Five months

October 19th was my five month mark. I spent the day doing this:

(Not pictured is the 8 hours I spent in the car with Jo. Good thing we like each other so much, because GPS thought that was going to be a 4.5 hour drive. Clearly, GPS under (or maybe over?) estimates how often two 40 yr old women need to stop for bathroom breaks. And snacks.)

And considering that I'd spent the weekend in Vegas doing this

And the weekend before in California, doing this

I say that I'm still winning.

I'm tired and I'm glad to be home in my own bed, and I'm really looking forward to staying here for all of the nights until I go back to Houston  (11/7), but I am ofiicially over five months into the anticipated 3-6. I am tired, but I am happy. 

Oh, and winning. 

June 30th

I can't believe this month is over! I mean, I SERIOUSLY cannot remember where the time has gone (lesson learned: even when you THINK you're lucid after surgery, you're not.  I'm still finding texts and emails sent in the 3-5 days after surgery that I have NO RECOLLECTION of ever sending/having received.)

For those of you either not in - or only semi-in - the loop of what went down this surgery, I give you the following data:

They were able to get the epidural in this time. And then they left it in. For five GLORIOUS days.

Best. Pain. Control. Ever.

I woke up lucid, asking for ice chips, after surgery (and then they GAVE them to me!), I was able to have actual, real, conversations with the family still on site when I came out. It was awesome!

Now, keep in mind, we THOUGHT I was lucid. ... Erm. Not so much. It turns out my friend Rhonda came to visit. Twice. And the only way Judy could get me to believe it was to use my multi-braided bun as proof that Rhonda had been in the house. I took phone calls I have no recollection of, sent emails that I am STILL discovering. Oh, it's been a delight.

Which brings me to... some of you may have heard (quite possibly from my own self,) that there were three little friends removed when G went in: Omar, Thing 1 and Thing 2.

We're still unsure of the natures Things 1 and 2. As G said himself, "It could have been part of a hernia that had broken free and was floating loose. But I saw them, so I took them, and I will have them tested."

My surgical-one-week-post-hospital-release appointment is tomorrow. Fingers crossed, the path report will be back and we'll know more about the two new dudes.

For curious minds, in the 14 days of Omar's siting to Omar's removal, dude went from the size of a golf ball to that of an orange (filling the palm of a man's hand).

Who's the fastest tumor grower in the West? ... Cancer Girl! (Insert theme music here.)

The hernia repair went as planned. The only constant/lingering pain that I have (and YES, I'm still on narcotics, thanksforasking) is on the right side of what used to be my belly button. I found that curious, since Omar and the Henries were living on my left side, so I asked around and was told by multiple medical professionals who were in the OR that the pain in my right side is due to scarred tissue from prior surgeries that was on the right side of the bb. When the hernia repair was done, a large section of skin was pulled from my right side over to the left, and the scar tissue is what's causing the pain in that area. I'm not sure if that pain will go away, but I'm hoping it'll ease as the tissue heals in its new configuration.

Listen, I live on hope. Hope that the scar tissue pain won't be the death of me. Hope that the cancer never comes back. Hope that Dr. H will give up and give in...

Feel free to jump on in and hope along with me, anywhere and in any way you'd like.

My friend Henry

Kids, I have a new friend. His name is Henry.

Henry is a hernia. And, frankly, is more of a frenemy than a friend. ... But I can't shake him, so I determined to make friends with him (as much as one can make friends with a hernia). To that end, I have given him a name and I'm making an effort to be better behaved, as I've learned that when I am good to Henry, he is better to me. (Read: No more even TRYING to lift anything even REMOTELY heavy. Also, no more going on 2 mile walks. While I did prove to myself that I can walk more than a mile, I also learned that my guts hate me when I make myself stand and be mobile for an hour. ... Yes, it takes me an hour to walk two miles. Don't judge.)

I've had a gut feeling (pun intended) that Henry was coming since mid-June, but he didn't really pop out and make himself known until September.

Over the summer, I'd occasionally have the sensation that my guts were trying to push out through my bellybutton. That was awesome.

Come the first week of September, the pain changed (read: became more constant) and I noticed that, when I had my hand over my belly button, I could feel my stomach gurgling. (That actually WAS awesome. In a creepy sort of way.) Oh, and the area formerly known as my bellybutton started changing. Fast.

On the first Saturday of October, I sat down on my couch and put my hand over my bellybutton and realized... I felt something. Something more than bubbles popping. I felt something hard. Not tumor hard, mind you. More like something-has-broken-loose-inside-my-body hard. So I promptly walked into my bathroom and took a picture. Because I like to document things. And also because I wanted to make sure it really DID look like a hernia from the other side of the camera.

And the verdict was... Yes. Yes, it did.

I apologize to all those readers with weak stomachs and will warn those who have NO DESIRE to see my grody, bumpy, lumpy, scarred and grossly mis-shapen belly (Aunt Cindy, I'm talking to you) that you may want to scroll down quickly so you'll miss the carnage that is up close and  personal pics of my body.

I give you: my bellybutton in October:

And then I turned the camera, so I could get a shot of the bulbous lump at the bottom:

Yeesh.

No wonder I felt bruised and battered. I WAS! ... From the inside out. Awesome. (By which I mean: Not actually awesome.)

Less than a week after these pics were taken, I started coughing. Hard. I started coughing hard. ... At first, I thought it was allergies. But then I left the great state of Arizona and headed to California for a baking retreat - and I took my cough with me. And then I brought it home, and continued to cough in Arizona.

The cough? It has not helped my relationship with Henry. ... For a week there, I thought it might have been helping. The bulbousness was spreading out, and I was thinking that all that accidental exercise was strengthening my stomach muscles and all would be well in the world. ... And then I realized that my abdominal pain was changing. It was becoming stronger and more constant, and I was having to sneeze and/or cough with one hand over my mouth/nose, and the other pressing down on my bellybutton (such as it is), to the extent that, if I only had one hand available, I needed that hand for my stomach. I can't blow my nose without pushing in on my bellybutton, and it's getting harder to stand up and roll over.

Shoot. Me. Now.

It's been four weeks, and I've been fighting different versions of that same cold the whole time, so I went to the doctor on Friday. (My family medicine doc, not my beloved Dr. H.) I came home with a fist full of new prescriptions, as well as the assurance that this is, indeed, a hernia.

I have an order to have an abdominal ultrasound (that'll be fun - since we all know that I have a weak bladder in the best of circumstances, and having someone push a rolly ball around on your stomach when you're full of water is the opposite of "the best of circumstances"). Her thoughts are that the reason my stomach has changed is that the coughing has enlarged the hernia, and I'll need surgery. Again.

Here's a more recent shot (again, Syd,  look away):

Oh, and look! You can see one of the tats in this pic. You lucky dogs...

You can't really see the difference between shot 1 and shot 2, but trust me... it's there. The bump is both bigger and flatter at the same time. I don't often have the bruised feeling that I did last month. The bruised sensation has been replaced by an ache that's sometimes accompanied by stabbing pain. I'm torn as to which pain was easier. It's sort of a toss up.

What I've learned from Henry is that life is easier when I'm easier on my body. Sooooo... so much for the plans I had to walk a mile for every episode of new fall tv I was allowed to watch. My couch, my books, Netflix, Hulu and I are fast friends again.

It's a good thing I actually enjoy staying home in a reclined position. So many people I know would be bored out of their minds. I'm lucky that I was blessed with the ability to sit still and enjoy it. Seriously. Lucky.

My knees hurt

And not because I've been spending too much praying. ... Uh, no. No, that's definitely not why.

I'm not sure why they hurt, but I'm thinking it might be because I've been spending 10 hours of my life at a desk the past few days. Or maybe it's because I haven't been spending enough (read: any) time walking. ... Or, my favorite excuse, maybe it's because I had radiation treatments a year ago that aged my body an approximate and virtual 30 years.

I love to blame radiation for all of my ills.

Why? Because I like to think I'm not doing anything wrong in my life that would make me feel like such an old woman (except for maybe I do eat too much fried chicken).

Also, radiation DID do a major number on me. The good news? Most radiation side-effects fade 12 months after treatment ends - and I will hit that 12 month mark 4 weeks from today.

This time last year, I couldn't keep more than 4 saltines down. And even then, I had to medicate after every meal/snack so I wouldn't projectile vomit every bit of water and cracker in my system.

Six months ago today I found out that my body had gone and grown another tumor. (Read: the cancer was back.) I found out that I had a new tumor and that I would have to have abdominal surgery (AGAIN!) in the same day. (So not my best day ever.)

...................................................................

Those things having been said, I think I'll keep my creaky and achy knees. I can eat food other than saltines and Ritz, and I'm cancer free. Who gives a flying leap if my knees hurt at the end of the day?

Life. It's all about perspective.

I think I'll go kneel on my achy knees and give a little (by which I mean short, not small or inconsequential) prayer of gratitude for my aches and pains.

Look, Ma... No hands!!!

So, when I first came home from having the ... erm ... procedure done a couple weeks ago, one of the first things I noticed was that I couldn't bend. Honestly.

Could. Not. Bend.

It turns out that I had gauze sewn into my bum and that was probably a lot of why I couldn't bend in the middle. I was strung as tight as a marionette. (I referred to myself as Pinocchio more than once folks, and it wasn't because of my ability to "tell stories".) Between the gauze and... well... overall soreness in the region, I was unable to bend. This made getting up and down incredibly difficult, and sitting altogether impossible. As a result, I came up with a way to lower my weight down onto the couch and/or my bed using only my arms (it turns out that I'm stronger than I look - I only dropped myself, like, three times). As I've mentioned, I'd lie on a side until I felt like that hip had popped out of the socket, then I'd do a push-up off the couch/mattress, get up, literally turn myself around and then lower myself back down onto my other side.

This has been, pretty much, how I have lived for the last two weeks. Lying on my side. The only respite I have had was standing. At the counter, for support. (Because my balance wasn't such that I'd trust myself to stand in the center of a room without something to brace what I considered to be an imminent fall.)

Here, my friends, is what we like to call The Evolution of Standing at the Kitchen Counter:

Phase One: Standing at the kitchen counter supported by 4 pillows, because I couldn't bend at the waist AT ALL and needed the support stack to be as tall as I am, lest my waist bent even a fraction of an inch and I have searing pain in my nether regions.



Here's a frontal view of Phase One. (Note: These pics were all taken now that I am able to free-hand stand. Even a week ago, I wouldn't have been taking such a frivolous stance with my hands in such a way. Oh, no. Standing was very serious business back then. Very serious, indeed.)



Phase Two: When I no longer needed the stack of pillows to support my full height, but I still needed the counter to support my weight because my back was tired (from all of that lying on the couch y'know). ... Clearly, by this point, I had had my marionette strings removed and was able to bend in the middle. (I could bend in the middle when standing, but couldn't SIT to save my soul, as there was still a ridiculous amount of swelling that made it impossible to put any weight on that end of me without me wanting to spew curse words. ... And no one should even want to think like that in front of their mother.)



And here's a bonus view of Phase Two. (I use the word "bonus" very loosely. Mostly, I just found this shot amusing, and since my self-photography is more for amusement purposes than it is to win any beauty pageants, here ya go.)



And now that you've seen both Phases One and Two in all of their Leaning On The Counter Glory, I'd like to unveil the current way in which I stand in the kitchen:



Okay, I don't really stand in the kitchen like that all the time these days. (Constant Jazz Hands would get a little old, even for me.) In all reality, I am usually still kind of propped up against a counter here or there, you know, because I am a little clumsy and would hate to have a great and mighty fall. Also, I've been doing a lot of sewing (it's a dress and top altering sweatshop here, in case you hadn't heard) and it helps to have the counter under me to catch the weight of whatever it is that I'm taking in or adding elastic to in an effort to re-make my entire wardrobe.

But still... I can stand. Hands free. Like a real grown-up.

Now, there's some real progress.

Here's hoping that by next week, I'll be able to eat without spilling. (Don't hold your breath, folks. There's only so much "growing up" a girl can be expected to do.)

All in a year's time

You may recall that last summer, Jo and I were pregnant at the same time. Oh, wait. She was pregnant. I just looked like I was. (Darn tumor!)



This year? Not so pregnant. (Either of us.) Jo has a stinkin' cute little baby named Sally and I ... well ... I am still wearing this same orange/pink/white tie-dyed style shirt. (Well, I've taken it in about 8 inches and now almost always wear it belted. But still, I am still wearing the same shirt. New clothes cost money. Altering clothes does not.)



You also may recall that, at the time, all of my doctors were under strict instruction not to share pictures, samples or even have conversations with me or my family members regarding said tumor. I knew, going in, that they were figuring it was about 10 lbs, and about the size of a volleyball in diameter. (They, of course, were dead wrong about the size/diameter, but that was the assumption.) Just this week, I sucked it up and asked for a copy of the dvd from the medical imaging company who performed the CT in June 2010. Mom and I looked though all 244 pictures of said tumor. Some of them made sense, some of them made us gag, some of them made us giggle. Almost all of them made us "see" things that weren't there. Here, I will show you.

Check this out. My guess is that this is a pelvic view (they did a chest/abdomen/pelvic CT) and those white arm-looking guys at the bottom are actually my femurs extended for that view.

But the thing is, even KNOWING that this is a pelvic view and the arms/legs are easily explainable, I can't help but think that it looks a little like a weight-lifting championship being held by maniacs. ... Seriously, check out the maniacal grin on Atlas there as he holds up the world. (The world = my 22.5 lb tumor.)



And then there's the balloon tumor, AKA: Pinky and The Brain. (It's wanting to take over the world.)



This was the first picture I saw, and it made my stomach fall right out of me. They'd shaded out all organs, so all you can see is the tumor, free-floating. It looks a little Hiroshima to me.



And, in the spirit of saving the best (or, at least, my favorite) for last. Check out the kitty cat tumor. The split spinal cord at the bottom of the shot looks like a cat, and the tumor looks like balls and balls of gray yarn stacked up in a bowl. Hilarious, no?!



Who knew that CT shots of tumors would be such a fun run down Rorschach Lane? I tell you what, if I am ever in my life given another Rorschach test, I will be thinking that every single ink shot looks like a tumor. Every single one. Hilarious!

It's been a nutty, nutty year. I've had three surgeries in twelve months, lost somewhere between 80 and 90 pounds (I don't believe in owning a scale, for reasons I will not go into here and now), mostly due to having spent months of my life last summer subsisting on crackers and air. (Not a diet I'd recommend.) I've gotten pretty good at altering dresses, skirts and tops to fit the new me. My mom has gotten even better at custom-fitting dresses that I'd shrunk right out of. (What do you think she does when she comes to "take care of me" after all these surgeries? I run quite the little dress-altering-sweat-shop here, folks.) I've modified my diet and my lifestyle. Not grossly (and any of you people who are cracked enough to think a triathlon is on the horizon for me are simply that - cracked - it took me getting cancer (twice) to start walking on a daily basis, I don't even want to consider what might happen in my life to make me start running, swimming and/or biking for miles on end).

I've said it before, and I'm sure that I'll say it again. And again. And again.

This year has been hard. In some ways, unspeakably hard. There are moments, days and nights that I won't ever talk about, because simply remembering those dark hours reduces me to a puddle of tears. But there are other parts, even other hard parts, that have made it all worthwhile. This year isn't something I'd have chosen out of a basket full of fun things to do (we all know I'd rather have a summer fling than a summer cancer treatment program), but I would never - never, not ever - consider giving it back. I have learned things that I don't think I could have learned any other way.

Relationships have been redefined. Friendships and family are the most precious things in my life. Time has new meaning. Risk isn't really risk anymore, it's more like just taking a chance or trying something that I've always wanted to do.

I have been redefined. (Not just my waist and my hips and my sad, old lady bosom and my bum full o' stitches.) I am different. Different in a way that I like to think is better, and stronger. (It's probably all those push-ups I have to do just to get down into and then up out of bed.)

May this year never feel the need to repeat itself so long as we all shall live.

Amen.

As of today

I no longer have gauze sewn into my bum. (Can I get a Halle-FREAKIN-lujah and an AMEN?!)

Of course, I still have loads and loads of stitches back there, hidden by a large-ish piece of gauze that's stretched over the carnage, so as to allow me to sleep at night.

But the gauze is gone.

Deep breath.

And the remainder of the stitches are due to come out next Wednesday, so there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Oh, and at the front of the tunnel, too. *Drum roll, please* Now that the gauze has come out, I am cleared for showers. ... Do you hear the angels singing? Because I sure as heck do!

On another note: who knew that having gauze sewn into one's bum would be so panic inducing? Not me. But it sure was. (God bless Ativan and whoever it was that invented the stuff. I'm pretty sure it's the only thing that's kept me even semi-sane the last week.) I was afraid the gauze would fall out, get ripped off when I pulled my panties down to pee, get otherwise misplaced if I pooed and something got caught on a piece of whatever'd been sewn into me. ... Turns out that wasn't such a valid fear. (It's like I'd forgotten about the constipation that follows surgery. How I'd forgotten about that lovely side effect I do not know, but there it it.)

Speaking of which, let me fill you in on my latest tragedy. (Honestly, I about kill myself.)

On Sunday, I was chowing down on some red vines (because licorice is supposed to help with constipation - and also because it's delicious and I will celebrate any and opportunity to eat candy that I can find) and I felt an old, familiar crack. ... The crack of a tooth breaking. I pulled what was left of the red vine out of my mouth. Yup - shards of tooth stuck to it. I had totally shattered my right molar. Awesome. Exactly when I am in no shape whatsoever to go and sit in a dentist chair for 2-3 hours while he re-root canals my tooth.

Thank heaven for narcotics that cover the pain in both ends of my body these days.

I called the dentist, explained the situation to them, and was advised to come back in after all my stitches have been removed and my surgeon has cleared me for a dental chair.

My life. It kills me.

The good, the bad and the ugly.

Funny, as I typed that subject line, my thought was "Too bad I just can't call this post 'The Pathetic'". True story. Because it, and by association, I, am nothing short of pathetic this week.

I recommend never growing cysts on your tailbone, I really do. In fact, I cannot recommend that enough. (The only thing I'd put a higher stress on not growing would be a malignant tumor. Yeah, they're THAT bad.)

I live to serve as a medical warning voice to all.

So, here's the scoop:

I went in for an outpatient procedure on Tuesday morning. I was promptly given an IV in my left hand, which blew the vein and started leaking medicine right in to the back of my hand. ... Awesome. (Not.) I sucked it up (after crying for just a minute, because it hurt, man, and let them IV my right hand. Moments later, I was wheeled off for surgery. Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of what was going on for the next couple hours of my life. I woke up in Recovery, flat on my back, wanting to scream bloody murder. The sweet little nurses thought I was in pain because I needed more Demoral. ... Uh, no, I was in pain because they had my lying flat on my back, against the incision site. ... Once I was able to grab the side of the hospital bed and lift myself over onto a hip and she could see the carnage that was my backside, that sweet little Recovery nurse stopped pushing Demoral and got me a horse shot of Percocet. (That's better.) They wanted to wheel me to the car. I laughed (a cruel, harsh laugh, a laugh the likes of which I hope none of you ever have to hear come out of me) and told her that was some pretty good crack she was smoking. No way was I sitting down in a recliner and being wheeled to the car. I'd walk, or die trying.

I walked to the car. (Which is kind of a given, that I didn't die trying, as I'm typing this now.) The car ride home was rough. I just sat in the back seat of the van and held on to the handle in front of me to try and maintain my weight. No amount of donuts or pillows would have helped with that pain. Once I was home, I came up and went to bed.

Tuesday night I felt pretty decent. Sore, but not destitutely so. I slept fairly well that night, so I had high hopes for Wednesday. ... Uh, those hopes were in vain. Wednesday was pretty much one of the worst days ever. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it may have had something (more than a little something) to do with having realized that I have gauze sewn into my bum. ... Yeah, you read that right. We'd been told that we'd need to change the outer bandaging every day, but that there was some gauze and packaging that would stay put until I met with the doctor the next week to have stitches removed. Neither my mom or I had heard the words "stitched in", so we were pretty surprised (and horrified, and also amused) to find big loopy stitches through gobs of white gauze, affixing said gauze to ... uh ... me.

Holy awkward moment, Batman! (And this does explain why I have such a busy/pointy bum right now. There's a wad of gauze shoved in there, dudes!)

The last two days have been a little easier. Thursday was, by far, the darkest "Why in the world did I think it would be a good idea to have yet another surgery in my life?" day. I literally slept through yesterday (All hail the mighty drugs that make sleep possible), and today, I am pleased report that I finally pooped. (My mom loves it when I post news like that.) But listen, it was a major victory. I no longer have to be afraid that the stitches will keep my feces a part of me forever. Also, I set little mini-food goals when I'm on the constipation teeter-totter. Now that I've pooped, I'm allowed to eat cheese and fried chicken! (Yup, that's an actual bribe that I have to use on myself. It's the grown up version of getting a Tootsie Pop for going poo-poo on the potty,)

So... Five days later. I'm not feeling awesome yet. But I'm feeling a heck of a lot better than I did two days ago, and I'm hopeful that next week, when I have the first round of stitches (and the infamous gauze) removed, life will get even better.

Until then, I'm watching copious amounts of TV on DVD from the comfort of my couch. I lie on my right side for about two hours, then when my hips and ear can't take the pressure anymore, I flip to the other end of the couch. And my friend The Ice Pack is a constant couch companion. How in the world I'd live without him, I'm sure I don't know. Those gel ice packs are worth their weight in gold, people!

And that having been said, I'm pretty sure I have a Burn Notice DVD and a chilled gel pack calling my name...

Then and Now

Remember the side view of me on the couch last year?



Yeah, that's me in all of my pregnant-with-a-22-pound-tumor glory.

One year, three surgeries - the most recent of which was to take a certain something off my tailbone - here I am on the same couch, in a familiar position, with one major difference:



Yup, that's an ice pack you see there. It's a pseudo-permanent attachment to my backside these days. (Full testimonial for the gel ice/hot pack to follow in a later post.)

I'm not sure which I love more, the ice pack or the narcotics. Between the two of them, I'm lying (if not sitting) pretty these days.

Also, I must say, this has - by far - been the most pleasant post-op recovery of the year. When I do the full blown hospital routine, I live on IV's and ice chips for about 5 days before they introduce the clear liquid diet. ... On the outpatient plan, I was advised to do clear liquids for the first 24 hours after anesthesia, but I came right home and dug into a box of fudgcicles and I haven't looked back.

A Progress Report

I'm halfway there, folks. I've been back at work for two and a half weeks and I have two and a half weeks to go until I go back out for surgery. Which means... Wa-freakin-hoo, it's hump day! :-)

And here's how it's going - I'm alive. Not thriving, mind you. But not dying, either. Work's been really good about letting me work half days (I do love a surgeon who won't let me work a full day when my ability to sit isn't as predictable as it should be). I'm pretty tired, I'm not going to lie, but I'm making it. I usually start the week out strong, by Wednesday am kind of tired, Thursday's long and Friday's downright painful, but then I have the weekend to recover and start fresh again on Monday. When my shift was changed from a 4x10 Mon-Thurs shift to a 4x10 M, Tu, Th, Friday shift back in February, I just rolled my eyes, gritted my teeth and bore it. Now that I'm working on a part-time basis with a body that feels awesome about half of that part-time week, I'm loving the break that having Wednesday off gives me.

So, I'm making it. I've already gotten through half of what I'd thought had the potential to be the longest 5 weeks of my life. I'm super grateful for friends and family who've run to the store, done laundry and checked in just to see how I'm feeling and coping. I know this is going to sound a little sick, but I'm actually kind of excited that I only have 2 more days this week, then 2 more weeks before I go back for the next surgery. This has been a long, long year, but I feel like there's a turn around the corner. (I just need to get my next surgery done and let my bum heal so I can enjoy whatever's coming, yes?)

Thanks for tuning in, folks. I'll continue to keep you posted. (You know me. The only thing I love more than a list, these days, is a progress report.)

I survived!

Now I think I'll go take a 4 hour nap, which should work out splendidly. I'll wake up at 7:30 for dinner, then go back to bed at 10:00.

My life is so exciting, isn't it?

The End.

I'm so tired.

This is the story of my life these days.

I'm so tired, that I can't sleep.

Probably because I took a 6 hour nap this afternoon.

Also, I can't sleep because I just can't get comfortable. Between my swollen bum (I tell you, I love this recliner and all, but sitting all day is causing complications for my already sore backside) and the fact that it hurts to lie in bed, because I feel like I've taken about 18 kicks to my left kidney in a street fight (the area the tumor was removed from is experiencing some internal trauma - this is normal, I know, because I talked to the surgeon about it today, and while he did smile/smirk a bit when I told him that I felt like I'd been used as a punching bag and would, in fact, take it very personally the next time I saw a movie with a street fight in it, he told me the soreness and internal swelling is quite normal.) Between my sad incision missing its staples (I don't know HOW removing staples can make an incision hurt worse, but it sure did), my bum and my kidney... I just can't win.

The good news? I still have some pretty good drugs.

Too bad the drugs are having quite the effect on my small motor skills. (It's taken me 20 min to type this. Ridiculous! So much for using this convalescent time to write the great American novel, or even some entertaining Chick Lit. I struggle to type a full sentence. It's tragic, really.)

So, I'm going to try and go to bed now. Mom's off to dreamland, and since I have no one else to talk to (and since it's troubling to me, how difficult it is to type), I may as well take my sad little kidney and go to bed. I'll be back with another progress report tomorrow. Hopefully, one with more pics and less words. (You know, to make it easier on my sadly (and hopefully, temporarily) grammar-disabled self.)