Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

So, in case you missed it, I’m still in recovery. Todd says, YOU’VE HAD MAJOR SURGERY, at least once a day. He’s living life dangerously.

Last week we had the septic system pumped out. I got up that morning and suddenly remembered the 3-foot-tall mint patch surrounding the cover, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that NO ONE else in the house remembered this. I texted Todd and inquired before I actually went out to look. You know what he said? No worries, they’ll crush it when they come in to pump.

REEEALLY? That’s assuming they can even FIND the cover. Which I told him. And you know what he said next? He said, you can go out and cut some of it down. Yes, that’s right. Mr. you’ve-had-major-surgery just told me I could go outside in 97 degrees at 7 a.m. and CUT DOWN the mint around the septic cover. This requires me to bend over, reach out, and use my arms. I don’t know how “they” define straining, but this seems to me to be maybe a little bit of straining.

But I did it. But I only cut halfway around the lid and left the cuttings lying on the ground nearby in a neat pile, you know, so it was obvious that I did it.

On a side note, if you want to grow mint, plant it somewhere that won’t encroach on anything else (like NOWHERE). My mom gave me a small bunch from her garden about three years ago. It was one.little.plant. It was cute, like crocuses. NOW it spans the length of a commercial airline strip and is about as wide as the tailgate of our pickup truck. And you know what else? You can’t give that shit away. Apparently none of my neighbors drink mojitos either.

Anyway. I’m still trying to get stuff done around the house, and have managed to firmly delegate to the prince and princess of the house a handful of chores I need done to not become a screaming lunatic maintain my sanity. Opac’s room does not presently fall into this category, but today I changed my mind when I passed his closed door in the hallway. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

He is in driving school (mandatory in the state of Maryland) again this week, with two days left to go (in the classroom) before he does the behind-the-wheel portion. They “highly recommend” the driving coach ride along for the first session. Well, that aint gonna happen. I’m still restricted from “long car rides,” thank GOD. Sessions are two hours long. TWO HOURS.

So far, the longest I’ve ridden with him was a little over an hour – to meet his dad to drop off/pick up Veruca, because I’m not supposed to drive that far yet, let alone ride. My muscles were screaming so loud I had a headache and when we got home I crashed on that worn spot on the couch.

And while we’re on the subject of long car rides I’m not supposed to take, my mother – who expressed concern over an upcoming 12-hour shift I’m covering at work – asked me to come up to the restaurant (an hour and 20-minute ride, minimum) AFTER I worked my first day back, three weeks post-op from [insert Todd: MAJOR SURGERY] to “oversee” things at the restaurant. This is confusing at best.

So I returned to work last Saturday. And trust me, you have never seen anyone so happy to go to work. Like, ever. We were only open 8 to 12, so it was a short and very quiet morning. But I remembered how to do my job! Great boost for the morale!

And then Todd left to go grill at the restaurant (she needed help) and Opac left for a party and I was home alone for 8 hours! I don’t know whether that’s good or bad, but I spent most of it in that place reading, watching Netflix, eating ice cream, and not sleeping. At least until Opac got home, and then I was out cold until I heard Todd’s keys on the kitchen counter.

I don’t know what I did on Sunday. I have no memory of Sunday. All the days are melting together like a popsicle in the sun.

We had the family over Sunday a couple of weeks ago, because I haven’t seen Dad in months. He travels a lot for work, sometimes for weeks at a time, and I still had his Father’s Day gift. He acted all, oh-I-didn’t-need-a-gift, until he opened it and saw the Trump coffee mug: Nobody is better at Fatherhood than you. All the other dads are a total disaster. Everyone agrees, believe me. I don’t think he found it as hilarious as my brother and I did, but as long as it made me happy – that’s all that matters, right?

It was a nice day, albeit exhausting for me. I didn’t do that much, but it was enough that I needed to lie down for a while.

Surgery changed me in ways I am still discovering. I’m normally all in for socializing and I love going out and being with people. Not now. Peopling is hard right now, and I don’t want to. I’ve always been upbeat and positive and, like the title of my former blog, Finding Joy. My last good joke was when I told the person in the hospital that I was having breast implants. Nothing seems funny right now.

It’s like I’ve been Ignoring Joy, which could be the title of another blog post but I’m done with serious bitching and being negative. Todd has hinted a handful of times that he just wants to enjoy life and be happy, which is a like an elbow to the ribs and a great big, hint hint. He’s not used to this side of me. Even back when he carried me through the darkest days, he still got the good parts of me that were still flickering like the last bit of wick fighting not to burn out. He knows who’s inside of me, and he hasn’t seen her in over a month.

He also understands the struggle, because he’s been there. When I have a particularly bad day, he reminds me – you’ve just had major surgery. It’s only been 3 weeks. And then he follows with, it’s going to take a couple of months. Which is where his rallying speech becomes a warning, really, when you think about it – for himself.

But, as I return to my old work schedule tomorrow, I am feeling eager and grateful. It’s the gateway back to “normal.” I get to see my coworkers and smile again, because work has always been – for me – that place where you leave your troubles outside and forget them until the work is done. You can be anyone you want to be while you’re working. And when you leave, you can pick that shit up and take it home with you, if you want. It’s all a choice. For me, it used to be about survival. But now, it’s the way I choose to live.

And, for the record, I am finding joy again, slowly, even as my body will remind me it’s time to rest. Pull just one more weed? Nope, I’m tired. I need to lie down. Mop that kitchen floor that hasn’t seen water in 4 weeks? Maybe today. Either way, it will all be here tomorrow, as it always is – but my children are growing up too fast and my husband is so busy with his new responsibilities and the time we get alone together when we’re both awake is short for now.

 

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Hanging By a Thread

(from July 11th)

The journey is not epic, but rather a drama mixed with occasional comedy, and full of ups and downs. I know I sound melodramatic, but I’m frustrated and a bit stabby, and occasionally depressed. I think yesterday my tolerance meter nearly imploded.

It’s summertime. I had major surgery (Todd keeps reminding me), and it’s summertime. The kids are home. Every day. Because – summertime. This amounts to [now] two teenagers occupying the peaceful space of my home 24/7, restless spirits who also spend hours behind closed bedroom doors. If I had a dollar for every time I heard “mom” yesterday, I’d be buying Todd that antique Mustang he’s pining for.

I’m two weeks and 6 days post-op. I’ve tried to do things. Sometimes it was okay, but more often than not it didn’t turn out so good. I was told I could drive two weeks after surgery. On that day, I had to explain to Veruca that this did not mean I should jump in a car and start cruising around. She’s been fairly understanding of my condition, insofar as a self-centered 13-year-old can be, like yesterday we went to the store and she insisted on carrying all the groceries in for me, but she also insisted on an extra stop at the pet store.

Just now she walked out here where I was typing, to ask me what I was planning to do today. Well, let’s see, what I’d like to do: weed the gardens, mop the floors, do laundry, make some banana bread, finish cleaning out my closet, and pull out the 40lb sewing machine and start sewing. What I told her: resting. She sighed the heavy sigh perfected by teenagers the world over and, with a head roll that likely matched the one in her eyes, went back to her room.

She’s bored. I GET IT. I promise you, nobody is more bored than me. But, I learned my lesson. I vacuumed three rooms – the living room, dining room, and kitchen – last Friday, and spent the rest of the day in pain. And then Todd yelled at me, because, YOU HAD MAJOR SURGERY. You can’t strain yourself. You’re supposed to be resting. And when I look at him, he asks me to stop giving him dirty looks.

I hurt. Every. Time. I. Do. Something. This is bullshit. Everyone keeps saying, take it easy! Don’t rush it! Healing needs to happen first! Don’t do anything to encourage the Steri-strips to fall off! Which, by the way, were by last Saturday literally hanging by a sixteenth of an inch from the skin on my neck and the rest of it was flapping in the wind.

No way in HELL was I going out in public with that. So I took a shower and blow-dried my neck as I have done every day because the instructions said to thoroughly dry the site, and the Steri-strips were flapping like a moth stuck to a light until suddenly…. off!

Have I mentioned that I’m bored to death? I can’t lift anything, I can’t do any of the things I would normally do when I’m home all day. I haven’t been to work in three weeks. Someone posted this meme about “when you go back to work after vacation but can’t remember what you even do.” This made me laugh, because I’m worried it’s true.

So far I’ve watched Netflix, some Netflix, and more Netflix, and finished two books. I’m way too invested in what happens to the folks on Fuller House. I’ve read online articles about Johnny Depp’s downward spiral, followed the breathtaking rescue of the boys trapped in the cave in Thailand, and trolled Facebook which itself has become either boring as hell or annoying me with everyone’s vacations. Sure, I’ve “liked” their posts, even when all I wanted to do was say “you suck!” I’ve tried napping, which only makes me feel like I’ve been drugged.

Meanwhile, Veruca decided to clean the bathroom she shares with O. Except the floor was covered with towels (seven towels. SEVEN.) and dirty clothes she insisted all belonged to him. So she knocked on his bedroom door and bitched him out about the mess on the floor and told him to get in there and clean it up. I held my breath.

Moments later they’re in the kitchen, and she’s bitching at him about the pubic hairs on the toilet and shavings in the sink, and he’s saying those aren’t his pubic hairs. Which was the wrong thing to say, and then an argument ensued which ended with accusations about one of them needing a lawnmower for their pubic hair.

Aside from sibling problems, V has been to a birthday party and a day away at one of her besties’ houses, and Opac started mandatory driving school. He has to go every day for two weeks. The first day was Monday, and the parent (“driving coach”) had to attend orientation with the student. Driving coach? I never signed on for THAT. Needless to say, I heard myself referred to as “old-school” and learned a thing or two about driving in modern society.

He’s getting a lot more driving practice in, while I snap on my “holy shit!” neck brace and people stare because my kid must drive like a maniac.

Monday evening he came home from football workouts with a friend and called me from the driveway asking for help getting out of the car.

What do you mean, HELP you get out of the car?

My muscles in my legs seized up and I can’t move.

How am I supposed to help you with this? I’m recovering from surgery. At this point I’m walking outside, where he is standing stock-still next to Kyle’s car with the door open, and Kyle looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. Opac literally cannot move. I told him to take a few steps and close the door so that Kyle (the hilarity of the situation tickling the corners of his mouth) can go home.

Opac winces and hobbles toward the concrete steps to the front door, says he’s not gonna make it. I call for Veruca to help him, and she does…mostly by holding his hand as he climbs the steps and I am momentarily struck by the sweetness of it all until the moment is shattered by him yelling about the pain. I tell him to take a hot shower to loosen the muscles, and he’s insisting he needs to ice it. A brief pissing match over who is right ensues, so I walk away and tell him to do what he thinks is best, then.

He decides on a warm bath, since he called Dad and that’s what dad said to do, because dad is God today. So he’s running the bath and tells me that Kyle just texted him complaining of the exact same problem, and that he fell down the stairs. What kind of workouts are these?

A few minutes go by and I get this…

20180715_191716

 

My great grandmother always said, Don’t wish your life away. And that statement has plenty of merit, but lawd I neeeeeed to get to my 6-week post-op appointment. I need August.

Silverfox Takes Lexington

**Disclaimer: This is NOT a political post.

Dad was in Lexington on business last week and sent me pics of the Red Hen, which – ICYMI – was the site of a huge political controversy recently and has shut down indefinitely.* Visitors were placing flowers on the front step like a memorial.

20180704_081135

 

Dad: Protestors tonite.

It’s getting ugly here…Trumpsters everywhere

Me: Be careful.

D: U know me, I’m lookin for a fight {toothy smile emoji}

M: Don’t. You can’t reason with them.

D: I’m just finishing dinner and will walk over to stir things up

M: Dad, I’m recovering from surgery. I’m not feeling well. Don’t make me come down there.  But, at least get some footage.

D: Everyone is gone.

D: Not to worry…tomorrow is another day.

 

The next day around 6:30 p.m. he sends me a video I can’t open.

M: Idk what that was

D: Party time

D: I recorded that country band while I was eating my bah b que

 

Twenty-four hours later he sends me another video with the caption, “How’s this for a view while drinking a craft brew?” The video was 23 seconds of his knee and a topsy-turvy view of a stone wall, and I was about to question his sobriety when he followed up with another video and “sent the wrong video before” {grinning emoji}. This one was a panoramic of his view from the patio he was drinking his craft brew on, of road, parking lot, mountains, and sky. Ending with the topsy-turvy upside-down view of his hairy leg.

M: Yeah, I guess when you’re drunk…

M: Nice hairy knee

D: Hah

D: I just sat down

M: What is the view? A parking lot?

D: This is the Shenandoah Valley… beautiful

 

Several hours later…

D: I’m at the restaurant now and the conversation is so slanted towards the extreme right.

M: Oh lord. Try to stay out of it.

D: You know I can’t

M: You have to. There’s no one to bail you out.

D: Haha

M: Find another restaurant

Now to say my dad does not have strong political opinions presently, would be a gross falsehood, but he also wouldn’t get himself into a heated discussion with strangers. But – beer muscles are a thing. I just don’t believe my dad has any. Until –

D: Are you sayin you wouldn’t drive here to bail out your wife’s father?

M: My wife’s father? Dad, how much have you had?

D: Oops! My bad

D: I was talking to you and Todd at the same time

 

The next morning I received another video – this one was a nighttime video of flashing red lights and firetrucks, captioned: “You can always count on Dominoes to arrive on time.” And sure enough, if you look closely, you can see a car with a Dominoes sign on the roof passing between the firetrucks.

 

D: Fire alarm evacuated hotel around midnight

M: OMG. You really should be blogging. Your life is way more interesting than mine.

M: It’s 8:57 and the highlight of my day so far is that I finally went to the bathroom.

D: Just got the details during my coffee run…someone in the hotel tried to smoke in their shower (there are no exhaust fans in this old hotel)

 At this point I plead an empty case for him to guest write a post. If he had been blogging over the last 10 years or so, he’d have thousands of followers and he wouldn’t have to work. Truth is by far, waaaay better than fiction.

 

Miscellaneous tidbits:

*One news outlet stated The Red Hen was expected to stay closed until July 5th.

There are other “Red Hen” restaurants that have been confused with The Red Hen in Lexington, Virginia. Restaurants around the world bearing any part of the name Red Hen have been targeted by haters – including The Little Red Hen, a restaurant located IN THE PHILLIPINES, where someone trashed them for refusing “to serve one of the finest woman in the country. You should be ashamed of yourself!” (Grammar geeks – I spelled the quote exactly as it was written.)

It has even gone as far as people contacting the Health Department that serves Lexington, KENTUCKY – imploring them to “shut the [expletive] down.”

There’s actually a Red Hen in D.C. that received so many threats they had to post a police officer outside, and was egged late at night.

A man whose restaurant by the same name in Georgia closed nearly 10 years ago, received a 700-word post on his not-updated-page-since-2010 from a “ ‘tourist to Lexington,’ who swears to never eat there again.” His friends have since made comical reviews about his restaurant being a “Communist front” and that “its food tasted several years old.”

Meanwhile, a man was arrested for throwing chicken poop at #TheRealRedHen.

Moral of the story tibits: There’s a lesson to be learned from all this, and it’s not political.

***Sources: http://www.theverge.com and The Washington Post.

As Life Goes On Around Me

As I continue to heal and not complain about it – (I joked with Todd over the weekend that he should be glad I’m not Opac, who would complain about every ache and pain like he was dying and then announce that his funeral was imminent) – life goes on around me.

Not quite two weeks post-op. I’m still doing the same mundane things and suffering a suffocating boredom. My mom was here last week to help, mostly just running Opac to workouts, caretaking my plants, making food, and entertaining Veruca for the 24 hours she came home to be with me. V chose not to stay the extra day until her dad came to pick O up. I’ve reached the pinnacle of boring for her.

My neck is still hurting, and fatigue creeps in like a fog drifting in off the bay, particularly when I’ve done too much – which, if you can believe it, might be unloading the dishwasher or ironing more than 3 shirts. Sunday I was looking forward to going up the street to celebrate my neighbor’s 70th birthday – we drove literally three houses down because a) the last time I walked that far I regretted it and b) it was 97 degrees.

The surprise party was a huge success. Jackie is literally the neighborhood welcome wagon. She is one of the kindest, funniest, craziest neighbors you could ever hope for. The first time we met she hugged me and told me how happy she was that I was there. She goes out of her way for us all, and she deserved nothing less than the celebration we gave her. She also shares my love of chickens and her BFF, who is also a neighbor and friend, bought her a six-foot metal chicken that I am insanely envious of. He’s beautiful. And I joked with her that now she has the biggest cock in the whole neighborhood.

I made Cuban sandwiches and coleslaw (with Todd’s help) and I thought I took it easy, sat most of the time, drank lots of water, and actually ate more in one sitting than I have in nearly two weeks. We were there just over three hours and my neck was killing me. I guess this means I overdid it a little?

It’s weird and disappointing, that I want to do stuff and then the energy gets sucked out of me like air in a deflating balloon. My neck still hurts and my throat is still tight. I wonder, casually and half-seriously, if I’ll ever feel normal again. Which is, of course, a bit melodramatic.

And, speaking of melodramatic, the kids came home yesterday morning by way of their dad, which we had previously discussed. That is, until Sunday afternoon when Veruca called to tell me Nannie was bringing them home. This was after Todd told me my mom couldn’t come down because she had too much to do. OKAY.

Opac literally called me while I was saying goodbye to V, wanting the 411 on next weekend because he was trying to make plans with “someone.” He didn’t mention anything about Nannie or the next day, and I didn’t ask. Two hours later he called me AT THE PARTY all pissed off because the plan as he knew it had changed and V was “running the show.” I said to him – I don’t even know why – I’m sorry you’re upset but I Can’t Talk About This Right Now. He continued to rant about how he needed to get home and something-something about dad and lack of communication, blah blah blah… and I cut him off mid-sentence and told him I’M AT THE PARTY and I cannot have this conversation right now.

Apparently V and mom were taking Mom-mom to the doctor and then out to lunch which, by the way, left O waiting at mom’s house because he didn’t want to go with them, which he called me about later because he didn’t want to sit in Nannie’s house for hours and just wanted her to come back to his dad’s house to pick him up.

So he’s very unhappy with the plan because he just wants to get home and dad can bring them home but won’t just bring ONE of them home and not the other. And O can’t wait until late afternoon to get home with Nannie because he has to “prepare” for workouts at 5:30. So, he wants it his way and Veruca screwed everything up. And I’m wondering how I fell into the middle of this since I’m the one recovering from surgery and there’s now a clusterfuck of convoluted misinformation and I’m failing to see what ANY of this has to do with me.

FOUR phone calls. Mom called to explain the plan. Followed by Opac calling to bitch about the plan and tell me that dad can bring them home since he has an appointment nearby – which makes perfect sense to me and why drag my mother into it? Then he called back to tell me dad WAS bringing them home in the a.m. and that he tried to call Nannie but she’s not answering, and I suggested that probably it’s because it’s NINE-THIRTY AT NIGHT. And then fifteen minutes later mom called me (after she spoke to V) about the change in plans and said she felt guilty about letting V down. Jesus H. Christ.

At 8:41 a.m. I got this text from Opac: V’s in a bad mood so beware.

Yay. Can’t wait. How much of this is she blaming on you? (Asking for a friend.)

I braced myself for tropical storm Veruca, but she came in smiling and huggy and chatty. And O was of course his chatty happy self (read: got what he wanted). So, reentry was peaceful and without incident. No need to reach for the pill bottle.

Speaking of pills, Hell Week for dogs has returned. It started Saturday night. Sabra jumped over the ottoman and me, clawing my leg and stunning me awake, to run over the cat to the opposite end of the couch – WHICH she could have easily gotten to from the other side. She stood there panting and trembling, and ignored my command to lie down. She walked back over to me and the cat, who casually got up and sauntered into the kitchen like he’d just remembered something he had to do, and stood over me offering her best impression of an earthquake. I’m not sure whether it was the seismic motion on the couch or her hot breath on me that made me more nauseous.

Todd started a new job yesterday as a college dean that we are both thrilled about. It’s a big career step but he’s SO the man for the job. My little brother, always MIA, is in Michigan at some big music thing and not answering my texts again. My dad is home again but I can’t text him because he dropped his phone in the pool and it’s fried. I’ve had flowers and well wishes from work and others to brighten the days.

What will today bring? Surely another round of neighborhood fireworks, three more shirts ironed, Veruca’s eighteenth plea to go swimming next door, a new book started? More loosening of the Steri-strips?