Things were not going well the last few days. A scan today and a catheter in the stoma seems to have turned things around.
Should start posting again tomorrow. And yes, I have lots to say.
Surgery went long. A few setbacks since but nothing unheard of.
Typing with one finger on a blurry keyboard, did not want to leave you hanging.
Lots to come. Promise. Next goal to lose NG tube keeping my stomach from filling with acid and crap.
Words I have never said in either blog: Dear friends: prayers can’t hurt.
Twenty four hours from now I sure as shit better be in a room on the surgical floor. It is mid-evening on Wednesday, the operating room is reserved for me from 7:30 AM to 1 PM tomorrow. For some unclear reason, I need to be at the hospital at 6:00 AM so we have a nanny coming at 5:30 AM to the house.
I made an error in my photo in the last post as to my preparations. I do not need to take any enema today! But I need to drink two bottles of magnesium citrate, one at noon and one four hours later. I need to take a lot of antibiotics today, and am into that process. The last two days, and today, I am taking a pill that relaxes the neck of my bladder. Apparently when a male has surgery in their pelvic area it is often hard to urinate for a few days. In an effort to not need a catheter, they use this pill as part of the preparation. Trust me, if I need a catheter, you will know …
I have spent the last few hours making many trips to the toilet. The inside of my colon, I am sure, is bright and shiny right now. My stomach is not so great from the antibiotics, and there are more to come. I still need to take my shower with the surgical scrub, tonight and tomorrow.
I think I am set. I have very high confidence that I will wake up from surgery, I have every time in the past. That is the next milestone, followed by getting my butt back home, hopefully by Monday. That depends on my stoma working well and my working well with the stoma. We are going to be dear friends.
Inanna is incredible. My mom traveled to here and my sister lives here. Being co-chair of an organization whose membership is overwhelmingly women caregivers is helpful! And we have some wonderful nannies (our word for the personal care attendants) working with the girls.
I am not scared, because there is nothing tomorrow to be scared about. I am anxious about the pathology report but that will be days away. I have come to terms with the stoma, and I am practicing to make a good first impression with it. I hope it likes me.
Who says I don’t know how to prepare?
I was born with my grandfather’s nose. It appears that strong noses skip a generation. I was generally fine with it, but I must say that I was teased about it in my youth. One day in my senior year of high school, out of the blue, mom asked me if I wanted a nose job. I said “sure.” That was all, and then it happened.
About a month later I was in a dressing room somewhere and stepped into one of those three-segment mirrors where you can see yourself at various angles. It was the first time I really saw my new nose.
And I freaked out. I can picture it like it was yesterday. I looked deformed; I thought it was horrible.
When you look at something now, you have three fields of view. You see what your left eye sees, then in the middle you see what both eyes see, and you see what your right eye sees. It is obvious if you move your eyes all the way to the left, then to the right. What you don’t think about, is you also see the shape of your nose. In my case it became vastly different. The entire shape of my visual world changed.
My profile was completely mangled. My nose went from sort of out then down to sloping down and out. Shaping my face like a muzzle. Or so it seemed.
Here is the only picture known to exist of my previous profile:
And today-ish (that’s me on the left):
I have never given my looks all that much thought. I did not ask for the nose job, although I agreed right away. I absolutely am not vain now. But then when you are a gorgeous 59 year-old Adonis you don’t need to be.
Body image is a person’s perception of the aesthetics or sexual attractiveness of their own body. The phrase body image was first coined by the Austrian neurologist and psychoanalyst Paul Schilder in his book The Image and Appearance of the Human Body (1935). Human society has at all times placed great value on beauty of the human body, but a person’s perception of their own body may not correspond to society’s standards.
The concept of body image is used in a number of disciplines, including psychology, medicine, psychiatry, psychoanalysis, philosophy and cultural and feminist studies. The term is also often used in the media. Across these disciplines and media there is no consensus definition, but body image may be expressed as how one views themselves in the mirror, or in their minds. It incorporates the memories, experiences, assumptions, and comparisons of one’s own appearance, and overall attitudes towards their height, shape, and weight. An individual’s impression of their body is also assumed to be a product of ideals cultivated by various social and cultural ideals. ~Wikipedia
I don’t want a stoma. I don’t like my tatoos, three small dark blue dots that no one can really see (radiation targets). I don’t like the “X” currently on my belly. I’m not even happy with the four or five other tattoos I have, and they are on the inside of my rectum. No one sees them, except me when I have my head up my ass. Which lately may be a tad more often than I prefer.
When my son David went to live in a residential facility he had a rough few months. There were many errors in his care, one or two of them were major. All this, and he was at one of the best facilities available. Needless to say I was rather vocal and dealing with the top level administration there.
Things were then quiet for a few months and on a visit I was talking with one of those administrators. I asked what changed … with a wink he said:
We put a sign over his bed that said ‘Don’t fuck up with Mr. Smith’s son’
As I am sure you remember, a bit ago I got an email addressed to “Mary” and I assured you my name is not Mary. Maybe there is something about the letter ‘M’ but my name is also not Michael. Really. My name is neither Mary nor Michael.
Today, September 5, 2018, I received an email. Here is a screen shot, simply redacting identifying information. I did not need to redact my name because, alas, it is not there.
All good information. I hope Michael knows that he has appointments on August 28, eight days ago.
I then got another email about 5 minutes later, identical other than it had the correct salutation, and this was followed by a phone apology about 90 minutes later.
Oh, the surgery prep instructions that were attached, simply a photocopy of these.