Within the last 12 hours a whole bunch of shitbag things have happened.
That rash I mentioned yesterday started to itch around bedtime. I’m talking, threat-level red, itching. 6 hours, 3 benadryl, 1 muscle relaxer and 1 anti-anxiety drug (all sedatives) later, I am still wide awake.
I had goldilock-ed my way around the house. My recliner, a bed, a couch, another empty bed. Itching really is the depths of misery and when it’s in the middle of the night, it somehow fans out into extreme despair.
I finally gave up trying to sleep and just started watching Scandal on Netflix. That show is pretty darn great for binge watching, but if you are a delicate emotional flower like me, not the best material to lead one into a restful slumber. Olivia’s dad?! Holy shit.
Light at the end of the tunnel. I had an 8am post-op appointment with the plastic surgeon. I was sure he would round down and take my drains out. They need to be under 30ml/day for two days. Yesterday I was at 34/35 so I figured he would give me a pass.
That did not happen. When he said he wouldn’t take them out until the output was truly under 30ml for 2 days in a row I burst into tears. I’m talking real sadness, guys. These drains are a constant reminder of my illness, of all the things I cannot do. I’m sorry to say it, but I hate them. Hate x 3.
So no sleep, legs that have been itched to the point of bleeding and I remain a cyborg indefinitely until my output steadily lowers. I’m pretty, pretty, pretty cranky (read like Larry David).
My next surgery is 1 week from today when I will get another drain placed and we start the whole timeline over.
I am done trying to discreetly hide my drains. If you see me on the street with tubes hanging out of my body and a murderous look on my face, best to avoid eye contact and walk the other way.
Oh and my root canal tooth still hurts like a mother.
You’ve been warned…