I’m Back, Baby!

I believe my first words last Tuesday morning wereSWEET JESUS CHRIST IN A CANOE!!!” as I rolled off my bed and landed in a heap.

I tried to straighten up but no go. I thought “This is a new and funny feeling. Huh.” I hobbled down the hall clutching the wall, stooped and gasping like that suspected witch that lives in that creepy old house down the road. (She’s not a witch, kids. She’s just really fucking old.)

My son asked me if I was alright. Just the flu, Sweets. Right as rain later on.

By some act of sheer stubborn determination (otherwise known as stupidity), I managed to make his lunch and get him on the bus. No small feat, mind you, as when one is doubled over and stifling screams so as not to terrify your child, one tends to inadvertently bang one’s head on all manner of sharp corners in one’s kitchen.

After he was gone I decided I’d better Google, find out what this new nonsense was about. The search “Why does it feel like a cat is trying to claw it’s way out of the right side of my body” led me to some interesting fisting sites and a slew of appendicitis information. As I hadn’t been to any neighbourhood parties the night before (ahem) I went with the strong probability that my appendix was being a little bitch due to boredom and wanted out of the shitty place she was in. I think she was throwing plates in a drunken tantrum as well but I can’t be sure.

A quick call to my hubby and we were at the hospital. The nurse asked if I’d like some morphine for the pain. My response was to rub my hands together in glee, salivate a little and say “Does a bear shit in the woods?” She took that as a yes, bless her. After the 60 second interval it took for the drug to reach my brain, I looked at my hubby, gave him the gun finger and a wink and told him how fine he was looking. As we were walking to the x-ray lab (I know), I kept referring to my i.v. pole as “my little friend” in my best Scarface voice. I also told hubby that for our next anniversary, I really want one for a present. Yes. Morphine is good.

My surgeon was a lovely, amiable man. As he and his resident came to speak to me, I decided I really need to pee. I was on a bed in a hallway (yay) and swung my legs out of bed in some sort of strange, pain-filled, spread-eagle manuever that had my gown lifting up over my thighs. I’ve never seen two men scramble so fast to pull a dress down to cover a cooch. They were like fucking ninjas. Still not sure whose dignity they were trying to save but whatever. As I’ve said, morphine is good.

The surgery was laparoscopic. Three small holes, one above my navel, one on my left side and one above my pubic bone. They used a camera and two tools to remove the bitchy appendix. They were finished in 25 minutes. Wow. But (isn’t there always?) the worst part is they fill your abdominal area with air to expand everything so that they have room to work. And your job as a patient when all is said and done is to fart that wind out of you. Do you have any idea how hard that is? As humans we’re used to holding it in. I have new respect for farters, let me tell you. And no, that doesn’t give you free rein to “let `er buck” around me. No.

One week later and I’m mending, slow but sure. Although, my stitches have decided that rather than dissolve, they’re going to poke through my incisions, which is itchy as a motherfucker and will probably lead to a small infection. And scarring. Definitely scarring. The one above my pubic bone will not be tiny. I will likely never be in a bikini again. Unless, of course, I go all 70’s porn star down there and grow a full, bushy bush. Or I could possibly cover it up with something, like a hat. Do they make pubic hats? Holy jesus, we might have a million dollar idea here folks! Pubic hats. Someone get back to me on this.

*Special, heartfelt thanks to Dana and Scarlett and family for watching my boy. You have no idea what it meant for me to know he was safe and looked after. And my Mom for coming here. I love you. And yes, Mom, I did talk about my cooch.*

31 thoughts on “I’m Back, Baby!

  1. Hey lady, HEY LAYYYYDEEEE! I’ve been meaning to do that for a while now, sorry 🙂

    I seriously peed a little while reading this. Glad you’re better and occupied with the mundane task of finding ways to expose your hairy coochie-coo.

    Also, if you want, you could change your default twitter account in your settings so when people tweet your post, they use @gustyduck and not some @wordpress-default. Capisce, my little friend?

  2. Ok I am wiping the tears from my eyes and cheeks not because I am upset about you being unwell but because the post was so bloody funny………………..I hate having to pee when in hospital and instead of letting you go to the toilet they bring you a bed pan who wants to pee in a bed pan…………….lol

  3. Great job turning your screaming pain into a comedy act! All I can think of is Coo-coo-ca-choo Mrs. Robinson – that lyric has new meaning today. Partially redacted: Coo*****ch**

  4. Oh my sweet sweet sweet and delicate lady*

    and by that i mean my crazy, coochy talking, farty duck*

    I am so sorry you had to go through this but fuck if i don’t love the story you got out of it!

    cheers to morphine and ‘Leetle friens” *LOVE*

  5. Suddenly, the Full Monty becomes fashion advice, not Heartwarming British Humor. I can’t imagine getting the kid off to school while I was busy dying to death. I’d have been all, “Honey, Mommy’s half dead, just go over to the neighbor’s and catch the bus and here you’re buying lunch today.”

  6. I think they just make asshats. Oh wait–fate makes those.

    LEANNE!!! I’m a shitty person. I got up this morning, and thought; “i’m going to send a message to Leanne to see how she’s been,” and look what story you coughed up. Shame on me. This happens all the time! Every time I’m about to get my ass around to messaging you, you reappear in blog form.

    I’m sorry about your appendix, but I think you’re AWESOME for not IGNORING the pain and passing it off as something that would just go away. Very dangerous! I’m glad it’s worked out, even though you have very itchy stitches.

    Now, say ITCHY STITCHES ten times fast.


  7. Thank you for making me laugh as always, and I am glad you are okay. If those were the first words out of your mouth, you’re getting better. I am so sorry you have been in so much pain.

  8. By “humans” that hold farts in, I assume you meant women. Because it’s a rare day indeed that I know for a fact a man has held it in. lol At least in my experience. Maybe I should up the standards . . . . ;o)

    Glad you’re healing!

  9. Three notes:
    (1) I am ashamed that I didn not read this post until now. So glad you are alright now! Hope I didn’t hurt your abdomen with with big post-5K hug last night :p
    (2) You left out the part where all the gas you don’t successfully fart out rises into your shoulders and settles there until your body reabsorbs it so you feel like some psycho motherfucker is repeatedly stabbing you in the shoulders. For days.
    (3) The answer to your scar problem is obvious – trampy pubic tattoo, obviously! The hubs will love it. But you might need some morphine first because that shit is painful.

Go on. Talk to Mama Duck.

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