Thank you SO MUCH for the love and support you showered on me yesterday. You are kind and generous friends, and I am grateful beyond words.
It took about three hours, my lovely surgeon removed only two layers (though my wound looks pretty deep to me, so a "layer" is apparently more than peels off when you have a sunburn), and the only thing that hurt was the first two numbing shots (which HURT); after that, I felt nothing but a lot of tugging. My surgeon said, "Which was worse, shot 1 or shot 2?" and I said, "They both sucked," and she laughed. Apparently, I also sang as she injected me, "La-la-LA-LA-LA-la-LA!!," my voice getting louder as the pain intensified, and only when she said, "I like the singing, that's a new approach," did I even realize I was doing it. And no, I wasn't on any kind of happy gas or funny pill, this was all me.
My wound is the size and shape of a black bean, and the color of, well, blood. It is not pretty. However, it's also significantly smaller than a dime, so I don't have to wear the giant gauze-and-adhesive covering that I'd feared; I can cover it with a round Band-Aid (and a dollop of Vaseline, I've been ordered to keep it "moist" and to prevent a scab from forming). And I am allowed to cover it; for some reason, I'd thought that I wasn't.
SO: I'm not stitched and scarred (yet) a la Lady Frankenstein; however, with this quarter-sized Band-Aid in the middle of my face, I do look like a giant dork. Husband keeps telling me it's not so bad, but he and I have a very different sense of what's acceptable; he wears a sleep mask every night because of his sleep apnea, so he wakes up (and goes about) with big red marks on his face, whereas if I had to wear this mask I would get up two hours before I needed to, just so the marks would fade before I went out to face the world — yawning, sleep-deprived, and snappish, but clear-skinned.
To me, the dork bandage is akin to a big glob of adhesive tape around my glasses or a chip out of my front tooth. I am not my pretty, put-together self, and it bugs me.
But I'm glad that I don't have cancer, and this too shall pass.
And I am going to go hear Husband give a presentation tonight, out in public, dork bandage and all. I will be a model of maturity and character, as I muster my wits and hold my head high.
Still, this healing period can't pass quickly enough.
In other news . . .
The Bloggess spoke to ME today!!!!
You can read her whole post on the topic, but the gist of it is that she's renaming all the states that start with “M,” and Massachusetts is now “Tater-Tots.” I'm open to this . . . except I don't quite get it. What's do Tater-Tot have to do with Massachusetts? So I left her a comment:
I totally support your right to rename the M states (MO for Missouri is crazytown; it should be MZ because of how it’s pronounced — and we could spell it M’Zouri! Oooh, that looks really cool), but I’m feeling stupid because I don’t get Tater-Tots for Massachusetts. Is it just completely random, or does my true-blue Puritan state have a Tater-Tot connection of which I’m unaware? We are the home of New England Boiled Dinner, not to mention the bean and the cod. Tater-Tots . . . so exotic.And she responded!!!!!
(I just like Tater-Tots. ~ Jenny)
Granted, this isn't exactly "Gosh, you're cool! Let's hang out and have cocktails and be BFFs!", unless you are way better at parsing for subtext than I am, but I was still very tickled.
Oh! Oh! That reminds me (and I know you're curious):
- Me: Not that I'm obsessed or anything, but how soon can I have a glass of wine? Like, in hours?
- Surgeon (gives me a searching look)
- Me: OK, I'm a little obsessed.
- Surgeon: Well . . . you can probably have one tonight.
- Me (squealing)
- Surgeon: A small one!
- Me (continuing to squeal)
- Nurse: A few sips!
- Surgeon: And if you have to go to the emergency room, we never had this conversation.
I did have a glass, a very small glass, of Chardonnay, and I sipped it over the course of an hour, and it was liquid gold. And Husband brought me Thai food for dinner, so yummy, and I had one of my favorite desserts, a bowl of good vanilla ice cream topped with maple syrup and a handful of walnuts, a combo that always reminds me of my favorite crepe from The Crepe Place, beloved (and long-gone) Santa Cruz hangout of my college days. And I did nothing but read books and watch movies all day, and my kids and cats came in to cuddle with me, and I have beautiful fresh flowers in my bedroom courtesy of Good Neighbor Anne, and my besty in California, Lady Darcy, sent me a long newsy letter via FedEx, and I got lots of cards and phone calls and e-mails, and it was just a very lovely healing afternoon.
I can't exercise for a week (the Italian Spitfire was skeptical, so I asked my surgeon for a note) and Zanzibar and I had planned to start our Month of Boot Camp today, so for the first week we are going to concentrate on healthy food and mindful eating. She's recovering from strep throat anyway; we both need some healing time.
(On the topic of healthy food, here's a question: If you ordered Brussels Sprout Stew, what color would you expect this dish to be? See below for the answer, or at least Madrona Tree's answer.)
OK — enough for now. It's one of those days where I have lots of little things I could do but nothing big or urgent that I have to do, so I'm feeling rather aimless. Time to focus!
TGIF! Happy weekend, my friends!
—Lady C of Tator-Tots, trying to rise above her essential dorkiness
Answer to the Brussels Sprout Stew question: I was prepared for green or yellow or light brown, but it was in fact . . . red. And it was quite tasty, but I was surprised.