Let's Not Focus on the Negative, Shall We?

Blurgh...blah, blah, blah...I had emergency gall bladder surgery followed by over six hours in which various and sundry nurses poked needles into my body trying to replace the IV which had fallen out, meaning I had no pain relief for six hours following surgery. Some 30 pokes with a needle later, a man showed up and put a PICC line in my arm. For those of you not familiar with this sort of thing...he cut a hole in my upper right arm on the inside...found one of my very uncooperative veins, and inserted a long tube that delivered saline and whatever meds the nurses saw fit to give me directly to my heart. So, finally, after six agonizing (worse than when I pushed the midget out of my girlie parts, without medication, and a bit longer as well), the PICC line guy walked in after the chest Xray that showed whether he had gotten the line in the right place and said, "Well, I have good news and bad news........(long pause in which I briefly considered quick and painless ways to kill myself without the three people in the room with me stopping me) The good news is there is no bad news." I thought my sister (who held my hair while I vomited from the pain and handed me cold cloths and kept the world updated and tried really hard not to cry herself) was going to launch herself over my bed and murder him. Finally they gave me the drugs and I cried with joy. Did I mention that my kid witnessed me vomiting from pain? Yeah, awesome.

But, here we are...a week after surgery and my staples have been removed, and despite the nasty stomach bug that's putting me through the wringer at the moment...I'm mostly okay. I've lost 15 pounds, and I'm covered in bruises from the many failed IV attempts, but I'm okay...well as okay as I usually am.

I've got an appointment with the Stanford Rheumatology clinic on Monday, and I'm really looking forward to finding a decent plan of treatment for my arthritis, etc...

Anyway, the good happy stuff is what I want to focus on. See, for the last few years I have been rat free. When my last rat passed away a couple of years ago, I decided to simplify my life a bit, and be rat free. Then, my niece bought a couple of pet store rats and against my very strenuous objections, mated them. The resulting two litters were more than she could handle, and the midget and I had been discussing the possibility (okay the midget begged and pleaded and I considered) of getting more rats, and so now we're a rat home again.

We've got three precious little dumbo ratties...one has curly rex hair, two are white and one has a light, champagne colored hood. They are only two months old and it's been ages since I've had little rats and had forgotten what charming little clowns baby rats are. This last week has been difficult, but it's helped to watch the sweet little babies bounce around...watching one build elaborate nests in a tube hammock while his brother busily dismantles it...it's great fun.

So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce my new sweet boys.
On the left is Dre, a champagne hooded boy, in the middle is Buster, a rex PEW (pink-eyed white), and Cee Lo on the left is a sweet little PEW boy. They are so fun and so sweet, so while I really wish my niece had listened to me and not brought new rats in the world when the shelters are bulging with available babies, I am glad they're here.

Oh, Demerol...how I've missed you...

I ended up at the ER tonight...well, actually I guess it would be technically last night since it is now the wee hours of the morning, but since I have yet to sleep, we're going to call it tonight. Back off, okay, bitches? I'm on drugs...

Ahem...where was I? Oh, ER...that's right.

So, I awoke this morning feeling like roadkill, and not even fresh roadkill, more like two day old roadkill. Upon entering the bathroom and inspecting myself in the mirror (which, I now admit was a really bad idea) I noticed that apparently someone had filled me up like a water balloon while I was sleeping. My entire self was puffy...it was not pretty.

I noticed right off the bat that my hands were in more pain than usual and the knee pain...well, if I tell you that it took me about five minutes to get up the courage to stand up, would that give you an idea of how much pain I was in? Not pretty.

But, I'm a lone wolf these days...single caregiver of a Type 1 child. That means sticking it out as long as I can. I called and made an appointment with my doctor, but the earliest he could get me in was on Thursday and he didn't want to prescribe anything without seeing me. Fair enough, but I was in motherfucking pain.

Now, if you're new here, and you got here by googling "snake poo" you probably don't know (or care) that I have a host of health issues. The bottom line is that my immune system is a lifelong charter member the I Hate the Queen of the Universe fan club. It doesn't like me much and for reasons of it's own it attacks perfectly healthy tissue, pretty much at whim. It's already claimed my thyroid, wreaked havoc on my intestines and done irreparable damage to my knee joints. Basically, my immune system is an asshole.

What that means is that an infection...any infection...is going to fuck up my entire body. A normal person gets a cold and their immune system happily sends out little cold specific antibodies and that's that. My immune system goes haywire and while it fights the infection it also fights the healthy tissue. Like..."Hey, her bladder has bacteria and we should do something about that..and while we're at it, let's take out this tissue here, because it is totally time to remodel."

At about five this evening it became apparent that whatever was going on was going to need intervention, preferably intervention that involved a morphine drip and a bottomless margarita.

My regular doc (who is totally pissed at me because I've been very remiss in regards to my own health because of the midget's diabetes) was not going to do anything, so I called my cousin, and she came and drove the midget and I to the hospital where a very nice doctor took one look at me and said the most beautiful words a girl can hear.."would you like a pain shot while we wait for test results?" Um...does a motherfucking bear shit in the motherfucking woods? Hell yeah I want a pain shot...and can I get a couple in a doggie bag?

So, an hour and a bit of demerol later, the results came back that I'm suffering from a particularly nasty UTI (which, by the way, I had no symptoms of) and the resulting inflammation from my very over active immune system.

The nice doctor man, who at that was kind of fuzzy around the edges and who totally deserves some kick ass theme music...I'm thinking "Chariots of Fire"...gave me antibiotics and prednisone and percocet. I left the ER actually smiling and not in pain. I then went to Taco Bell and had the best motherfucking quesadilla ever.

It was decided by all present (meaning me, my cousin, the midget and my four year old niece) that it was probably not a great idea to send me home alone with the midget while I was hopped up on demerol, so I'm staying the night at my cousin's house and Charlie is totally fucking bent out of shape and keeps trying to get me to go home.

Of course, it doesn't mean that someone else is doing middle of the night checks for high blood sugars, no that's all me...but at least if she is high or low, there's another adult around who can supervise me and make sure I administer insulin, instead of say...vodka...which is also a clear liquid, but would be considerably harder to draw up into an insulin syringe...

Ah...it's 2am at last which means it's time to test the midget and then, hopefully, get some sleep. I sincerely hope this post makes sense...if not just disregard it, and I apologize for the five minutes of your life you wasted reading this. Five minutes that probably could have been better used watching internet porn or trolling Craigslist for meth or goats or hookers or some combination of the three...

Full Disclosure?

Warning: This post definitely falls under the TMI category...

I keep coming back to the same question with this here blog thingy. Now, in my opinion, having a blog is a bit like having a memoir you publish whilst you are living it. You know, so you don't forget the good bits. (Unless, of course, you are like me and have and forget what you're doing in the time it takes to walk from one end of the house to the other, then you forget the good bits as you go, anyway.) There are problems with that theory, of course. Now, if you're like me and you have your very own anti-fan club, then anything you say will definitely be mangled and twisted into a weapon to use against you and those you love. Or there's the fact that while you may not have a problem with airing all your dirty laundry for the world to see, the people who are part of your daily life maybe don't want their lives exposed for all and sundry to see. And, of course, there are the readers who know you in the real world who maybe don't want to hear about your sexual exploits (hi, Mom) or see your naked pictures. But, dammit...You all (all two of my readers)have been warned many, many times...if you're still coming here, I refuse to be held responsible.

Why is this coming up again? Because for the first time in eight very long months, I've had sex. Glorious, uncomplicated, no strings sex. And it was awesome. It was exactly what I needed, without all the gory relationship crap that I really, really don't need. It reaffirms my belief that monogamous, committed relationships aren't for me. It was not awkward or weird and there are no expectations on either end. And you know what? I feel no guilt, no shame, no embarrassment. We both got exactly what we wanted out of the experience and said good night and went our separate ways.

I hesitated to say anything about it for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that I don't want to answer a lot of questions about this person, because while I genuinely care for this person, it's not the kind of caring that's going to lead to any kind of a relationship type thing. Even if I was in a place emotionally or logistically to have a relationship, this just wouldn't be going there. And hell, I really don't even know if it's going to happen again, well with this person, I mean...because sex will be happening again. Eight months was too long, I can't see hanging up my...erm...bits and pieces...at the very, very young age of 33.

It was healing, and refreshing and goddammit, life-affirming. I am still here, still someone besides a mom, besides a sister or a cousin or a friend. I'm a woman in my own right, and proud of it. And walking around with a bit of a cat who ate the canary smirk this week....