It has been a terrifically busy weekend, followed by an even busier Monday.
I had a little out-patient surgery at the hospital on Friday. It’s nothing to worry your pretty little heads about, but listen: the general anesthetic and I are not on friendly terms with one another. I made the bold proclamation early on to both the doctor AND the anesthesiologist that HELLO! MY NAME IS MAMA, AND YES, I WILL THROW UP.
And the anesthesiologist declared, “That’s okay; a lot of people will throw up a little bit.”
I told him, “It’s the little bit part that’s all wrong. I will put you in a place of Puke Euphoria.”
And, people, I held firm to my word. I came out of anesthetic, and I proceeded to puke my guts up every three minutes for nearly four hours.
Oh, Anesthesia. How I hate thee.
I eventually showed everyone that four common medications for nausea were plum useless on me. Med Number Five was the lucky winner, because the doctor had reached his hand into the Reserve Vault for the last remaining syringe of serum for nausea which was to be used ONLY if the planet spins off its axis and falls through the galaxy and the President needs to stay somewhat UN-DIZZY in order to continue to conduct business, and had slammed that needle straight into the muscle of my thigh.
And then the bedspins stopped. And the puking stopped. And the doctor and the nurses and the anesthesiologist all breathed enormous sighs of relief that I wasn’t going to code out on them, and I went home.
And the anesthesiologist said to me, “You. Weren’t. Joking. I have never seen a person throw up THAT MUCH before!”
Yes. I tend to keep my word.
So the end to Friday.
That little syringe labeled NUMBER FIVE SPECIAL turned out to be a narcotic that knocked me out cold for fourteen hours of sleep.
So the weekend?
There are a lot of blank spaces for me, people.
And because of all that, TODAY was a very busy Monday, because listen: I had to get my hair done. I told Hubs on Friday morning, before my little procedure, “Honey, I know I’m going to be nauseated and puke SOME. But under no circumstances am I to miss my hair appointment on Monday morning! I don’t care if it takes you and four of your friends to get me in a wheelchair and drag me to the salon while I’m unconscious and puking like a drunken sailor; please get me there! My roots are showing their true age.”
My hair is back to its usual youthful luster now, and I have spent the entire day pounding the potatoes out of my computer keyboard here at home so that I could write our family’s annual Christmas letter, and then I mailed out the holiday cards this afternoon.
And then we had dodgeball to attend to this evening, where the boy and his teammates on The Bullets managed to tie two games in a row.
But we didn’t chip a tooth in this dodgeball game, so WIN.
And now, I would just like to tell y’all that I am 100% fully recovered from my little surgery, my spinning head has been restored to just the USUAL AMOUNT OF SPINNING that goes on every day in my crazy brain, and my Christmas work is done.
I would feel really caught up and smug right now, too, if my house didn’t look like the Seven Dwarfs lived here.
And really? That’s all I have to write about tonight. I’ve written so many words for our annual Christmas letter that I can’t even generate anything interesting this evening.
So carry on, and I’ll try to be back with something a smidgen more worthwhile tomorrow night.
Happy Monday, people.