“Listen, honey. You’re our least favorite kind of patient. You’re young, you’re healthy, and you tend to just not get it that you’ve just had major surgery and it’s going to be a while before you feel yourself again.”

Well. That was edifying. Please allow me a moment to gather up my nausea, fever, pain, and–oh yes–my bruised and battered ego before meekly thanking you and hanging up the phone….

So that was yesterday afternoon, after which I did the smart thing, which was go to bed for the night. At about 4:30. It’s quite amazing what fiften and a half hours of sleep can do for you. You don’t really feel any better, afterwards; but there is security in the knowledge that you’re about half a day closer to “normal,” whenever that may be arriving.

All the narcotics are now out of my system, and I am surviving merely on mega-doses of advil. I was hoping that would help with the nausea. And it did, a little. Problem is, it appears that the main source of my nausea is this teensy little satanic hormone patch on my ass. The same patch that will stop me from growing a beard, dying of osteoporosis at 40, and all those other good things. Yeah, that one. Apparently the other major function of that “practically invisible” little disk is to make me feel like I’m on an airplane stuck in turbulence. All. the. damn. time. I am puzzled as to what is so redeemingly feminine about chronic pukiness, but then, I’ve never really understood much of what it means to be a fetching female in today’s society, so perhaps it will become clear to me later on. When I’m no longer walking around my house with a bucket for constant company.

(By the way: so far, mint in various forms seems to be the forerunner for best combatant. I will think of some reward for whomever suggested it… probably just my slavish and undying gratitude.)

Oh, I was also blaming the vicodin for the disturbing nightmares I was having, but I’m still having those, so I guess it wasn’t the drugs. Several nights in a row I had really terrifying dreams about my daughter (never my son; I wonder why that is) and woke up in a sweat. Last night I was free from witnessing a freakish accident befall my eldest while I watched but couldn’t act, but instead dreamt I was back in a junior high talent show and about to perform–as part of a very glittery and large-haired trio–a meaningful lip-sync routine to “Our Lips Are Sealed” by the Go-Gos. Granted, still nightmarish, but I am striving just to be pleased that it didn’t involve my child. Small favors, and all that.

In other news: I need to pull myself together by tomorrow. My children are coming home! It may be the hormones… in fact, let’s go right ahead and blame it on those evil hormones, let’s! But I got off the phone with my offspring last night and bawled like a baby. My son–who is quite possibly the most adorable boy-child ever to walk the planet and don’t argue with me because anyone who has ever met him will tell that it is so–started doing the whole “I sending you lots of hugs! Here they come! You catch them? Don’ worry, I got more here in my pocket, but I will take them out tonight so Grammie don’t put them in the washing machine cuz then they get all gooey!” And I got a little sniffly. But he is a lovebug by nature, so I held it together, and sniffled bravely, and soldiered on. But then my daughter–little miss I am far too independent to require actual love unless I’m sick or have a booboo–told me she missed me and started making kissy-sounds into the phone. And I was a goner.

Up until that moment, I’d been too busy either anticipating the surgery or dealing with the pain to actually miss them in a palpable way. But then, move over evil pukey hormones! There’s a new bone-crushing force in town! And its name is “I want to hold my babies!” *sniffle*

So. Then. Today will be about baby steps, and working my way back to human. I can do this. I will do this. Besides, I’m way too much of an anal perfectionist to be anybody’s “least favorite kind of patient,” dammit. I feel an Irene Cara song coming on! Oh wait, it’s easy to confuse that with the nausea… hang on… okay, I’m alright.