Just so you don’t think I’m all sunshine and rainbows around here, I’m not thrilled with this recuperation shit. I didn’t do much yesterday because I think I did too much Saturday, what with my breezy little trip to Taco Bell and my big long  journal entry and such.  I had a lot of trouble sleeping Saturday night and woke up at one point completely drenched in sweat and feeling like Godzilla was pushing my chest into a bed of nails. I was dismayed by this turn of events, OBV. 

I really want to be off the Percocet. Percocet only lasts 4 hours, so I try not to take it at bedtime, but every single night so far I’ve woken up at 1 or 2 a.m. in pain and had to take one so…why don’t I just take it at bedtime and then again at 1 or 2 a.m. when it wears off and PERHAPS sleep the whole night?  I ask you? I do not know. Because I am an idiot and don’t want to be taking Percocet a week after surgery. Dumb. If I read that in someone else’s journal I’d be bitching to Paco about it.

Then I got a wee bit too proactive with the Peri-Colace and caused myself some other problems that were not necessary.

So yesterday I gave up and put on that frigging “Fight Like a Girl” t-shirt and sat around all day watching America: the Story of Us on the History Channel. I was quite surprised to learn that the Erie Canal is the principal reason that New York is the center of global commerce today. Also, Andrew Jackson gets my vote for worst President ever and slavery..what the fuck was that all about?

Holly went with her Grandma to Salina, Kansas this weekend to see a cousin’s dance recital and I don’t know if it was a good idea or not. On the one hand since it rained all weekend it might have been very hard on Paco to deal with Holly being bored. And if I had had to watch endless episodes of “Victorious” and “iCarly” instead of  learning about John Brown’s failed raid on the national armory at Harper’s Ferry (I really think that show should be required for anyone working on their GED, seriously), well, I just might have gone mad.

But then she came back and was ALL KINDS of fucked up as far as emotions and sleeping and so on and I have this uncomfortable feeling that shuttling her out of town right after I scared her by being so sick and in the hospital might have been a 1950s-style shelter-your-child-and-scare-her-more mistake.  But what’s done is done. And she did end up going to sleep on her own in her own bed and this morning I got up like usual and made her breakfast and supervised her getting ready for school and all. Then I had to lie down for two hours, but what else I gotta do.

Elliot seems to be doing fine, in his teenager way. For Mother’s Day he got me a Snoopy card that played the Peanuts music and was signed, Sorry you have cancer, Love Elliot. On the day I came home from the hospital, he drove in right after school and I wasn’t expecting him. I was upstairs lying down and I heard the front door slam open and him yelling, “Hello? Hello?” and I bellowed, “I’m up here for god’s sake! HAD SURGERY! IN CASE YOU FORGOT!” He came clomping up and did something in his room then came in the bedroom holding a shirt and his car keys and said, “Hey mom, uh…how are you feeling? I had to come get my orchestra shirt for the concert tonight…and I thought I’d see how you’re doing. Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry…”

I hooted. Fuckin kids.

“Well, thank you for your concern, Son. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Well..good luck with the…uh…Healing. Or whatever.”

I think teenagers have just the right amount of self-centeredness to be the perfect sickbed companions.  Everybody else expects something from you. Like I’ll just put this out there, because I have sick person privilege: I don’t really want to talk to people very much when I’m sick. I get that people want to help and all that, but I just really don’t want to talk to anyone because that requires effort on my part.  And well-meaning people can say, all they want, please PLEASE don’t worry about your house or how you look, I just want to stop by blah blah, but saying that doesn’t make it so.  I could be on my deathbed and I wouldn’t want my coworkers to see the dust on my t.v. stand or the mysterious brown stain on my bathroom wall or the spider webs on my porch.

I say this because three (THREE) of my coworkers want to stop by Thursday after work to bring me a “gift” and I am just not going to stand for that. I don’t care. I have never invited any coworkers to my house because I don’t WANT any coworkers at my house. I don’t care if they’re bringing me a golden toilet.  I don’t care if they’re sympathetic and thoughtful and all that shit, I’m not going to sit here on my couch and host three people (and “hosting” is what it will be no matter what anyone says) when I’ve had my boobs cut off and thrown up my guts for three days and look disheveled and unattractive and am looking forward to continued unpleasant treatments over the next few months. Not going to do it. It’s not fair to Paco, either. He has to work all day and then come home and do everything around here.

Huh. I guess I’m more annoyed by this than I thought. I’ll have to mull this over. And read all of your sage advice, of course.  As always, it’s appreciated. xo