Sorry Sorry Sorry
Wait. no I'm not. I just haven't had that much to blog about so. yeah.
And advance warning, if you have issues dealing with semi-unpleasant details, remember that this is, after all, Bad Teenage Poetry, so deal with it. Smooch.
Anyways, the knee surgery went off without a hitch. The parts of the anesthesia I remember were fun: hiccupping in my hospital gown and giggling with a big "NO" on my left knee and a big "YES" on my right; and suddenly all those retarded syndicated TV segments featuring people who've been anesthetized made so much more sense. I kind of remember being gassed, which really sort of burned my throat, but I whatevered that.
Waking up was NOT. When they finally took me out of recovery and into my own room, I threw up whatever was in my stomach (not much) out onto my hospital gown and bed. I spent the next twenty minutes alternating between pressing the nurse call button (which wasn't plugged in) and really not caring too much because I felt so shitty already.
But then, Mom walked in with a nursing buddy and, I swear, the Messiah had arrived. Being able bodied they made a few requests….
I got changed and morphine. Granted it was in the ass, but what do ya do?
I spent the night in the hospital sucking down ice-chips, lovingly motorized to my mouth by mom, who, at this point, given her life story, I'm convinced should have been a nurse.
I got to go home on Thursday which was fun. ish.
Because there's something comforting about having a nurse only a few feet away when you're in a great deal of pain, but there's something better about your own bed. By that time, though, the prescription for Percoset had been filled, and it didn't matter too much; my knee looked like it had choked on a melon.
In this week after, it now looks as if the melon has turned into a grapefruit.
I take walks twice a day, soulja that I am. It's not so bad except for the whole weather being unbearable and melty thing.
I've braced the public eye once or twice, mostly for father's day related issues. Saturday, we visited Best Buy and Borders for gifts. People stared and made faces at my knee. One lady was actually polite about it though, asked me what had happened and wished me a speedy recovery and told me about her sister's surgery. Damn right. If you're going to stare, at least have the balls to talk to me.
Sunday, we celebrated Dad. Not a traditional father's day but a pleasant one, none the less. At the mall, in line to buy tickets for Finding Nemo (as I was the eldest and thus, it was my money to be spent) people (read: rude MF-ers who were raised in Lord of the Flies condition) made sure to step all over me, trip my crutches and stare shamelessly. Actually, I take the conversation comment back, because at some point, some greasy old fatty man came up to me and told me to stop playing football and followed with a sexist joke about a woman playing for the Miami Dolphins. He had no teeth already, so I instead wished him an eternity in Hell.
Sitting through Finding Nemo was okay. I had my leg up on an arm-rest next to a Handicapped spot, but ignoring the brace a woman chose to sit there anyways and make obvious efforts to control her urge to put her arm up. So, I did the "courageous" thing and put my leg down, which hurt, but like I said, I'm a soulja.
In retrospect, I'm not sure which would be better, forking over $7 for a ticket in comfortable seats with fewer screaming children who missed their Ritalin doses or paying $4 for a matinee on Father's Day in a crowded theatre with several of those said children.
Thank god for Percoset.
And advance warning, if you have issues dealing with semi-unpleasant details, remember that this is, after all, Bad Teenage Poetry, so deal with it. Smooch.
Anyways, the knee surgery went off without a hitch. The parts of the anesthesia I remember were fun: hiccupping in my hospital gown and giggling with a big "NO" on my left knee and a big "YES" on my right; and suddenly all those retarded syndicated TV segments featuring people who've been anesthetized made so much more sense. I kind of remember being gassed, which really sort of burned my throat, but I whatevered that.
Waking up was NOT. When they finally took me out of recovery and into my own room, I threw up whatever was in my stomach (not much) out onto my hospital gown and bed. I spent the next twenty minutes alternating between pressing the nurse call button (which wasn't plugged in) and really not caring too much because I felt so shitty already.
But then, Mom walked in with a nursing buddy and, I swear, the Messiah had arrived. Being able bodied they made a few requests….
I got changed and morphine. Granted it was in the ass, but what do ya do?
I spent the night in the hospital sucking down ice-chips, lovingly motorized to my mouth by mom, who, at this point, given her life story, I'm convinced should have been a nurse.
I got to go home on Thursday which was fun. ish.
Because there's something comforting about having a nurse only a few feet away when you're in a great deal of pain, but there's something better about your own bed. By that time, though, the prescription for Percoset had been filled, and it didn't matter too much; my knee looked like it had choked on a melon.
In this week after, it now looks as if the melon has turned into a grapefruit.
I take walks twice a day, soulja that I am. It's not so bad except for the whole weather being unbearable and melty thing.
I've braced the public eye once or twice, mostly for father's day related issues. Saturday, we visited Best Buy and Borders for gifts. People stared and made faces at my knee. One lady was actually polite about it though, asked me what had happened and wished me a speedy recovery and told me about her sister's surgery. Damn right. If you're going to stare, at least have the balls to talk to me.
Sunday, we celebrated Dad. Not a traditional father's day but a pleasant one, none the less. At the mall, in line to buy tickets for Finding Nemo (as I was the eldest and thus, it was my money to be spent) people (read: rude MF-ers who were raised in Lord of the Flies condition) made sure to step all over me, trip my crutches and stare shamelessly. Actually, I take the conversation comment back, because at some point, some greasy old fatty man came up to me and told me to stop playing football and followed with a sexist joke about a woman playing for the Miami Dolphins. He had no teeth already, so I instead wished him an eternity in Hell.
Sitting through Finding Nemo was okay. I had my leg up on an arm-rest next to a Handicapped spot, but ignoring the brace a woman chose to sit there anyways and make obvious efforts to control her urge to put her arm up. So, I did the "courageous" thing and put my leg down, which hurt, but like I said, I'm a soulja.
In retrospect, I'm not sure which would be better, forking over $7 for a ticket in comfortable seats with fewer screaming children who missed their Ritalin doses or paying $4 for a matinee on Father's Day in a crowded theatre with several of those said children.
Thank god for Percoset.
posted by Weinkle at
10:38 AM
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