She said she had two pieces of news. One was that yes, I could take a shower. Oh wow. I'd been looking at this brand new gigantic bathroom that featured one of those seated showers and oh I felt so scuzzy.
News two. I could go home. That day. Wow.
They brought me a stack of towels and that goo shampoo and I had such a great shower. I kept expecting my Mom to come in the room and yell: Stop Using So Much Hot Water! which was something she used to yell at my sister but nope. Nobody bothered me. It was like being at a resort except you couldn't really get the front side of you soaking wet. Too bad.
P was set to collect me at 2:00. I didn't have my shoes and I didn't have a bra (and I didn't have the will to care that I didn't have a bra) but the shoe thing was a Real Problem. I ordered a bunch of food thinking P could grab a bite and I watched more horrible daytime TV. (Shut up Tyra Banks) It was getting later and no P. I'm eating these quesadillas and my stomach is getting worried.
I think that's when the fluffy beard doctor came in and took out my hardware. They were like paperclips all in a row. He also did some weird maneuver with this spot that had served as a drain. He put some sort of twirled gauze in that thing.
It's crawling up on 2:00. No P. I tell the nurse, hey my ride is running late and she got sorta sniffy like well, we need the room. I overheard her say that to someone outside the room. "She knows we need the room."
I still don't even have shoes on.
P shows. He's irked by the 'need the room' commentary and in retrospect, hey were were all of our discharge instructions? We had a lady pushing my wheelchair who waited outside on a nice day while Philip ran for the car. He tipped her. Nice gig.
We decided to stop for an ice cream cone at Dunkin Donuts/31 Flavors and I check my phone and we just missed Marilyn but she catches up and celebrate the day.
The shoes he brings are my walking Grantley on ice, 400 pound each, Keens. The bra feels weirder. It's been a week.
You asked me what I'm taking. Tramadol for pain. Ondansetron for anti-regurgatating. Or would that be anti-gurgatating. And giant Ibuprophen which got less popular when the Tramadol train finally showed up.
The only moment-thus far-when I nearly lost my marbellas was this. There's a woman who has far too many words for a normal person and she lives down the lane and apparently-upon hearing my current tale of woe spewed out something along the lines of-oh MY friend was stage FOUR and she's FINE and ya know, it's the only time I wanted to get a snow shovel and swing it around into the back of her head.
Yeah, knowing the stage and the timing and the chemo prognosis and all that kind of stuff-from an armchair-it frames it more nicely, yes? But the point is-what happens when you're admitted to this club. Like hey, have you ever had to tell your boss you're going in for cancer surgery? Okay what if you have three bosses?
So maybe when I know more you'll know more but maybe not either.
Thanks for the entry into your heads. This has been good to force myself to sit up and function. I feel better and thank goodness I also smell better. Nice.