Image is Everything - Part One

I will explain my prolonged absence from this blog as best to my abilities permit me to do so. So, after this post I had my surgery and it surprisingly went very well and I recovered fully within 4 weeks. No complications, and best of all, with a new battery, I felt like the Energizer bunny. For reasons external to my health, I had hit a serious wall of crushing depression about 6 weeks before the surgery, so with this new found energy, I was really looking forward to getting my life back on track. 

It was November, I was back into a hobby I'd all but abandoned for close to a decade, and to stave off the depression, I decided to focus on personal projects and my friends. I'd determined that the impending 2014 was going to be HELLA HELLA HELLA: I was maid of honor for two friends, a bridesmaid for my sister, and attending another wedding. Seriously, when it comes to a wedding, this is me:

I was also PSYCHED for camp and getting a very early start at volunteering - and just as I started Ye Olde Job Hunt again, I noticed a funny little lump just under my left tit. I ignored it for a couple of weeks, but finally showed it to TEAM RACHAEL! after describing it on the phone. I don't know why I wasn't terribly worried from the get-go, as I am usually the first to assume the worst. Regardless, I was floored when the team told me it was a hernia.
 A hernia?! A hernia?! How the fuck...how the fuck can that even be? Hernias are for old men who drink and eat like a gout-ridden English king. Alas, it is never that cut and dry. My hernia was most likely caused by years of trauma to my abdominal wall via surgery. The pacemaker battery replacement was merely the straw that broke the camels back. 


What is worse, I would have to deal with the ornery surgeon who performed said pacemaker surgery (the more prolific the surgeon = the shittier their bedside manner) and we would have to find a time that worked for both of us. There was no way I was going to risk missing out on any of the weddings - and as both hernias and my own personal recovery times are equally unpredictable, the surgery kept getting pushed back.

Then, more disappointments:

I had to ditch the job hunt. No point in going to the trouble of employment just to have my ass get fired for being out for an unknown period of time.

I had to then ditch camp - something I am still pissed off about to this day. I should not have listened to TR! on that one. Goddamn I am still angry about that.

Long story short, my surgery did not take place until 11 months after it was initially diagnosed. 

And let me tell you..it was pure hell.

-- TO BE CONTINUED -- 

Down the Rabbit Hole Again

Well it's that time again - Surgery Time! Oh, boy oh boy.

So this will be a quick update because I need to be in bed asleep in about oh two hours ago. I have to check in at 4:45am. A.M.

You guys. That is my bed time.

My surgery is scheduled at 7:30 and I am just ugh. Yeah. 

So I am winding down now.

I don't even know what the hell to write anymore, to be honest. 

I don't like surgery.

Not even a little bit.

It's a necessary part of my life, however, especially when it is maintenance shit. That part I am OK with. It's the fracking recovery time that just makes me want to punch everyone.

And after not one but two reschedules I just want to get this shit over with.

Stay tuned. 

Impending Surgery

My surgery is scheduled for Oct. 1st, which is in roughly 12 days time. I'd have scheduled it soon, but I really wanted to make my Seattle trip. I'm not just visiting friends but also attending a food bloggers conference. I flew in yesterday and felt totally plagued - and of course I forgot all of my anti-plague wards so I had to drop nearly $30 at the homeopathic store and down nasty ass propolis. 

My tummy is aching from emergen-C and I am tired as fuck, but I am feeling a bit better. Today is the last sunny day I'll have before a down pour, but I decided to be an adult and spend it indoors at my friends house to rest up and reserve my energy for the conference itself. I am thankful my room situation sorted itself out most favorably and I won't have to keep trekking back and forth as I initially planned. While this trip is all about friends, food and fun I am also being extra mindful about my energy level and just taking it easy.

Night time is the worst because my heart rate picks up a bit, especially when laying down, so I have to find that perfect position which will enable me to sleep. Funky beats and rhythm is to be expected, but so long as I can keep anything truly emergency room worthy from happening, all the better. 

I have to be honest and say I am very relieved this surgery is happening and rather quickly after my return at that. My heart makes sleeping, breathing, and let's just say it, living my life really uncomfortable right now. A new pacemaker means renewed energy, something of which I am desperately short in.

Tick, Tick, Tick BOOM!

I start every morning off reading another chapter in a book of a series I am revisiting. It is one of my favorite series - The Nightrunner Series - by Lynn Flewelling. I am not a reader of fantasy, but Lynn is just that good of a fucking writer. The last book of The Nightrunner Series is due out next April and in anticipation of crying myself to sleep every night after I conclude the adventures of characters I love more than some of the real flesh and blood people in my life, I am rereading all of the books. Just so the wound will sting all the more.

I began Monday morning with my new ritual, and while I was lounging quietly in bed a sudden sensation overcame me. Internally. It was as if someone had dimmed the lights inside of my body, with the main switch being my heart. A sneaky suspicion overtook me, and after I concluded that chapter (come on now, I wasn't dying) I stuck the marker in my book and went to submit a transmission of a pacemaker report.

Within an hour, I received a phone call and my suspicion was confirmed: My pacemaker had fallen back on its reserve energy power. It's time to schedule the surgery to replace the battery. Not normally that big of a deal as far as procedures go, but this one is for me. To slightly paraphrase myself from an earlier post:

See, the issue is recovery and how long it is going to take my body to do so. Everyone, myself above all else, is biting their nails about this relatively simple procedure because of the nature of my history and anatomy. My pacemaker is located in my left abdomen, in a pocket under muscle, and the procedure will require the surgeon to reopen the latter part of my open heart scar - which is not something I desire. Given my history with fluid retention at the slightest provocation, everyone is anticipating that I am going to run into a similar issue that I found myself dealing with shortly after the last procedure in 11/2011. Now, I wasn't on the mega high dose of diuretics last time as I am now. So this may very well tip the scales in the favor of a speedier recovery.  

I'm not holding my breath for a speedy recovery, to be honest. I am anticipating the long road filled with weekly trips to the gastrointestinal doctor, another abdominal tap or two and just a lot of frustration and being run ragged again. 

Annoying still, my life has to be put on hold in a way I was not prepared for. As my battery crapped out earlier than I was expecting it to, I have to cancel a heap of plans I'd made for October - including a trip to Seattle and two fun food related events I was invited to as media. I have to put my dating life on hold. My friendships. My main blog will suffer. I've just reconnected with my dad, whose own health is on a constant roller coaster. All of this has to go on the back burner again, and it fucking sucks. I'm not saying this stuff is more important than my health, because it isn't, but it is still irritating.

Some days I wonder why I can't just go out and get a job like a normal person.
Some days I wonder why I can't just hold down a job, any job, and collect a paycheck and live on my own and pay rent and live the life that most of the population in the western world leads.

Then one morning while casually reading in bed a piece of machinery I need to function suddenly needs a battery via surgical intervention and I have to hit the pause button once more, and say to myself, "Oh yeah. This is why I can't have nice things."

You Are Full of the Disappoint!

So I have big plans for this year. Big plans. Enormous plans. Plans that will theoretically take me out of the country for months at a time. However, I need to get my pacemaker battery switched out. As of December, its life expectancy is "3-18 months" which is a fucking joke of a range considering how much can happen in that amount of time. 

What people seem to fail to realize - from both the Professional Patient and the Totally Ignorant People - is that my life has to come to complete halt when shit like this pops up. But putting my life on hold for "3 to 18 months" just doesn't fly with me. I have plans. I want to make good on those plans. But I don't want to be caught in another country when my pacemaker decides to say "fuck it, I'm out." I want this to not be a concern of mine. I want to be able to get on a plane and just go.

Why didn't my electro-physiologist just advise me to get this done straightaway? I would have had this shit scheduled the first week of January and dollars to donuts I wouldn't be sitting here at 10:00pm on a Monday angrier than I've been in a long time. No. He just shrugs and tells me something like "I'd take the gamble." I listen because 
1) I respect the man's opinion
2) Let's be real; I am not happy about going through another goddamn surgery

I think #2 is just the reason why a casual attitude has been put on up until now, though. Everybody is terrified of what my body is going to do once it gets knifed up again. After discussing the matter with a friend, though, I realized what a damn moron I am being and I need to schedule this event right away and just get it the hell over with. But I needed to plan a trip for March or February. So that shaves another 10 days off of my ever ticking calendar and by the time the ball gets rolling the frothing harpy who guards the scheduling book is just unrelenting in every way imaginable. The earliest date to get this show on the road? February 25th.
The date I need to get on a plane? March 14th.

I'm livid. I'm livid at everyone involved, myself included of course.

I am just at a total loss of where to go and what to do. Do I cancel my first trip? Do I postpone the surgery until late March, giving me just barely over a month to recover before the big trip? Do I risk postponing it until I have a few months between traveling?
I don't know. I just don't know. 

See, the issue is recovery and how long it is going to take my body to do so. Everyone, myself above all else, is biting their nails about this relatively simple procedure because of the nature of my history and anatomy. My pacemaker is located in my left abdomen, in a pocket under muscle, and the procedure will require the surgeon to reopen the latter part of my open heart scar - which is not something I desire. I'd rather have a brand new lateral scar, to be honest, but I told him go with whatever is easiest. Given my history with fluid retention at the slightest provocation, everyone is anticipating that I am going to run into a similar issue that I found myself dealing with shortly after the last procedure in 11/2011. Now, I wasn't on the mega high dose of diuretics last time as I am now. So this may very well tip the scales in the favor of a speedier recovery. 

Who knows. (The Shadow knows!) It's a gamble. It did not help that I thought the consultation I went to on Friday was going to be super casual and the surgeon ended up triggering me (unintentionally, of course) into some heavy PTSD feels. I was really one step away from breathing into a paper bag. He didn't intend to, obviously, but he didn't want to give me any illusions as to what to expect, worst case scenario. He didn't want to sugarcoat it as a simple Duracell battery switch out - which is, to be honest, what I thought it was going to be.

I don't know. Right now I can't make any hard core decisions until I talk to TEAM RACHAEL! and hear what they say. I'm a grown-ass woman, I make my own mind up obviously, but their input is valued above all else.

I just really wish people had been upfront and honest with me from the very get-go of what this procedure entails. It would have saved me a lot of time and grief and I'd have made sure to set aside the necessary time to heal properly. I cannot continuously put my life on hold for bullshit caused by miscommunication and people in my life who flat out refuse to communicate honestly and effectively with me.

He ate the liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti

When I checked in at UCLA Hospital via Foursquare I wrote, "They're eating my liver and drinking my blood!" I hope that made someone's day. When I was lying around in pre-op waiting for that blasted Moriarty! to show himself I jokingly said to my nurse Beatriz and mom, "He's going to eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."
To which my mother replied, "Yuck! Chianti is too sweet! You want something dryer than that!"
Thus ruining my Silence of the Lambs joke but making me laughing my ass off nonetheless.

My procedure got pushed back by an hour and there was no television to watch or drawers to rifle through as I usually like to commit petty acts of larceny whenever I'm in for a few hours. I can always blame it on the loopy meds if I am caught.

So, I suppose I am doing that thing wherein I assume Everyone Important To Me Ever just automatically understands why I am having a liver biopsy but I've found myself having to explain over and over again. Time to just explain in blog format so I can impersonally redirect any inquiries to this post.

A long, long time ago (in a galaxy not so far, far away) I had a two-part procedure called The Norwood and The Fontan. It was in its, ah, third? revision phase at that time and my surgery was performed by the titular Dr. Norwood himself. In other words, I had the best surgery at the time, performed by the best guy who could have done the job.
One of the drawbacks to the Fontan, however, is that my pulmonary veins put pressure on my liver. My liver is slightly enlarged and extra sensitive because of this. TEAM RACHAEL! likes to keep an eye on my liver in addition to my heart because of the relation by surgery. We keep a lookout for erosion and cirrhosis. So far, external and on-invasive methods have come back with very reassuring results. However, the only way to truly know what's going on with a liver is to conduct a biopsy. Hence, yesterday's procedure.

I won't know my results for a little while yet but my cardiologist, ever two steps ahead of the game, sneaked in to take pulmonary function measures. My NP's swung by to visit when I was waking up and told me my function is "11" which I am told is the best it can possibly be. Good news to hear indeed!

I would be feeling a lot better right now if it weren't for my eyes, of all things. I was asked to forgo general anesthesia in favor of heavy sedation; meaning I'd be asleep-ish and so out of it that I'd have no knowledge of what was going on and would not feel or remember anything. In spite of its date-rapey overtones, I agreed so long as I'd not feel a damn thing including the numbing agents. The anesthesiologist was very professional, friendly and confident. True to form, I do not recall anything. However, when I came to, my eyes were in excruciating pain. Most likely this is because my eyes were open and sucking in all of that dry, artificial sterile air. Joy. So they're extra sensitive at the moment and I am carrying around eye drops to help along the re-hydration process.
Otherwise I have two incision sights:
1) Where the tube for the paracentesis went in on my right side, which is only tender if I attempt to sleep/lie on it.
 2) My neck, where they went in through a vein to fetch a piece of my liver. It really does look like a botched vampire attack. I secretly tell myself it was Louis Pointe du Lac; he grabbed me, tried to take a bite, realized he was fucking up and ran away in guilt and shame.

Thanks for your well wishes. I am looking forward to getting back to my regularly schedule of mindless cat videos and deadline avoidance.

So. We Meet Again, Moriarty.

Tomorrow morning I have an out-patient procedure scheduled with the nefarious Dr. Moriarty. During my last check-up with TEAM RACHAEL! in June I said I would be up for another paracentesis so long as I was, in layman's terms, knocked the fuck out. My cardiologist decided this was the perfect opportunity to exert his powers for evil and scheduled a liver biopsy as well.
These are not Bad Things or Shit We Need To Stress Over at the moment. The former is helping out the excess fluid that had accumulated after my November surgery and the latter is something that has been on the docket since around 2009. There was no evidence to suggest an urgent need for a biopsy, though, so the Doc has just been lying in wait (like a snake) for an opportunity like this to present itself. They first wanted to schedule it right away, at the end of June/beginning of July. I had personal business going on, however, and didn't need another source of stress piled on top of everything I've been dealing with. Additionally, I wanted to celebrate my birthday as well so it had to be scheduled afterward, hence tomorrow. Not exactly an ideal time regardless but better now than never.

I have to say, I am entering in this situation with a little bit more trepidation than I normally would for an outpatient procedure. Primarily my concerns stem from the last paracentesis which went down as one of the most painful experience of my life. That and the last time I was under anesthetic I woke up to find myself in months of blundering medical bullshit.

Regardless, I'm going through with it so wish me luck and a quick, efficient, virtually painless recovery.

Taken from the community

I belong to an online group of adult congenital heart defect patients. I rarely put in my two cents or create a topic of my own but I do pop in from time to time, especially when friends of mine post. There was a topic that came up recently - the original content is irrelevant and a private matter I'm not going to hit the spotlight with right now - but the topic, as always, derailed as people started talking about themselves (as we are all wont to do) and bounce from subject to subject.
I had my own thoughts on some of the side-topics that came up, however, I'm one whose eyeball twitches when the discussion I pose goes off topic and I did not want to be a hypocrite and do that to someone else, so I decided to bring it here.

One topic that came up was the idea of dating a person with a CHD.
I was never attracted to the idea of dating another CHDer - I have enough drama in my own exam room, I don't want his as well. I had enough problems just making friends in this community and allowing myself to give a crap & care and all of that vulnerable junk... I didn't have the luxury of Camp del Corazon (though I could have...Loma Linda *glare*) nor friends outside of the hospital with a similar condition. I never grew up realizing how difficult it is to love someone with a serious illness, to allow them into your life and potentially have to lose them. I know, I know, ANYONE we let into our lives has the potential to have a piano fall on their head and leave us prematurely but death from a betrayal in our own genetic code/failure of science or whatever is just shit. Plus, and I know it sounds egotistical, but it makes us dwell on our own mortality and raises fears & questions nobody wants to face.
In the subsequent years following my entering the CHD community (by way of volunteering at camp) I have lost a couple of people. Children, in fact. That shit stings like a wasp with your name tattooed on it.
So it was never even a consideration or a fleeting thought to date another CHDer. I don't want to go through what my mom, my brother, my friends and my boyfriend have gone through. I don't want to feel what they feel when I go to the emergency room. I don't want to have the scary thoughts about losing someone I love. I dealt with that once - when my brother was in a car accident. I never want to look at a loved one in a gurney again.


Another topic that came up is a super sensitive, highly individualized one: reproduction, what we believe is best for ourselves (as individuals) and how it is approached in a relationship.

I'm not saying this to brag but my guy helped me find the strength to go through with my recent partial hysterectomy. I don't believe in risking the chance of a pregnancy - that small chance of a "miracle" just wasn't that alluring to me. I get the smug satisfaction of adoption instead - but I also had the good fortune of having the idea planted in my head as a small kid. I've elaborated on that before so I won't go into it again but the point is I found a guy who didn't give a damn that I won't bear the fruit of his loins. Some other broad can do that for the right price! I don't even want to use my eggs and thank goodness my guy is with me on that front too because genetics are not in my favor. I want my potential future baby to have a fighting chance, health-wise, and if I have to get a little Gattica about it, so be it.

Aside: I resent the word "miracle" being thrown around when describing the ability to give birth. That's not a miracle, that's science. Miracle by definition is an unexplainable phenomena, usually attributed to supernatural/religious forces. The female reproductive system and gestation of a fetus to infant is perfectly explainable. It's an insult to the technological advances of science through the laborious work of scientists, researchers and doctors everywhere that someone would wrap their hard work up in a tidy word like "miracle." Unless, of course, you just mean it as a synonym for "marvel" as in "the miracle of science." I'm cool with that.

Slow as moleasses

This recovery has been brutally slow and even painful. I knew to anticipate a couple of weeks, even a month, worth of discomfort, but I am pushing close upon six weeks and my body is still warped and out of proportion. It has kind of sucked the motivation out of me to do anything - work, blogging, going out or basically doing anything other than rotting my brains on TV and Netflix.

The level of discomfort is astounding. Imagine your belly swells twice (or more) the size it is now, stretching your skin as far as it can humanly go, your veins bulging, your organs pushed against the walls inside and all the while it feels like you ate your way through a Las Vegas buffet. Oh, and speaking of eating and drinking, no matter how hungry you are, you won't be able to eat much because of the fullness.

That's what my life is right now.

It's not pretty and it's certainly not at all comfortable.

So if I'm not up on my usual funny and witty banter you know why.

Surgery and Subsequent Illness

My surgery went well. Very well. I went in on Wednesday morning and I was released Saturday afternoon. Yes I was in pain and discomfort, but no more than I expected to be considering the nature of the surgery. Sleeping was going to be difficult but I was working it out.
My mom went back to work Monday and my sister and niece came over to work on my matted hair and keep me company. Tuesday my friend Steffie planned to come over. I was finally getting my appetite back and I asked her if she wanted to combine our efforts to make sandwiches. I had bacon and tomato, could she bring bread and lettuce? Sure. So she does, and she makes us some BLTs.

A few hours later, after Steffie had gone home, I am in chills but hot with fever. I am scolded by my family for overreacting and being dramatic and they use an old busted thermometer that doesn't read properly just to throw it in my face that I don't have a fever.

That night was horrible. I couldn't sleep. I was in and out of the washroom every hour. In the morning I was feeling awful, like I had the flu. All I wanted was ginger ale and crackers (which was brought to me by a loving family friend). I had been emailing my cardiac team about various ailments and once I spoke of my washroom issues they demanded I get to urgent care immediately.

I went that late afternoon to find out I had a temperature of 102.4

They gave me fluids and antibiotics via IV. I felt better but as soon as they were done I felt instantly shitty again and the fever returned. They wanted to send me to UCLA in an ambulance but because I don't own one of them money trees I declined and my mom drove me. I went to the ER and waited for an hour to be taken back.

The initial thought/fear was that something went wrong with the surgery OR I contracted a bacteria from merely being in the hospital. I was in the ER all Wednesday night, unable to find any comfort. This is also due to the loud, crass and obnoxious son of the man in the bed next to me who visited with his giggly trophy girlfriend until 3:00am, never once lowering their voices in respect for the person four feet away from them.
I was given a physical examine, a CT scan, blood tests, other fluid tests, etc. and finally admitted and taken up to a room by...oh, I think early afternoon Thursday.
I was given an ultrasound, x-rayed and had blood taken from me every morning at least.
Nothing.
They never found anything.

I was seen by OB/GYN staff, cardiac team, a gastrointestinal team, and an infectious diseases team. None of these people found anything, even when I realized that Steffie mentioned being sick too and we put 2 and 2 together with the lettuce and the timing of our mutual illness. She had similar symptoms (I don't know if she ever got a fever)

They broadened their search to include e.coli and listeria - maybe even hepatitis - but still nothing. They had me on antibiotics just as a precautionary but they really didn't know what they were fighting. They kept insisting it must be a virus that just needed to "run its course"
This never sat well with me.
I think they missed something or a test came up incorrectly negative.
Once I was able to break my nightly fevers I was able to go home - Tuesday the 22nd, five and a half days later.

Those were five miserable fucking days, my friends, let me tell you.

They sent me home simply because they had to admit they found nothing and could not treat me. So in their expensive degree wisdom they simply advised me to let this virus "run its course"

Yeah. It's still running its course, nearly one week later. No fevers but I've had some backlash from my heart in the form of sudden palpitations (my coumadin spiked very high at the beginning of this mystery illness and they released me with instructions not to take my coumadin. Bad move)

Truly, I do not feel out of the woods with this illness. I feel like I'm going to either be living with it for a very long time or until they wise up and look again. Which they may very well have to because if this illness doesn't "run its course" by the end of this week I will be going back (as an out patient most likely).

Surgery-wise, I feel stronger and less sore each day. I am sleeping a lot better and feel that I am healing very well.

I just wish this stupid virus/bacteria would go the fuck away.

how to visit someone recovery from surgery 101

NOTE: I wrote this very early upon my first return home, on my phone. It had an error I couldn't correct and I was unable to get to it before I wound up in the hospital again for another 6 days. I am publishing this post now, but keep in mind when it was originally intended to be published.

I am typing this from my bed at home, so cut me slack on errors that normally wouldn't occur. I have been home for about 36 hours and am already being asked by well-meaning friends when they can come and burden their presence on me, er, I mean graciously visit. I realize now there needs to be a list of things people need to be made aware of when visiting a friend (in this case, me) after surgery.

1) just because I am home does not mean I am well. I am well enough to be home, but not well enough to hang out like normal. I am still in pain.

2) don't ask me how I am feeling every 5 seconds. You know how I feel? Like I just had surgery! Save this question for a week or so out.

3) never just swing by unannounced. It's not fun for me.

4) please do not expect me to be a hostess during your visit. Plan to come by on the way to or from food unless we made plans to eat at my place together. Expect to serve yourself.

5) I tire easily. Keep your visit short or I may doze off on you!

6) I just went through a traumatic experience. If you don't want the gory details, be mindful not to ask.

7) at least in my case, anesthesia sticks around longer than I'd like it to. Crying over stupid shit isn't unheard of. Keep the conversation light and don't expect me to watch anything more dark than Care Bears or Pee-Wee.

8) I look as crappy as I feel. Be prepared and don't make comments.

9) don't take it personally if I am not ready to see you. Once I am comfortable receiving guests I will let you know (or make a general announcement)

10) although I'd never make you my nurse, you may have to help me out. Just be understanding and know I appreciate it.

Keeping an eye on the Pie

Thought I abandoned you, didn't you? Never, my love monkey's, never. Just when you think I've disappeared into the virtual ether, leaving you alone in the matrix of the grid, BAM! I pop back up like a bonus pinball.

Anyway. Less than a week left before my surgery and I bet you've been asking yourselves, "Wow, certainly Rachael has had so many missteps along the way, surely she would want to bitch about them on Offbeat Follies?"

Believe it or not, I've heard hide nor hair from anyone until yesterday. The ball has officially begun to roll and it's a pretty smooth, well communicated course. I have some labs to take care of either today or tomorrow (the only drama there being whether or not I have to hike it all of the way to UCLA to get it done) and I just got off the phone with a pleasant woman talking to me about anesthesia (probably the 2nd most source of anxiety when it comes to surgery as Me + Anesthesia = Hot Mess)

As we're coming down to the wire though I'm not afraid to share that I've been feeling a little...hesitant, shall we say? Not for any logical reason, oh, no, because these attacks of doubts are usually preceded by a visual assault of cute in the form of baby pictures from not one, not two but FIVE friends who have given birth in the last eight months. It takes all of my self-control to not post on their Wall and ask, "Tell me about how much labor hurt, how fat your ass grew, how much your infant looked like a squalling pile of alien goo and that you were swallowing the urge to scream KILL IT WITH FIRE!"

I need to hear these things sometimes.

It's very difficult to fight human nature and ones own biological urges to procreate. I think, once I'm through the other end of this situation and all is right with my world, I need to give a lecture "Telling your Biological Clock to STFU: Alternatives to having kids the biblical way."

Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Keeping my head on straight is going to be key this week, surrounding myself with people who will remind me that this is the best, most logical decision I've ever made and not letting my uterus dictate my actions. That selfish bitch.

Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!

You know what the BEST part about surgery is? When you get knocked the fuck out and you can get a little peace and quiet! Unfortunately, I am still just over two months away from that blissful moment and am dealing with all of the primitive screwheads that are supposed to get me from point A to point B but wind up giving me worse directions than Mapquest in 1999.

I tried calling the main office for the GYN since they appeared to have their shit together and asked if they had the Doctor's October schedule.
I try to explain the situation - that I see the Doc at the Poor People Medical Building but nobody over there knows any scheduling and I need to get my calendar in order.

So she interrupts, "What insurance do you have?"

ISN'T IT SAD AND DEPRESSING WHEN THIS IS ALWAYS THE FIRST THING THEY ASK YOU HERE IN THE USA? NO MATTER WHAT THE CONTEXT - I COULD BE BLEEDING FROM MY NIPPLES AND THEY'D ASK ME, "WHAT INSURANCE DO YOU HAVE?"

With a frustrated sigh, "Medi-Medi."

It was like I hit the fire alarm button.

"UH UH YOU NEED TO CALL THE POOR PEOPLE BUILDING TO GET HIS SCHEDULE! I CAN'T TALK TO YOU, THE POOR MIGHT RUB OFF ON ME!"

I tried to explain again but she kept interrupting me so I hung up on her before I wound up calling her cunt.

So I am back to square one, at the mercy of the mystical schedule that apparently NOBODY CREATES. Except that somebody knew - somebody called me well over a month ago and told me the doctor would be there October 10, 11th and 13th (dates I am actually trying to avoid scheduling, which is why I want the rest of the month)

Where is this woman, this magical, scheduling fairy-godmother? I do believe in fairies, I do, I do! Now, if I close my eyes, click my heels three times, will I be able to make appointments and schedule the rest of my freaking life?

The Essential List for Surgery

I consider myself a Pro at going into the hospital. Many years of trial and error has turned into well valued lessons of what to bring and how to prepare myself for my hospital stay.
Here is a tentative list of what I would like to obtain and bring along with me to insure my comfort as well as my morale.

- Deodorant (sugary marshmallow or baby powder scented preferred)
- Lip balm
- Coloring books + colored pencils
- Word Search books (for when I want to exercise my brain)
- Book to read, or have read to me (preferably something I have already read so I don't have to think too hard as my brain will be foggy. I don't mind sharing that I regress a little when I'm recovering from surgery so I usually go for middle grade fiction)
- Trashy magazines for idle entertainment (my brain is already mush, why not go with it?)
- Toothbrush & toothpaste FROM HOME (I hate not being able to brush my teeth at night)
- Hairbrush
- Hairbands to put hair in braids so it won't tangle like a bitch
- Cute hospital gown*
- Cute scrubs**
- Cute pajamas
- Plenty of comfortable underwear
- Earplugs (to block out noisy neighbors and machinery)

* = Why are there only cute MATERNITY gowns on Etsy? I need the ANTI-MATERNITY hospital gown. Preferably in an adorable print, like one of these darling Doctor Who motifs

** = I used to own cute scrubs. They were hot pink with white hibiscus flowers. Not precisely my thing (flowers that is, but hot pink yes) but I lived in them for years. I was sad when they ate it. Anyone want to make me cute scrubs to go with my ANTI-MATERNITY hospital gown?

What's your list of essential Surgery/Hospital trip accessories?