Hey kids,
Momma stared into the jaws of death, and lives to fight another day. And by "staring into the jaws of death," what I really mean is, I cried like a litta-bitty baby when three different nurses and then the anesthesiologist tried seven times to get my initial IV in. But to my credit, I didn't cry until the 5th poke, administered by the increasingly nasty and brutish anesthesiologist. That particular "prick," as it were, triggered a panic attack of sorts, that was promptly put down by a round of whatever they give you prior to general anesthesia. After that, I didn't give a shit WHAT they did to me. My last memory was said anesthesiologist saying, "Okay, you'll be completely out in about 15-20 sec--" And that's all she wrote.
I woke up thyroidless and with a huge, bandaged gash in my throat. Spent the next day and a half in hospital, revisiting my post-C section helplessness, complete with nurses holding my hand on my way to the bathroom and drool-inducing drugs. And only one more panic attack, at about midnight, which was quickly quashed with a Xanax, sweet Xanax.
I'm home now, swollen but resting comfortably, high on Vicodan and soft foods, and enjoying my pretty flowers from the gang at work:
And oh yeah... for some reason, every time I belch, it feels like a hot knife in my heart. I certainly hope that's temporary, cuz I tend to belch a lot.
Wavy, your grandma hijacked you for the week, and you won't be coming home to me until Sunday, so I console myself with this quick vid of you going to town on a chocolate bunny:
Okay, I don't know why Blogger throws up two versions of the same vid. It doesn't do that in the preview. Annoying!
Love you both so very much!
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