I've Decided to Laugh

I've done a lot of crying over the last twelve hours.

Cucumber slices will take away that puffiness, BTW.

Beloved Spouse had surgery yesterday. He's fine, it went well. The nursing staff at the hospital was outstanding, and the surgeon was highly recommended, if amazingly young.

His name wasn't Doogie. It was Chad.
I think he still had his learner's permit.

But surgery is surgery, and it was a long day. And I kept flashing back to a day 11 years ago, when BelSpouse had some "minor" surgery done that turned into a nightmare. Different circumstances, different hospital (because you don't go back to a hospital once you've sued it for malpractice). But memories do come crashing in where they're not wanted, like social climbers at a White House dinner, and yesterday they really did a job on my ability to be strong and supportive and assure BelSpouse and Precocious Daughter that everything was going to be just fine.

I am so damn proud of PDaughter. She was positive and resourceful and level-headed yesterday - all the things that I didn't so much manage to be as the hours dragged on. Of course, she didn't have to deal with the really gnarly stuff, because there are certain details you just don't go into with a fifth grader.


"Now let me explain about Daddy's catheterization..."

But for better or for worse, she has learned to model grace under pressure while her mother is modeling incipient meltdown. I'm growing ever more accustomed to the idea that some day I'll be the subject of her modern-day Mommie Dearest. It's my way of providing for her financial security.

Anyway, post-op was a bit difficult. Basically, when it comes to anesthesia, BelSpouse goes down easy and comes back hard. It takes him a while to shake the physical symptoms, and he's not exactly in his right mind until the juice wears off.  We both know this, we've experienced it before, and we were expecting it this time around. Which did absolutely nothing to prevent him from having a bad time of it, or me from turning into a total basket case over it.

Let me reiterate how amazing the nurses were during this ordeal.


Seriously, this good.

 Still, when your mind fixates on the fear that the love of your life is going to die (there was absolutely no chance he was going to die, he was in excellent hands, nothing bad happened other than a very minor post-op complication), said love of your life knows exactly what you're thinking. He senses your fear and knows that it has shut down your capacity to be sympathetic, supportive, or nurturing in his time of need, and it pisses him off. Which pisses you off, especially when your brain starts whispering how awful it would be if you had a big fight right before he died.  I hate my brain sometimes.

So when we got home last night, several hours later than planned, we were not exactly the poster children for the traditional wedding vows.

"In sickness and health, in good times and bad..."
"No, I no like-a that part."

The good news is, BelSpouse is resting comfortably in his new recliner, courtesy of ice packs and some fine strong pain meds. And after careful consideration of all the options, including nervous breakdown and murder-suicide, I've decided to take a deep breath and find certain things about this whole situation to be funny instead of gut-grindingly awful. Including the fact that when we finally got home last night, I - physically exhausted and emotionally distraught - clipped the utility pole in our alley with the back passenger door of the car and tore it right the hell up. It was his car, which helps. It doesn't help him, but he's pleasantly stoned on hydrocodone right now, so I've got a reprieve from his wrath.


"Que hizo esta mujer loca a mi Buick?"

Everything is gonna be all right. Although I may have to borrow some of that hydrocodone to keep feeling that way. Anybody know where I can find a replacement door for a Buick?