Whine, whine, whine

***DISCLAIMER****
This post will contain much pissing and moaning.

Have I mentioned that being trapped in a 90 degree cast will turn a reasonable woman into a raving lunatic? Look, I know that I should be focusing on the silver lining of this whole surgery but I'm having trouble getting past the fact that I am unable to button my own pants.

My hair looks like crap. It is neither curly nor straight and as a two-handed person, I am usually able to manipulate it into a reasonable coif. Not anymore. Now every morning, I go to the office and I am forced to wait for a co worker to arrive to help me pull it into a pony. Today is French braid day.

My wardrobe presents numerous challenges because pajamas are not considered business casual. Buttons, snaps, zippers and, god forbid, strings that need to be tied, are instruments of the devil. My bra? Let's just say that the girls and I are in a death match with gravity and every day that we triumph is like winning the lottery.

My morning routine has been blown like a drunken sailor on shore leave. I used to enjoy a leisurely coffee, shower and breakfast before the kids got up. Now, everything takes longer. Grasp scrunchie with right hand. Reach for bottle of liquid soap with right hand. Brain registers conflict. Put scrunchie down. Get bottle. Pour on scrunchie. Put bottle down. Pick up scrunchie. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And just try to shave your right underarm with your right hand.

School lunches are their own unique nightmare. I buy organic peanut butter. It resides in the fridge. It has a screw on lid. I can hold the jar in my left hand but applying any pressure (say the act of unscrewing with my right hand) causes pain. The peanut butter is stiff and unyielding. Getting it out of the jar with one hand while using my hip to anchor it in the corner of the counter top is a lesson in freak ergonomics.

The final insult is laundry. I have become this crazy person, screeching at my kids to help me get the stuff out of the dryer while it is still hot because the thought of ironing with one hand is too much for me to contemplate. As it is, the mere act of folding clean clothes has me muttering profanities under my breath.

There is some good. I am predominately right handed, except for eating. I eat with my left. So now, I'm clumsy and many morsels do not make it to the promised land. Instead, they end up on my shirt, usually in the chest area because I am shaped like a letter "P". I am so pleased that I have managed to get the girls holstered that I choose to view the few dribbles as artful accessorizing. And then there is the fact that food on my shirt means that there is no way it made it to my hips. BONUS. So who says I'm not a glass half full kind of gal?

CAST REMOVAL COUNTDOWN

The Day After

It was pretty awful. There is just no way to sugarcoat it. I arrived at the hospital at about 8:30am and was shuffled into the finance office where they politely asked me to pay, sign a bunch of papers and answer some questions.

When did I last eat? Long enough ago that my stomache is participating in this conversation.

What do I weigh? Hmm. Tell the truth and receive the proper dosage of drugs or lie and run the risk of being under medicated. Lie. Definitely lie.

After the inquisition was over, I was led to the pre-op and there on the sterile gurney lay the dreaded hospital gown in all its open-backed glory. There is just nothing positive to be said about this garment. I undressed, put the damn thing on and like every other woman on the planet, hid my unmentionables between my street clothes. We all do it. Yes, we understand that our doctor has probably seen a bra before but it doesn't matter. Playing pig in the blanket with our panties is part of our DNA.

Nurse Sue started an IV and introduced me to Dr. Feelgood, who shook my hand and told me he'd be captain of the narcotic express. He started my journey with a sweet little drug to help me relax. I was so happy. And I loved everyone. Everyone. Dr. Sexy Metro Boy chose this time to visit with me before the surgery. I managed to contain myself but unabashedly checked him out as he walked away from me. Shameless, I know.

The next thing I remember is waking up in hot, fiery hell. The pain was horrible. Nerve pain is distinctly different than anything I've ever experienced before. The meds don't kill it. They merely take the edge off. I also do not tolerate anaesthesia well and true to form, I got friendly with a bucket for most of the evening.

Today has been better and it's times like this that remind me how fortunate I am. My fridge is full of meals prepared by other people, my kids are with L & M, two of the most genuine, loving people on the planet, I have three enormous bouquets from people who care about me and I've received dozens of well wishes from my friends and family in the blogosphere. Who knew?

So I'll be in this sucky cast for the next 12 days and I will be forced to accept the help of others because I cannot tie a ponytail with one hand and I'm not flexible enough to get my damn foot up there. As uncomfortable and unfamiliar as I am with this particular set of circumstances, I am also profoundly grateful to be on the receiving end of so much love.

Surgery Day

Today is the day I get my nerve back. I'd be so much more excited if this didn't involve general anaesthesia, surgery casts and staples but numbies like me can't be choosy.

When I last met with Dr.Sexy Metro Boy, he told me that he was going to go in and release the five known compression points because you can't tell visually which one is the trouble maker. Five for the price of one. Who knew I'd get a Wal-Mart deal in the OR? Lucky me.

Next, he will bend my elbow and if the ulnar nerve stays in the cubital tunnel, I'm golden. If not, he will move the nerve from the bony part of the elbow to the soft inside part. Do you have a visual? No? Oh let me help you.



Gross, eh?

I'm sure everything will go well and the fringe benefit is that I'll have a doctor's note to be lit up like a Christmas tree for the next couple of days.

Is it me or is your head on fire?

Yesterday, I met with Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and his perfectly manicured hands, which will be slicing my elbow open next Wednesday morning. I did a bit of research on him over the past couple of weeks and learned that he is the chief of surgery at one of our local hospitals, which makes me feel better because he's likely encountered a nutter or two in his career. My insane ramblings after surgery will probably go completely unnoticed.

We were discussing pain and I asked him how much to expect.

That depends on my tolerance...blah...blah..

Okay, for giggles, let's just say that on a scale of one to ten with active, cold sweat producing, toe curling, transitional labour being an eleven, where would this surgery rank?

Eight.

I see. Can we talk narcotics?

After the visit, I made the mistake of calling my ex husband to let him know the details. The following is an excerpt of the conversation which has been edited because I may have been liberal in my use of the "f" word.

"Hi. My surgery has been scheduled for Wednesday."

"So?"

"So, the kids will need to stay with you Wednesday night and likely Thursday." (slight raise in blood pressure because....)

"No. No way. Wednesday night is the night I spend with my little lady. You did this on purpose. You'll have to call your doctor back and reschedule for another day. I'm not going to take any heat from my woman over this." (and there we have it)

Notice that he used terms like, "my little lady" and "my woman" with a straight face. I think he fancies himself some sort of Clint Eastwood in an old western.
At this point, I removed the phone from my ear fully expecting it to sprout legs and give me a lap dance because something had to be more absurd than the conversation.

"Oh, yes. That should be no problem. I'll just call up the busy surgeon and tell him that the available operating room time is not going to work for YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!! Is your head on fire?"

"You deliberately scheduled it on a Wednesday to try to put a kink in my plans with her."

**sound of crickets**

With that comment, I gently turned off the phone because I felt myself running beside his shock treatment crazy train and wanting to jump on board. Choo! Choo!

Dr. J and his little shop of horrors

I'm sitting here trying to find something to blog about except my arm. I don't want to do the whiny, woe is me thing (although I have that perfected) because most everything else in my life is just this side of fabulous.

I went to my appointment last week and I am happy to report that the NCS test was "uncomfortable". However, the EMG test is its own brand of special. I should probably tell you that this doctor was another hottie. He was fifty with a martini dry sense of humor and when he planted himself directly between my legs, put my arm on his lap and proceeded to measure and mark the soft inside of my forearm with a black pen, I might have been able to pretend that it was a sensual experience. Unfortunately, he ruined the moment when he poked the needles into my muscles and cranked up the electricity. From that point on, he was Satan. One interesting note: the Lamaze technique while completely useless in labour, was remarkably effective in contolling the screams that bubbled their way up my throat.

After the test was over, he told me that I was not a conservative treatment case. When they stick the needles into your muscles, you are supposed to hear either nothing or a low hum which means that muscles are oxygenated, happy and fully functional. On the other hand, wasting muscles sound a bit like frying bacon. Mine sounded like Sunday brunch was being served.

I left the office feeling a bit sorry for myself because the prospect of surgery concerned me on so many levels, the least of which is my ability to control myself verbally in recovery.

I drove through KFC for a bucket of grease to throw at the kids since I wasn't in the dinner making mood. I had put my cast back on and while paying for the chicken, the guy in the drive through asked me what the heck was wrong with my arm. I waved it off and said it was nothing...just a little nerve issue.

He asked, "Wow, is it your very last one?"

Oh honey, you have no idea.

Update

It's official.

Surgery.

Shit.