exfoliating gel, but instead it was glorified rubbing alcohol in a bottle. I have no idea if I did it properly, but I guess I did considering I am here a week later.

On Thursday night, my nutty sister and I stayed up longer than we should have, chatting and before I knew it, it was go time.  My overly prepared spouse, P, insisted that I pack a backpack full of clothes and toiletries ‘in case’ I had to stay at the hospital. What was I? Winning a holiday vacation?

The surgeon said that if the laparoscopy didn’t work, he would have to make an incision and that would mean a few days at the hospital.  However, P was determined that either way, I camp out there for the night just to make sure everything was alright.

I mean come on. I was losing a gall bladder, which is essentially the appendix's fancy cousin. There was no need for all the caution and hoop la.

His plan was to have a word with the nurses about institutionalizing me when I was out for the count and I assured him that if he checked me in unnecessarily, considering we were married, I would literally be able to make him miserable for the rest of his life. He was undaunted and I was saved thanks to a severe shortage of beds and our over taxed healthcare system. Yeah!

There was no way I was spending a night there, especially if my nutty sister was visiting.  I was uncomfortably eating healthy all week in an attempt to silence my gall bladder so that it would be on its best behavior and I was determined that I was returning home to our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment that same day.

Even if P left me there, I would grab my IV, catheter, hospital gown with exposed back and all and jet propel myself back to my own bed, even if it meant flashing half of the greater Burnaby area. I didn’t want to wake up in the night and groan ‘I see sick people’.

We got to the hospital by 5.45am but the registration didn’t start until 6.15am. I was glad we were early so we didn’t have to wait in line. I just wanted to check in and check out.  Unconsciousness was a friend of mine.

My stomach was grumbling thanks to fasting, my head was spinning due to unnecessarily Tele Mundo story-line worthy thoughts, and I was micromanaging Lanes’ morning routine in my head, mentally willing my nutty sister to do things my way while she was babysitting my precious spawn.

There was one couple ahead of us. I unkindly had mean thoughts that they beat us there through the cold and rain, but as soon as we were seated, I changed my mind.  They were close to retirement age, and it appeared the man was the patient in the relationship.  He checked out the luggage P had me bring. 

It was no surprise that people were eyeing us. We looked like we were dressed up and waiting for a cruise ship that never came. Or that we were moving to another country. The only thing missing from our paraphernalia was the family goat and a satellite dish. 

After a few seconds, the man asked me if I had a chocolate stashed in there somewhere for him. Ironically, I was looking at his wife’s handbag and thinking she looks like a lady that would have a good Kit Kat stashed in her purse.

Was this man my long lost twin? Who else wants candy for breakfast? This is why I was losing my gall bladder. I warmed up to the like -minded couple at once and we immediately launched in a fatty food loving, fasting bashing conversation.

Plus, he readily admitted he was anxious too.  We were both whisked away from our respective spouses soon after. We were weighed, examined and prepped like produce before a cooking show.

The only thing worse than getting a huge needle in a tiny vein for the IV was having to wear knee length puke green stockings and a shower cap. Don’t even get me started on the hospital gown. Haven't they heard of zips? Buttons even? Velcro?

Other than that, we were sitting in the most enormous comfy chairs and given fabulous heated blankets. Again, sensing what I was thinking, the man called from across saying that it felt like we were in a spa and too bad we were there to be chopped. I agreed that I’d rather be getting a manicure and we both decided to make a dash for it since we were momentarily left unsupervised and we had cold feet despite our amenities.

Sadly, at that moment the nurses brought in our spouses and our plan was foiled. Telepathically linked, the man asked his nurse if anyone ever woke up during a surgery. How did this man have this uncanny ability to say whatever I was thinking?

His nurse claimed she was new and didn’t know.  My one was very matter of fact about everything. The type of gal that would glove up and give someone a suppository and tell them point blank that it would hurt.

I expected her to say no either way just to keep me calm before surgery--wouldn't that be protocol? Instead, she said ‘oh yes, it has happened before’.  Not what I wanted to hear. Luckily for my mind twin, he had already taken out his hearing aid.

P was next to me, clinging onto all my worldly belongings, like a lonely Sherpa with no mountain to climb.  If someone made a cartoon out of us at that moment, his caricature would have had several sweat beads flying off the side of his face. He muttered something that sounded like he questioned my sanity for asking such a thing.

He began to alternate between praying and asking me not to worry. I was resigned to my fate by then, bolstered by the camaraderie I felt with my new like-minded friend, but P was looking a lighter shade of pale.

A very young chap, claiming to be in charge of the anesthetics, came over to talk to me. He was very kind and calm, but I tried to speed things along because surely, he had to report to his homeroom before the first bell rang at school.

Soon after, a very tall, angelic nurse floated in from the operating room.  She had a very soothing way about her and I sailed along with her, lulled by a hopefully not false sense of security.  I am not sure what happened to P by then. 

He looked worried and I hoped my nutty sister was done taking Lanes to school and that she would be there to accidentally trip a patient or set off a fire alarm and thereby distract P. I was relieved for two things when I stepped into the OR.

The first was that I had been de-spectacled. I would have freaked out if my vision was 20/20 and I could witness all the instruments and machines in all their glory.  The second was that Doogie Howser was not my anesthesiologist and that he was actually an intern.

They led me to the operating table, which was really probably the piece of wood they used as the plank in the last Disney movie featuring Captain Hook.  Had I been any wider, I would have fallen off.

With one last look at my ethereal OR nurse, I quickly reminded her about my allergies—my last attempt at any control over the situation, and then it was lights out.

I woke up surprised to feel like I had heartburn and aches and pains in my shoulder, back, and chest. Did I just come out on the losing end of a wrestling match? My first question to a bewildered nurse was whether Lanes got to school safely. For some reason, I assumed she would know.

She dipped me down for all the gas they pumped into my abdomen to leave and then the shoulder pain went away. Next thing I know, I was given the chalkiest most disgusting heartburn meds which I only downed because I was not yet fully in charge of my faculties.

The nurses took excellent care of me and put up with my incoherent complaints regarding aches.  For me, the entire point of getting that blooming gall bladder extracted was to be free from pain.  Each time, they patiently explained that I had just come from surgery where I had an organ removed and it was only natural to feel this way.

If I was a nurse, and had a patient in denial like me, I would have said ‘listen you fool, you done lost a body part, what you expect? Now zip it!’.  I would have been called Nurse Wreched.

The rest of the recovery was uncomfortable and I was drifting out of consciousness only to be brought back by pain in the abdomen and the incessant sound of chatter. I was also in fear that my nutty sister would visit when I was out for the count because she has a tendency to go nuts pressing buttons on hospital beds just to see what happens.

The last thing I needed was to be instantly forced upright or pumped with 20ccs of morphine by accident.  I remember vaguely seeing her once but P was with her so I felt safe.

When it was time for me to be mercifully released, I was asked the names of my next of kin so that they could come in and help me get dressed. I was very whoozy and my throat was sore so I couldn’t repeat P’s name multiple times—they were just not getting it.  So I said, he is the anxious looking male in the lobby, and they at once registered who it was and brought him in a jiffy.

Apparently, my nutty sister had gone off to get some food and pick up Lanes and so I was left with P to help me with my clothes. Considering my brain was not telling me where my limbs were, my upper body was sore, and P couldn’t tell my shirt apart from my sweatpants, it was a challenge to say the least.

We were given several instructions that I was not alert for, and for once I was glad for P’s overly methodical take charge nature. He was one step ahead, booking follow up appointments and preparing schedules for me. I was relieved that for once, I didn’t have to poke my nose into anything.

The nurses decided I was definitely in capable hands and they were rather pleased as punch with him.  While I’m sure I came off as jelly-legged and fuzzy brained, he came out looking like the poster boy for Husband of the Year. Poor P. This is the most attention he has had in ten years. Good for him.

Between extreme dizziness and nausea, I have no idea how I got to our apartment. All I remember is upchucking massive amounts of bile and collapsing onto the bed after a quick outfit change with the help of spouse and sibling.

Lanes was back and she snuck a peek at my wounds and immediately decided to make her aunt her instant security blanket. Meanwhile, P had all sorts of medication and food around me and he was breaking rest to drug me every four hours in attempts to stay ahead of the pain.

I was drifting in and out and longing to hang out with my nutty sister. In between, I drove her and P crazy because I deliriously tried micromanage what they were doing from my sick bed. They were amazed that even sedated as I was, I had to make sure things were running my way and that the kitchen was not a mess.

As predicted, though, my nutty sister announced she would leave the next day and not on Sunday and I was determined to fight the codeine and try to stay up to spend time with her. I think the drugs won that round. My head felt like it was on the spin cycle of a washing machine from the 1980s.

I must say that despite all the times I have complained that P never listens or spends too much time hogging our one and only bathroom, he took meticulous care of me. I woke up each day to find everything I could possibly need by my bed. 

Even though he has no time in the morning thanks to getting a grouchy Lanes up and running, he lovingly made French toast for me because that was the only thing I felt up for eating. So I guess, he does get Husband of the Year. Good boy. I hope he won't think I've bumped my head after reading this blog--compliments just don't come easy to me. I express love through sarcasm and synchronized eye rolling.

Now I’m off the pain medication but I made the mistake of researching life post surgery.  Charming side effects such as bile salt diarrhea, flatulence and cramps have had me in fear.  I have been eating carefully due to this.

Ok, I lie. It’s mostly because my nutty sister and P have cleared the apartment of any fatty foods and I’m too weak to call the local Chinese delivery. Plus, the menus are suspiciously missing.

This weekend, though, I have to try an iced coffee or french fries, to take my new digestive system out for a spin. I wouldn’t want to find these things out at a dinner party—not a good way to win friends and influence people.

With that I must sign out. More musings from BC next week…unless P has me committed for being uncharacteristically charming and sweet to him this week. Oh and below—a cartoon of what would have been had my nutty sister been around me for the surgery:

Ring Ring Why Don't You Give Me A Call

 I have been prancing around the greater Vancouver area with celery stuck up my nose and my cell phone attached to my side. As usual, I have been waiting for some hospital or the other to call me with regards to scheduling my surgery. As a precautionary measure, I am avoiding fatty foods and this particular exercise has rendered me even more charming than usual. 

The day finally came when I met up with my surgeon. All that waiting for a ten minute consultation, if that. The good news was that he really knew his stuff (according to what I've learned from Google). The bad news was that he would not let me keep my gall bladder--and there went my plan to keep it in a jar in my living room.

My diligent spouse, P, and my nutty sister were very delighted by this rejection because neither of them wanted to sit around a room that had my body parts floating in pickle juice. I was rather pissed off and wished that I had prefaced it by saying it was for cultural reasons or something of that sort.

After taking half a day off for this momentous few minute meeting, I zipped off to my temp job right after, because really, after missing a week thanks to the ER visits a few weeks ago, I literally couldn't afford to miss a moment more.

I returned to find my coworker who was covering for me in a flap because my tentative surgery date coincided with the date that three of our colleagues, also temps, had to leave thanks to the new rules about our contracts. She acted like the world would end and that I would never return from my surgery.

I was trying valiantly to catch up with all the work I had missed that morning, all the while consoling her simultaneously.  I half imagined her standing on the table and breaking out into 'Don't Cry for Me Argentina' when it was her last day. Amazingly, I caught up with my work super fast and I wound up praising my efficiency for the rest of the day. Those folks will sure miss me when I'm gone.

Since that day, I have been prancing around with my cell phone by my side because the hospital was supposed to call me regarding some pre-admission tests that I have to do.  The one day I wore clothes that had no pockets to work, I had to strap my phone around my neck.  

My hair was even puffier than normal thanks to the weather and I looked like a St.Bernard. All that and the phone never rang. I called and tormented some very kind nurse several times and she kept apologizing that the hospital was rather back logged in terms of paperwork.

Eventually, they called me on Friday and I was told that i had to go for even more blood tests. After my stints in the ER, I had so much blood drawn from me that I wondered if they were catering for a vampire convention.

So off I went to the hospital on Saturday with my sleeves rolled up. I had never been to this particular facility before and when I strolled in, I had a flashback to heydays of the '80s.  Surely, this must be where they brought JR after he was shot.

Although immaculate and well maintained, I expected to bump into the cast of Dallas, Dynasty or Falcon Crest at every turn. Luckily, or not depending on how you look at it, I met no one with feathered, layered hair or shoulder pads. The nurses were very nice and I barely felt the prick when they drew my blood for the umpteenth time.

My nutty sister would love this place. I asked her to come across the border to help me out with our six year old, Lanes, on the day of the surgery.  I envisioned her sitting by my bedside, with her eyebrows so far up that they would be behind her head. 

I would turn to her after the surgery, and using that brief moment in time when she is so glad I'm alive to ask her for a chocolate fudge sundae.  Sadly, she has other plans. First of all, she refused to get me one saying that's how I wound up losing my gall bladder in the first place. She thinks I should be eating carrots and drinking wheat grass.

Secondly, she wasn't planning to hang around me at all. She had grand plans to prance around Lanes' school, pretending to be her mom. My nutty sister then wanted to take Lanes home during lunch break, feed her, and take her back to school. Who does that to a first grader?

So great, I'll be getting chopped up and P will have to leave the waiting room when my nutty sister gets sent to the principal's office for suspiciously loitering around the school halls all day.

Any old how, I sat Lanes down to explain my surgery and to try to allay any of her fears. All she heard was that my nutty sister was coming and she tuned out everything else. She is busy concocting fun plans with her aunt. Those two are peas in a pod. So much for sympathy and spoiling by my sibling.

Meanwhile, my aunt has taken to calling me up frequently and in an almost choked voice she asks 'how are you child?'. I get her highly upset by saying 'Still alive!' and laughing maniacally.  Terrible, I know, but I'm only having a gall bladder removed. It's not like they are throwing a nip and tuck in there for good measure.

With that, I must sign off. Lanes just walked in announcing she was going to start a project.  That never ends well for me or the carpet. Hopefully, I'll have a proper surgery date, or better yet, I'll weigh one organ less when next I blog. More musings from BC next week...

Drama

Before I begin, let me address my readers with gut wrenching maternal instincts to keep me in a bubble wrapped safe room, preferably in a straight jacket, that at this precise moment in time, I am safe and healthy in the confines of my crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment. 

What I am about to discuss, however, is not for the faint of heart or those easily incensed by idiocy, injustice or bureaucracy. (*If you produced me or are a sibling of someone who did, stop reading--seriously. If you keep reading, don't call and yell at my answering machine--it has feelings too).

So last I left off, I had a harrowing sleep over at the nearest emergency room. Not only did I come home under sedated, I had a lovely bruise on my left arm where a nurse kept trying to give me an IV that didn't work out.

I spent the following day a restless mess, and the next night I couldn't sleep due to aches and pains that were so severe, I couldn't make it to work.  I was stumbling around the house like I was auditioning for a bad arthiritis mediation commercial.

As the day progressed, I had chills and by evening I had fever.  I commandeered my six year old daughter, Lanes', bed and I was generating so much heat I thought I was going to sear a hole through her Dora bedsheets. The next minute I was freezing so much I felt like I was wearing a swimsuit in an igloo. Were my symptoms developing multiple personalities?

My weary spouse, P, and Lanes were snoring in symphony, both exhausted after my first night at the ER.  From my internet surfing (who needs med school anymore?), I knew that chills and fevers were a bad sign when it comes to the gall bladder and that they required immediate medical attention.

So off we went again.  Luckily, my good friend's son is Lanes' BFF, and they were kind enough to take our little bundle of joy in even though it was midnight.  Lanes initially complained about being rudely awoken, but then decided we were rather fabulous to surprise her with a spontaneous sleep over.

My friend was kind enough to wake her son up for the event so that Lanes would feel happy and comfortable. P and I then tried our luck at another ER, where we had to sit around for about five hours until we were given a room. 

Several people sluggishly meandered around the ER wearing face masks and emitting weird sounds that sounded like death rattles in between strained breaths. Invariably, they would settle next to us, and always one to be terrified of germs,  P and I unwittingly found ourselves playing a game of musical chairs.

After bending in pain, clutching a chuck bucket for good measure, P started to watch me like a hawk because I was scouting for scalpels to remove the darn organ myself. The pain was like a guided GPS--I knew exactly where in tarnation that pesky gall bladder was. 

Close to sunrise, we were finally seen by an ER doctor.  He scanned my abdomen and announced that I had a very unusual gall bladder, which sent me on a tail spin. He then suggested pain treatment options--finally. 

I had the charming choice between a suppository and an injection. Between my lack of sleep and alarm about my odd body parts, hearing without listening, I absent mindedly chose the latter because I was too busy asking P what was wrong with my gall bladder.

A suspiciously chipper nurse came in, and went on some story about how I should picture myself in Hawaii, sipping a Mai Tai. She was not amused when I pointed out that drinking would be a really good way to piss off my gall bladder some more. 

She then jabbed me with the injection and boy did I see stars! It almost overshadowed the pain in my abdomen. The nurse then explained that that was the reason she was trying to distract me.  While the pain in my arm lingered, the pain in my side vanished.

P told me he thought I was very brave to go with that option, considering the needle was as long as a flagpole.  Clearly, I was in no frame of mind to make such important decisions.

The one time I needed P's two cents, he lets me make a judgment call without interfering. By now he should know that there is a fine line between being brave and stupid, and clearly, I was on the stupid side of the fence. The Genius of the Year Award clearly does not go to me.

I was starving and it was time for Lanes to get ready for school. As I tried to leave the ER, the nurse announced that I have to take another scan that day itself, which meant no food. Considering the last meal I had was a measly amount of food at 6pm the night before, I was not pleased.

We got home close to 7am.  Poor P rushed to pick Lanes up from her sleepover and then dropped her off at school.  We got a few hours of rest in, and then back again to the hospital for my 1.30pm scan. I was so hungry, I thought I was going to faint Victorian style.

When I went in to register, they were confusing me by asking me to perform tasks like to spell out my mother's name.  Visions of foods that I longed to eat were floating before me instead, and P rushed to the rescue. 

I must have clearly looked famished because they quickly sent me for my scan and before I knew it, it was done and over with. I think I have more pictures of my body parts than most people have of themselves on Facebook. 

But no, my ordeal was not done. They wanted me to go back to the ER immediately for the doctor to go over the scan results with me. Trice in one week, twice in one day. Great.

P was standing outside the door with a bottle of water and a peanut butter sandwich, which I gratefully devoured.  I bee lined it to the nearest cafeteria where I had the world's coldest most insipidly dry tuna sandwich.

Several more hours of waiting later, I was examined yet again. I was put under the microscope more times than an artifact at the Smithsonian. I was told the obvious, that my gall bladder needed to come out. 

The bonus good news? By now my gall bladder was inflamed and infected to boot. Lovely. This is what happens when one has to be on a waiting list for help.

Just as I tried to leave, they paged their surgeon and it turns out, he was the one P was coveting for my surgery from the beginning.
So back again to waiting to see if he would take on my case. By this time, P had to leave to pick Lanes up from school and deposit her once again with my friend. 

By the time I eventually got home, it was past 7pm.  I was exhausted from several nights of no sleep. I missed Lanes terribly, having not seen her for a day. 

I called my friend only to hear Lanes and her BFF jabbering in the background begging me to have another sleep over. She did have another set of PJs there just in case, but I asked that she return. 

By 8pm, I was well medicated and P made sure Lanes was ready for bed. I squeezed her and hugged her and she then asked me what would happen if I kicked the bucket. I assured her that I did not have any such plans, and in fact, I already decided I'm moving in with her in my old age. I added that I would prefer to be on a meal plan too. 

Ever practical, Lanes wanted a back up plan just in case I pop it. She then wanted back up plans to her back up plans, and when she was happy with the chain of custody that comes with my untimely demise, she accepted the fact that I have decided to be around to pester her for a long time to come. 

I was amused though that she discounted her father and her uncles, and solely wanted to know all the female relatives that will be in charge of her. Hmm.

The net result of all of this was that I had to cancel my birthday lunch, which left me in a really bad mood. I was also now terrified to eat anything at all and was severely put out by certain foods.

However, things looked up towards the end of the week. My nutty sister jet propelled herself across the border for a day, bringing us food because we were too tired to cook or go grocery shopping. 

She is also always in constant fear of me popping off, I have no idea why. For some reason she can't live without me. Must be my charm.
I was greatly cheered up by her arrival and I felt I returned to life soon after. Gosh, I hope she is not reading this blog.

That evening we got a lovely surprise by my buddies the Mishras, who have been keeping in touch through my ordeal.  A lovely bouquet of flowers that made Lanes gasp with joy! A nice reminder to literally and metaphorically smell the roses at all times. 

That being said, I must sign off as it's finally time for me to go to the chop shop, i.e. surgeon's office. Wish me luck! More musings from BC next week...
 

Faulty Internal Affairs

I have been haunted by all the foods I've loved before. That is the main reason I have been unusually silent.  Visions of chicken tikka masala, sour cream and onion chips, and hot chilli oil from greasy Chinese restaurants have returned with more ferocity than the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future; only in my case, they are the Ghosts of Foods Oily, Spicy and Preserved.

I spent most of Sunday night in the emergency room. The  weekend was packed full of get togethers and I valiantly avoided landmines such as fried foods, sweets and meals after 7pm. Having successfully navigated the weekend, I ate dinner a friend's house in the spirit of Canadian Thanksgiving. 

Oh my goodness! By the time I got home, I couldn't stand or sit or lie down. I felt like fired up iron claws were tightening my ribcage and after a particularly charming bout of vomiting, I announced to my bleary eyed, worried spouse, P, that the day had finally come when the gall bladder sent me to the hospital.

By that point, I couldn't even fathom how long it would take to get to the hospital or how soon I could be tended to when I got there. Time stood still as the pain took over. P was left to haul our slumbering six year old, Lanes and jet propel me to the hospital.  That was not an easy task since she weighs as much as ten gunny sacks of rice easily.

I stumbled into the ER, like a tipsy walrus, clutching onto a chuck bucket firmly in hand. I must have looked deathly ill because I was seen quite quickly.

Some genius of a nurse couldn't find my veins for the IV, but luckily the pain in my abdomen and back was so great that I didn't notice the mini-butchering going on to my left arm. 

Mercifully, she gave up quickly, and a chipper nurse came in and found the appropriate vein on my right arm. I was given some stuff for nausea and lots of morphine.

It was already 3am and I was really tired.  The pain refused to subside though, and I was dizzy and sleepy to boot thanks to the morphine.  By that time, P was summoned and sitting uncomfortably on a very upright chair by my bed, with Lanes draped on top of him. 

She woke up briefly, and I was horrified that she would be terrified after seeing me lying down in a hospital bed with tubes on my arm.  Worse yet, I feared she would leap onto me like a baby squirrel. 

In her sleepy state, she smiled at me, said 'Happy Thanksgiving Mommy', and returned to drooling on the crook of her father's stiff neck. To this day, I don't know how P held onto her on that tiny hard chair.

I wanted desperately to get some rest, but the folks in the room next to me, now feeling better because the drugs they were given were working, started chatting  loudly like it was happy hour at a bingo game. They were yakking away for at least three hours. What were they? Vampires? Go to sleep already.

The chipper nurse then decided I needed a Voltaren suppository, but I was in too much pain to be suitably horrified. At that point, I would have happily cut out my gall bladder without any anesthetics. By about 6am, they decided my blood work was ok and I was sent home, faulty body parts and all.

I think P was the worst off having stayed up all night, carrying Lanes to boot.  In addition, it is now Tuesday and I'm still worse for wear. I could barely stand up this morning and I really needed much rest.

Lanes decided to cough up a storm, but the minute her father called the school to say she was not well, she miraculously stopped sniffling and proceeded to bounce off the ceilings. Considering I'm was still a little dizzy and loopy, this traumatized me greatly.

An avid eavesdropper, only when she heard me telling P that she is right as rain and I might send her to school with a friend of mine, did she simmer down.  She later came in and announced she stayed home to take care of me. I guess her intentions were good,  but she seems to be taking care of me more in a Godfather sense.

I narrowly escaped being kicked in the gall bladder and she has been sitting on my tired feet, playing while I'm trying to rest.  Fortunately, the Disney channel has come to the rescue at this moment.

I called the surgeon's office to see if my appointment could be expedited given the sad state of internal affairs of my organs, but they are still completely booked up. Apparently, after him, the surgery could take months to be scheduled. Oh great. 

Basically, not only do I have to knock, but possibly make a pizza delivery at death's door before I can have this silly gall bladder out. So between the general discomfort from this illness and having lots to do at work, I'm rather tired most of the time.

I will try to get better about blogging though. Next time, more drama involving about job fairs, playground antics, and computers invaded by 90s superstars. More musings from BC next week...

Big Wheel Keep on Turning

I battled a cold, raged against the system and staved off dramatic antics. 

I spent the greater part of last week anchored to the sofa thanks to a horrible cold. Why not a bed?  They were out of bounds for fear of inevitable cross contamination in such close quarters.  The last thing I needed was to share the bug with my long suffering spouse, P, and our six-year-old offspring, Lanes.

Lanes not only rotates around her bed, at around 3am she migrates to ours, where she continues to make cute snoring noises while she ferociously pummels our backs and vital organs with the vigor of a soccer champ kicking a ball to score the winning goal of a big match. After two days of staying home and leaving a large impression on the couch, I arrived at my temp job to find everything turned upside down.

In general, it had the vibe that was a cross between a Genius Bar and a Starbucks. This day, however, through my rather stuffed ears I thought I could hear that corny Western tune that comes in just as tumbleweeds scoot across the way and two cowboys size each other up before a showdown. I shuddered at the chill and asked for a heads up. Surely, it wasn't because everyone missed me so much.

Turns out that the temp agency that hired the temp agency (yes, we are twice contracted out—no wonder we have only pennies to rub together at the end of the day) that we work for had some sort of meeting with the company that we temp for and the net result was that whereas our contracts were to be renewed, they are now only allowing us to work for five months. From them it’s ‘thank you, have a nice day, don’t come back again’.  

Seriously? When do I get to retire my interview suit? I am getting rather tired of constantly job hunting. Next time round, I think I’ll ditch the temp agencies and try my luck on my own.

I was so annoyed with the entire situation that I decided perhaps I should do practical things like buy lottery tickets and hunt down the end of a rainbow instead of trolling the internet for jobs.

My boss was in a flap about being unable to retain us, coworkers whose contracts were up before mine were making life line calls to find alternate employment, and I got landed doing not only my job but someone else’s as well. That was the icing on the cake at the roundup of a horrendous week. 

Perhaps it was a foolish idea to leave my sickbed, I mean sick sofa, that day. All this happened in an already dramatic week. I was still reeling from the fact that my charming and witty niece, who sadly has the motor skills of a newborn deer, decided to fall off her stool in school and give herself a concussion.

In between bouts of coughing up phlegm that had tentacle like grips on my sinuses, I nearly blew a fuse when I found out she hurt herself. Just two days before that, P and I were remarking on how refreshing it was that she had stopped that whole falling down thing.

My darling niece is rather notorious for suddenly falling backwards off chairs at restaurants and tripping over random inanimate objects. She inevitably pops back up right away, in a flurry of long arms and legs, but we are all rather worse for wear and down several heartbeats each time.

When I was stuck in the hospital after Lanes was born, I lived in fear that she would trip and yank out my catheter or IV, because you know, that’s the kind of thing that would happen to me. Every time she pranced into the room, in my barely lucid state, I would mutter and wave my arms furiously to a clueless P to quickly block any wires that were attached to my person.

Then there was the time at Lanes’ fist birthday, when my niece was about eight, where she decided to go down a covered slide. She proceeded to get gloriously stuck towards the bottom and in the meanwhile, a small child had gone in behind her and now she was stuck as well.

That girl’s father was on all fours, peering in trying to see where his precious child was and my little darling was still stuck up there, clogging up the entire chute. Five minutes later, out comes my niece, all limbs first, looking like a breached baby foal at the moment of birth. 

That other little child flew out of the slide then, hoping to run into her father’s arms, but by that time, he had climbed up in an attempt to rescue her from the top. I was so thunderstruck by the entire episode, I couldn’t help laughing. If it was hysteria or mirth, I still can’t tell.

In other news, Lanes came home from school and as I was trying to spin her into the kitchen to wash her hands, she announced that some boy kissed her on the cheek. Her father froze and I thought I misheard as a result of my ears still being a little clogged up.

She then batted on ‘I don’t know what is wrong with him. I was trying to climb the ladder to go on the slide and he kissed my cheek and then when I came down the slide he was there and he kissed my cheek again!’. 

P, who looked fine, immediately announced that he feels sick and that he caught the cold from me. He left the scene muttering something about needing to rest. That was helpful (not). He spent the rest of the evening in a funk that suddenly cleared up the next morning. 

Meanwhile, I have not been getting the best sleep thanks to pains in my side that come on in the wee hours of the night. I feel like performing and exorcism on my gall bladder.  At this point, I don't want to fight to keep it. It has as much appeal as an unwanted tenant. It's time to secede.

I have been waiting forever to get an appointment with a surgeon. The family doctor scheduled me with one, but it appears that doctor has a lawsuit against him and there are some Steven King quality horror stories in his reviews.

Needless to say, I called in and said I’ll keep the unruly gall bladder until a better surgeon comes my way. Hopefully, I’ll get an appointment for at least the end of next month.

With that I must sign off. P is at the breakfast table, jabbering under his breath because Lanes brought up the topic of her kissing bandit classmate. I think I'll have to give him some booze to survive the teen years.  More musings from BC next week…

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY DARLING KR!!