The day after my surgery, I woke up and threw myself a 10 minute pity party. I was exhausted from not sleeping well from discomfort. Not terrible discomfort, but constant. And I couldn’t find a comfortable position. Well, I was in one, but it was the only one that existed, and nothing is comfortable for 24 hours straight. I longed to shift my weight off my poor numb bottocks, I longed to be able to hoist myself upright on the mattress from where I had slid down over the night. I ached to just put my hands on the mat behind me, put my weight on them and schooch my butt properly under my torso like we usually do everyday without even noticing. But I could not. And my sister wasn’t there to distract me. Waannnhhhh! I cried like a four-year old.
Then I felt a little better. (I did!) I dried my eyes and soon after my sister came. Today I was awake, and the next days would begin what was a more enjoyable hospital stay than should be legal. This afternoon, my friend Bert and PJ came to see me. They brought me a few goodies. Books and such, and made me giggle.
We laugh about the fact that there’s a sign on my bathroom door, prohibiting visitors from using my bathroom, apparently because of the presence of radioative material. This is indicated by the familiar icon, in red and black.
We giggle about the possibility that they can’t use my bathroom cause it’s dangerous, that there’s radiation in my toilet. They ask me with a stright face if my shit is radioactive. Jen says that’s why they make me wear underwear, cause I was keeping the other patients awake when I walked down the hall (with the bright radioactive light shining out my arse). It feels good to laugh, and it’s ridiculously easy to do so. I am lucky to have good friends.