Things To Ask

I got so carried away with the I Love You post that I failed to post the very thing I was supposed to post, which are the questions that I plan to ask my doctor tomorrow.  I think I've covered everything.

This is the part where having an audience would be helpful, so that people can chime in with things I might have missed.  Oh well.  I'm working in a vacuum, but at least I'll be able to revisit these.

To Ask Doctor – Pre-Op Visit

• ð        What is my surgical preparation?
• ð        Do I have to remove my nail polish?  Can I wear clear polish?
• ð        What kind of anesthesia will I have?
• ð        Should I harvest blood in case I need a transfusion?
• ð        How long will I be on bed rest?  How often should I get up?
• ð        Will I be able to go up and down the stairs at home?
• ð        Do I have to have a vertical incision?  Why can’t I have a horizontal incision?
• ð        Will I have a catheter?  When does it get removed?
• ð        When can I take a shower?  Take a bath?  Use my hot tub?
• ð        Will I have special stockings to prevent clots in my legs post surgery?
• ð        Will I need a tummy binder?
• ð        How long will I have my IV?
• ð        Will I need anything post-op for gas or constipation?
• ð        Are there any foods that I should definitely consume, or definitely avoid?
• ð        I would absolutely not like to have my ovaries removed.  Is there a chance for them to fail after surgery?
• ð        Will I be in the hospital for one or two days?  What would be the factors that could potentially keep me longer?
• ð        Are there any warning signs that I should watch out for when I go home?
• ð        When can I start working again if I work from home in a sedentary job?  Is two weeks enough time to be off?
• ð        When can I work out?
• ð        How soon before spin class?
• ð        Will I need a tummy tuck?

Tomorrow is Pre-Op, and I Love You

Tomorrow is my pre-op visit with the doctor, where I get to ask all of the questions that I want to know about my surgery, and also where I beg him to give me a horizontal incision rather than vertical.  Not sure if that's going to fly, but I've decided that the idea of having a vertical incision and having the equivalent of two butts (one in the front and the other in the back), makes me want to shoot myself.

(

My dirty little secret is that I always think I'm going to die whenever I have surgery. Normally I know that it's a ridiculous prospect, given that most of ,my surgeries have either been knee surgeries, or relatively minor quick fixes -- usually in extremities.  My last surgery was a few years ago, and it was on my hand.  Very stupid.  Very minor.  But surgery, nonetheless, so I thought I was going to die.  

It was for that reason that I decided to tell my boyfriend of five months that I loved him.  It was the first time either of us had ever uttered those words to one another.  My plan wasn't to tell him until he told me.  I was having surgery on his birthday, so on the night before the surgery (before my cut-off time to eat or drink), I came upstairs wearing the backpack that I got him for his birthday, carrying a tray with a special dessert and champagne.  I leaned over and whispered it in his ear -- as though I didn't want to hear myself say it -- and leaned in close enough so that I didn't have to see his reaction.  I wasn't sure if he'd reciprocate.

But he said that he felt the same way, but he was waiting for me to say it first.  This annoyed me for some reason.  

Years later, we're not really "I love you" people.  We tried it on for size for a while, and then the occasions for which we expressed our love dwindled.  We had an argument one day, and we each accused each other of not meaning it.  Since then, that phrase has meant very little to me.  I don't initiate; I reciprocate.  When we say it, it's because one of us is getting on a flight or traveling.  Or having surgery.  Basically, situations where if the other of us should die, we would feel guilty if our last conversation didn't include an expression of love.  

Essentially, we're right back to the origin of why we began saying it in the first place.  

It's not because he has an aversion to uttering those three words.  He says it every single time he speaks with the women of signficance in his life.  I, on the other hand, say it very rarely.  To anyone, really.  I haven't told my father that I love him in several years, and I can't recall whether or not I managed to make sure my mother knew I loved her before she died.  These are things that make me a horrible person. But really?  I'd rather show them.  And to my credit, it isn't as though my parents were big on the "I love you" statements with me.  Unless they were delivering tough messages, like "Now, you know your father and I love you . . "   It's almost like we felt weird saying it to each other.  Not that we didn't show it, but sometimes gestures aren't accurate representations of how we feel.  

I wonder if my life would have been different if someone had been there to tell me, every day, that they loved me.  I wonder if my relationship would be different if those words naturally rolled off of our tongues every day.  Guess I'll never know.

What I do know is that I have a laundry list of things to discuss with the doctor to prepare for my surgery, and that on my checklist of things to do that day will be to tell my boyfriend that I love him.  

Another thing

This whole not-having-an-audience thing?  I could totally get used to it.  My writing became more and more fucked up as I had to write for people.  But that's not the point of this posting.

I'd like to go on record -- so that this is documented and I can look back on this and understand just how I felt --and say that I'm angry.  To post-surgical Queen, I have no idea of how you feel, months later.  But right now -- one month away from surgery -- please know that I'm downright shitty.  I don't understand how I got here, at this age, and I don't know how it's going to get better.

But I sit today without any sort of job security (which is a lifestyle that I chose), in a house that I don't love (which is a home that I purchased), with a health issue-- the depth of which I don't know (something that I chose to ignore), with a body that I've never really been enamored with - or even liked a little bit (which I guess I could have changed if I really tried) in a life that's never been 'normal' and doesn't stand a chance for normalcy (not that a normal life would have ever been good for me, but sometimes I think it would have been SO much easier), with hair that's a fucked up hot mess that never looks good (ever), and feeling amazingly unsexy and unsexual (which I NEVER thought would happen).

What I'm saying is that where I am is a direct reflection of choices that I made.

So, what I wish for my post-surgical self is that you wait for the pain to subside and deal with these issues systematically, from start to finish, when you have energy.  Make better choices.

You have a lot of work to do.

Help

I hate asking for help.  Truth be told, what I really hate is NEEDING help.  I wasn't raised to need help, ask for things, expect things.  I was raised to make sure that I can handle everything.  Anything I couldn't handle, my parents could help with.  Nobody outside of the three of us.  That's how we operated.

Well, my mother is gone and my father is nearly 90.  It's just me -- the last viable member of the invincible three.  And I guess that's okay, but for the first time in a long time, I'm actually going to need something.  I made it through the other surgeries just fine because I wasn't completely impaired.  The last knee surgery, my father's only responsibility was to drive me to and from the hospital.  I handled the rest.  I learned to walk the stairs the first day out of the hospital -- even with a numb leg -- and I got myself to work and home for the next few weeks before I was cleared to drive.  I was good.  All good.

This time the surgery involves a large incision in my core.  I have no idea what to expect.  I hear it's an entirely different animal.  I've known people who've had the surgery -- people who are in worse shape and have less of a dedication to healing.  In my mind, I'm a strong girl, and I can heal it at least 1/2 the time as a mere mortal ( :-) ).  My friends tell me different.  They say that I should forget about being fully capable for at least a month, which is an amount of time that I can't even fathom.  If they are right -- which I hope they're not -- I will need help.

The dynamic of my relationships with my father and BF is that I'm the helper, the fixer.  They are used to calling me and everything will be better.  Because this is what I do.  Right or wrong, our relationships are not reciprocated.  I'm not surprised at this.  This is the dynamic that I created.  They don't take care of me because they've never needed to.  They don't even really know how.  Bless their hearts.

I get accused of being a control freak, and refusing to allow others to help.  I try to be better about it, but it seems that whenever I give someone a chance they don't live up to my expectations -- which is as much my fault as it is theirs.  Oddly, the dad and the BF have strikingly similar personalities (I'm sure that Freud would have a lot to say about that), and the two of them have given up trying to make me happy because I'm so particular.

All of this is the backstory.  As I look ahead to this surgery, I'm just trying to find ways to keep myself alive, comfortable and able to get back to work within 3 weeks -- if I have a job to do.

The bottom line is that I'm not comfortable with the vulnerability.  I don't want to need help.  And I will find ways not to.

Options are everything. And I have none.

I'm in a moment where I have absolutely no options.  And I fucking hate it.  I have no choice but to have this surgery.  I mean, I guess I could not have it,at the expense of my internal organs, which are suffering by the day.  I'm extremely sick of my house but I can't move -- especially now that my dad lives so close and he's not getting any younger.  And even if I were able to move, I couldn't buy a house with the BF because of his finances, and situation with his trashy baby mama.  I also could never marry the BF because I will not have my finances exposed to or usurped by his situation, nor do I want his monthly amount increased based on my income.  The baby mama will always be considered a family member of sorts, and I never will.

I'm at a point where I do things because I have to -- my choices have very little to do with anything.  And nothing infuriates me more than being whipped around by a situation, and having no options.

If I had my preference?  I would have an amazing job that pays extremely well and doesn't feel like work.  I would already live in my dream home, which has all of the things that I want -- a gourmet kitchen with a large double fridge, a smaller fridge just for condiments, a walk-in master closet, an upstairs laundry room.  It would be spacious and contemporary with a beautiful home gym and sleek minimalist home office.  The media room would feature a large flat screen TV with all of the components and wires hidden.  There would be a gorgeous granite wet bar and a wine fridge.  The backyard would have a pool, or a nice spa -- perfectly landscaped -- with an expansive deck.  There would not be neighbors so close that they're breathing on me, and I could ideally have at least a 3 car garage -- perfectly organized.  

If that isn't a description of love, I don't know what is.

Also?  I would eliminate these fibroids altogether so that I wouldn't have to have this surgery -- let alone one so invasive that I'll have to have a disgusting scar and a body that's forever ugly.  Or uglier, if we're being honest.

Then?  I would go back about 16 years and prevent the BF from hooking up with his ho-ass baby mama.  Not that we would have dated if I'd known him then-- because I'm pretty sure that we wouldn't have been even remotely attracted to each other (or good for each other), but I would have befriended him and forcefully changed his mind and opened his eyes to the multitudes of reasons why he should never have dated her.  I would have taught him that he should aim higher because he deserved better.  Maybe I would have changed his taste in women (which isn't really the best), and he could have eliminated some of those horrid slamhounds.  Even if we never got together, we could have been in each others' lives as great strictly platonic friends and I could have simplified his life for a nice deserving woman (whose idea of an occupation doesn't include a pole) with whom he could have had a solid relationship, a few children and a altogether better life experience.  Because, really?  As it stands now, I don't need to get married, nor do we really NEED to buy a house together (although the logistics of our living situation seem ridiculous, oddly non-committal and never-ending), but there's something really shitty about not having the option should I want it.

And while we're at it?  I would have restarted my career years earlier so that I wouldn't be in the predicament that I'm in right now.

The one thing I wouldn't change is my dad's health.  The ONLY thing I would do is eliminate his emphysema, but at his age he does very well, and I'm grateful for that on a daily basis.

I don't think I'll feel this way forever -- at least I hope I don't -- but right now I feel like my Roomba when it get stuck on something, churns until its battery drains and is unable to return to its charging station.  Part of this situation will go away after my surgery in a month or so, but I can't help thinking that I'll be on a slippery slope in the opposite direction and that I'll start looking older and gaining weight.  I feel like I'm on a countdown, and I'm desperately trying to hold on to each day until 10/28, as though my happiness will end by the end of that day.

Sounds dramatic, right?  Yes, but it is.  The situation is tragic and dramatic, and just so wrong on so many levels.  And I have no options.

Roomba and the cleanliness issue

I've been trying to figure out ways to keep my house clean while I'll be incapacitated after surgery.  My boyfriend is not reliable, as he is the King of "I'll do it."  Even though he has no intention of doing it.  Or if he has intention, I have a different idea of the timeframe in which the task should be done.  So . . . to keep myself partially sane, and have some knowledge that at least one floor of my house will remain filth free, I went out and bought a Roomba!

I've had a robotic vacuum in the past, but it was a gift from my ex who bought an off-brand that I had never seen before, and have never seen since.  Of course it was the thought that counted, but it was FAR from the Roomba, and I've since pitched it in the trash . . . largely because I could never find replacement parts for it.   I don't even think there was a website for the brand.  Whatever . . .

Anyway, I'm loving the Roomba so far.  It goes under the bed, the dressers, and even moves things out of the way . . . which was kind of disconcerting the first time I saw one one of my lamps shoved across the floor.

So, that's one less thing to worry about.

The things I buy . . .

One of my biggest fears after having surgery is that my house will look like the aftermath of the next World War, with my pending inability to clean or lift anything.  My boyfriend isn't really used to cleaning -- or doing anything else around the house -- and if I'm unable to tidy up on a daily basis, the health department will be knocking on my door in no time.

So what am I doing about it?  That's right, I'm throwing some money at the problem.  While I do planning on increasing the frequency of the cleaning ladies, I'm also investing in something that I've wanted for a long time -- a Roomba!  There are few things more exciting than the concept of a robot vacuuming daily -- on a schedule!

I might just avoid that ant infestation.  Even if I'll need a hazmat suit to enter the bathroom.