Which is to say, that there is nothing glamorous about any sort of -ectomy. Humorous, yes. Glamorous, no.
Remember how I told you I received clearance to be all active again? (Well, it didn't include "active" - if you know what I mean.) And I should've known better than to report to my doctor that I felt awesome and hadn't needed anything for pain since 2 weeks post surgery, because my bladder heard that and said, "Oh yeah?"
And here we are a week later, with me having pains like I did with my ectopic pregnancy*, waiting for lab results to come back and in the meantime I get to take something that turns my pee orange with the promise of numbing things up. Sidenote: it's not working. I feel like I'm ninety and I walk like it too.
IDEA!: Glam up cane.
TO BUY: Feathers? Sequins?
The good news is that a freaked-out, angry bladder makes the pain in my back feel like a cake walk. I've got a pinched nerve or strained muscle something or other. I can't believe I was complaining about it, could I please have that problem back (pun intended)?
And lastly, a confession:
I've decided to take one for the team, and I'm starting something for anxiety. My one problem, and it's a doozy, with anti-anxiety/anti-depressants is that those I've tried have left me feeling depressed--in the sense that nothing sounds interesting besides chocolate: not people, not showers, not even crawling out of bed--and yet, strangely, they render me completely tearless. I become Robot Chocolate Mom.
This is my dilemma, because in taking anti-anxiety meds, I literally lose myself.
I know this means that maybe I haven't found just the right fit yet, but maybe it says something that I am still willing to try. At any rate, Robot Chocolate Mom is preferable to Beyotchy Mom, right?
What would you do?
* in case you are wondering this feels similar to a twisting knife in your nethers, or like someone is trying to make fresh-squeezed OJ from your organs, or like a angry leprechaun is tap-tap-tappiting a wicked jig on your ovaries...
