From January 27, 2009
Mother puss bucket.
I broke my pinky toe. How lame is that? I dropped the corner of a 28 pound plastic bucket of cat litter on my pinky toe. That's even more lame.
And you know what? It fucking hurts. I thought I was fine and had just hurt it but not anything as severe as broke it. Well I hobble corrected. The bonus of this kind of injury is there is nothing I can do about it. I taped it to it's neighbor and put ice on it. I have vicodin lying around that I can't take at work because it might make me slip into a dreamy heaven. That's it. That's all you can do. I've got my sweet gangster lean going on as I gimp around. This is bullshit. Pure bullshit.
I hope Jameson is happy he has clean litter to poo in.
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Young and The Nutless
From November 18, 2008I got my little Face fixed on Thursday. I still feel bad.
I know it's best for him but it was horrible to take him in and see him be so scared and shaking. And to top it off his carrier is pink. I'm a horrible mom. The doc said he was very handsome and in excellent health. Jameson played nice and never made a sound. After sticking a thermometer in his pooper the doc took him by the scruff of his neck and put him in the kennel to wait his turn under the knife.
I didn't even recognize him when I picked him up. They brought him out in his carrier and his eyes were so wide and his ears were set in a weird way and he just look drugged and terrified. I got him home and set him down on the floor and opened the door to his carrier. He hung out in there a while, his head bobbing and weaving, bumping into the sides, and eventually made his way out. He kept falling down and rolling over. He would sniff my hand but wouldn't let me pet him. He was sniffing around and trying to check things out and was making his way across the kitchen floor. I was following him and he had this terrified look in his eyes as he kept falling down and rolling over and desperately trying to get across the floor and away from me. It was heartbreaking.
He made his way into his poo box but couldn't figure out how to turn around in it. He stumbled like a lush all over the house, eventually getting the strength back in his back legs. I don't think he had any idea where he was or what was going on. Luckily though, this only lasted for about an hour and a half. Then it was as if he had never had surgery that morning. He was running around, playing on his scratchy, even picked up a toy and played with it. Ate some, and just wouldn't sit still, constantly roving and checking things out.
That night he sat in the kitchen and catterwhauled. This concerned me as he is not a meower. I had given him his pain medication in some milk earlier in the evening and he had crawled up on my chest and conked out like a lead weight. I got out of bed and picked him up out of the kitchen and put him on my bed and he ran right back in the kitchen to howl. His tiny little barbaric yawp.
He's much more mellow now and much more affectionate which is slightly frightening because he was already very lovey. The moment I sit down he runs over and jumps in my lap and rubs his head on my face. He's turned into much more of a person. He tries to have conversations with me. He dragged his leopard print string on a stick over to me, as he's want to do, and jumped up on the footstool with it and lait cross the cushion and looked at me. He then reached out his paw, touched my foot, and gave a small meow. Yes my little Face, I will play with you.
He understands No and he understands Treat. What he doesn't understand is Get Off the Counter! He curls up my my face at night and talks to me. He likes hang out in the bathroom while I take a shower, and sit on the sink to watch me put my makeup on. He is always at my heels. His nuts aren't completely gone and I'm sure they'll fill back out. I now understand what it's like for my parents to watch me go into surgery.
Jameson is doing swell now. Eating, playing, being adorable. And snoozing the day away.
I know it's best for him but it was horrible to take him in and see him be so scared and shaking. And to top it off his carrier is pink. I'm a horrible mom. The doc said he was very handsome and in excellent health. Jameson played nice and never made a sound. After sticking a thermometer in his pooper the doc took him by the scruff of his neck and put him in the kennel to wait his turn under the knife.
I didn't even recognize him when I picked him up. They brought him out in his carrier and his eyes were so wide and his ears were set in a weird way and he just look drugged and terrified. I got him home and set him down on the floor and opened the door to his carrier. He hung out in there a while, his head bobbing and weaving, bumping into the sides, and eventually made his way out. He kept falling down and rolling over. He would sniff my hand but wouldn't let me pet him. He was sniffing around and trying to check things out and was making his way across the kitchen floor. I was following him and he had this terrified look in his eyes as he kept falling down and rolling over and desperately trying to get across the floor and away from me. It was heartbreaking.
He made his way into his poo box but couldn't figure out how to turn around in it. He stumbled like a lush all over the house, eventually getting the strength back in his back legs. I don't think he had any idea where he was or what was going on. Luckily though, this only lasted for about an hour and a half. Then it was as if he had never had surgery that morning. He was running around, playing on his scratchy, even picked up a toy and played with it. Ate some, and just wouldn't sit still, constantly roving and checking things out.
That night he sat in the kitchen and catterwhauled. This concerned me as he is not a meower. I had given him his pain medication in some milk earlier in the evening and he had crawled up on my chest and conked out like a lead weight. I got out of bed and picked him up out of the kitchen and put him on my bed and he ran right back in the kitchen to howl. His tiny little barbaric yawp.
He's much more mellow now and much more affectionate which is slightly frightening because he was already very lovey. The moment I sit down he runs over and jumps in my lap and rubs his head on my face. He's turned into much more of a person. He tries to have conversations with me. He dragged his leopard print string on a stick over to me, as he's want to do, and jumped up on the footstool with it and lait cross the cushion and looked at me. He then reached out his paw, touched my foot, and gave a small meow. Yes my little Face, I will play with you.
He understands No and he understands Treat. What he doesn't understand is Get Off the Counter! He curls up my my face at night and talks to me. He likes hang out in the bathroom while I take a shower, and sit on the sink to watch me put my makeup on. He is always at my heels. His nuts aren't completely gone and I'm sure they'll fill back out. I now understand what it's like for my parents to watch me go into surgery.
Jameson is doing swell now. Eating, playing, being adorable. And snoozing the day away.
Blood Simple
From October 08, 2008
I spent yesterday afternoon violently spitting up blood. You ever done that? It's motherfucking terrifying.
So I had my tonsillectomy a week ago. Everything went swell, mom and dad were there to take care of me, lots of liquid Vicodin, lots of popcicles and pudding, Gatorade and movies. The first day was rough but then things smoothed out. It was relaxing, calming, entertaining and full of wonderful drugs. This weekend I went to Urgent Care because I couldn't breathe and they diagnosed with my pneumonia. Beautiful.
Yesterday afternoon I'm sitting on my bed, watching the Sex and the City movie, eating some pudding, when I started coughing. No big deal: cough a little, you figure you're coughing up some phlegm and you swallow it. I did this like three times and then my brain flashed with the remembrance of reading info about possibly coughing up blood after this surgery. When I coughed again I spit into my hand and sure enough, bright red blood.
I jump up and race into the bathroom and spit up some more and then it becomes more and more and more. It's coming out of my nose, it's pouring out of my mouth and now it's coming in waves. I run back to my room and grab my phone. I call Melody. She's my roommate and a doctor. I get her voicemail. I call the hospital as they were a recent call in my phone. I tell them I had a tonsillectomy a week ago and I am spitting up blood. They asked me if I called me ENT. I'm like I AM SPITTING UP BLOOD! It's gurgling out of my mouth while I'm trying to talk. She said to be sure to call my ENT, and either call 911 or go to the ER. I say cool, will do.
Stuff starts coming up with the blood. All this bloody gunk, and it's sticking to my tongue and it still won't stop and it's still coming out my nose. What if I lose too much blood and I faint? I have pneumonia, am I coughing up lung? Did I fuck over my liver with too much Vicodin? Did something go horribly wrong in the back of my throat? Am I dying? Is this going to stop? What the FUCK is going on?! I had tried to maintain my composure and a level head about this for as long as I could but I was done. I'm in terrified panic mode. Who do I call? I have to call someone. I can't call my mom, she's 500 miles away. Do I call 911? Is this 911 worthy? I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be in charge any more, I need help. Choking and gurgling on blood I called Jeremy. He was always so very good of taking care of me with all of my health scares, and there were many of them, and I knew he would be there for me in an emergency. When he answered I lost it. Through gagging and tears I told him I was coughing up blood, I was scared, and I didn't know what to do. Alarmed and level-headed he asked me my address, said he was calling 911 and then come over. I said ok and hung up.
All this bloody mucus has now clogged the sink and it's filling up. There's blood all over the sink and my toothbrush holder and my soap, and I'm desperately trying to pull the stopper out of the drain and mash all this crap down the sink and I'm doubled over crying and spitting up, trying to clean all this blood away. And I'm wishing Jeremy was just here already. I need him to materialize at the door because I can't be alone anymore and things are out of control now.
Then I thought ok, I need shoes, if I go to the hospital they're going to want to know what drugs I'm on and I don't know so grab all the bottles and put them in my purse, wallet with medical ID in purse, Mark still has the key to the back door so I need my garage door opener out of my car if I'm going to get back in the house, and why isn't anyone here yet?! There's a knock at the back door and the fire department is all standing out there and I have to tell them the door is locked and to go around to the garage. I open the garage and the 5 or so EMTs come in, Jeremy on their heels. They pull a cooler over and have me sit down and start taking my vitals and asking me questions, and Jeremy gave them all my information. They asked me if I was on any drugs and I said yeah, a shit-ton and I couldn't name them all, so Jeremy went into the house to get them and came back with an arm load. They looked in the back of my throat and said it looked pretty raw back there. I said yes, I'm sure this is all related to my tonsillectomy and is probably somewhat normal, I was just concerned that something had gone horribly wrong. They said my vitals were fine and I didn't have any pain anywhere and that if I felt well enough to be on my own I could sign off on the ambulance, that had just showed up, and everything would be cool. Agreed.
Jeremy stayed with me while I called my doctors and calmed down. I thanked him for being there when I needed someone. He's always been wonderful at that and I will forever love him for it. I was so scared. So incredibly terrified. Even thinking about it now still makes me cry, I was so scared. To feel that out of control and unsure and alone, and there was just so much blood. It looked like I vomited an abortion. It was horrifying.
My surgeon is out of town for the week, of course, but her assistant returned my call and assured me that this was all normal. My information sheet said to expect blood streaks in my saliva, but didn't mention violently spitting up blood. The patches over my wounds are supposed to come off and apparently you end up swallowing them and then they come back up, and all this happens about a week after surgery. Right on time. So at least I know this was supposed to happen, it's not unusual, nothing is wrong, and I can rest easy in that knowledge. But the events of yesterday are replaying in my mind and now it seems so distant and yet I'm still right there in the moment, doubled over the sink, terrified.
I'm no longer spitting up blood, and I'm healing well. But right now, I'm done. I need a break from this. Check, please!
I spent yesterday afternoon violently spitting up blood. You ever done that? It's motherfucking terrifying.
So I had my tonsillectomy a week ago. Everything went swell, mom and dad were there to take care of me, lots of liquid Vicodin, lots of popcicles and pudding, Gatorade and movies. The first day was rough but then things smoothed out. It was relaxing, calming, entertaining and full of wonderful drugs. This weekend I went to Urgent Care because I couldn't breathe and they diagnosed with my pneumonia. Beautiful.
Yesterday afternoon I'm sitting on my bed, watching the Sex and the City movie, eating some pudding, when I started coughing. No big deal: cough a little, you figure you're coughing up some phlegm and you swallow it. I did this like three times and then my brain flashed with the remembrance of reading info about possibly coughing up blood after this surgery. When I coughed again I spit into my hand and sure enough, bright red blood.
I jump up and race into the bathroom and spit up some more and then it becomes more and more and more. It's coming out of my nose, it's pouring out of my mouth and now it's coming in waves. I run back to my room and grab my phone. I call Melody. She's my roommate and a doctor. I get her voicemail. I call the hospital as they were a recent call in my phone. I tell them I had a tonsillectomy a week ago and I am spitting up blood. They asked me if I called me ENT. I'm like I AM SPITTING UP BLOOD! It's gurgling out of my mouth while I'm trying to talk. She said to be sure to call my ENT, and either call 911 or go to the ER. I say cool, will do.
Stuff starts coming up with the blood. All this bloody gunk, and it's sticking to my tongue and it still won't stop and it's still coming out my nose. What if I lose too much blood and I faint? I have pneumonia, am I coughing up lung? Did I fuck over my liver with too much Vicodin? Did something go horribly wrong in the back of my throat? Am I dying? Is this going to stop? What the FUCK is going on?! I had tried to maintain my composure and a level head about this for as long as I could but I was done. I'm in terrified panic mode. Who do I call? I have to call someone. I can't call my mom, she's 500 miles away. Do I call 911? Is this 911 worthy? I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be in charge any more, I need help. Choking and gurgling on blood I called Jeremy. He was always so very good of taking care of me with all of my health scares, and there were many of them, and I knew he would be there for me in an emergency. When he answered I lost it. Through gagging and tears I told him I was coughing up blood, I was scared, and I didn't know what to do. Alarmed and level-headed he asked me my address, said he was calling 911 and then come over. I said ok and hung up.
All this bloody mucus has now clogged the sink and it's filling up. There's blood all over the sink and my toothbrush holder and my soap, and I'm desperately trying to pull the stopper out of the drain and mash all this crap down the sink and I'm doubled over crying and spitting up, trying to clean all this blood away. And I'm wishing Jeremy was just here already. I need him to materialize at the door because I can't be alone anymore and things are out of control now.
Then I thought ok, I need shoes, if I go to the hospital they're going to want to know what drugs I'm on and I don't know so grab all the bottles and put them in my purse, wallet with medical ID in purse, Mark still has the key to the back door so I need my garage door opener out of my car if I'm going to get back in the house, and why isn't anyone here yet?! There's a knock at the back door and the fire department is all standing out there and I have to tell them the door is locked and to go around to the garage. I open the garage and the 5 or so EMTs come in, Jeremy on their heels. They pull a cooler over and have me sit down and start taking my vitals and asking me questions, and Jeremy gave them all my information. They asked me if I was on any drugs and I said yeah, a shit-ton and I couldn't name them all, so Jeremy went into the house to get them and came back with an arm load. They looked in the back of my throat and said it looked pretty raw back there. I said yes, I'm sure this is all related to my tonsillectomy and is probably somewhat normal, I was just concerned that something had gone horribly wrong. They said my vitals were fine and I didn't have any pain anywhere and that if I felt well enough to be on my own I could sign off on the ambulance, that had just showed up, and everything would be cool. Agreed.
Jeremy stayed with me while I called my doctors and calmed down. I thanked him for being there when I needed someone. He's always been wonderful at that and I will forever love him for it. I was so scared. So incredibly terrified. Even thinking about it now still makes me cry, I was so scared. To feel that out of control and unsure and alone, and there was just so much blood. It looked like I vomited an abortion. It was horrifying.
My surgeon is out of town for the week, of course, but her assistant returned my call and assured me that this was all normal. My information sheet said to expect blood streaks in my saliva, but didn't mention violently spitting up blood. The patches over my wounds are supposed to come off and apparently you end up swallowing them and then they come back up, and all this happens about a week after surgery. Right on time. So at least I know this was supposed to happen, it's not unusual, nothing is wrong, and I can rest easy in that knowledge. But the events of yesterday are replaying in my mind and now it seems so distant and yet I'm still right there in the moment, doubled over the sink, terrified.
I'm no longer spitting up blood, and I'm healing well. But right now, I'm done. I need a break from this. Check, please!
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