Layout of the Gears
Posted on 2015.12.13 at 11:31
I feel one hundred times better than I did at this time last week! Psychologically. Anxiety-wise.
On the first night of Hanukkah, we celebrated Taco Cabanakkah (as scripture dictates). Here's how the kittens celebrated:
and how Rascal celebrates:
Hey Rascal, whatcha doing in that closet all by yourself?
"NOTHING. Please shut the door."
On the second night of Hanukkah,
again. Rascal, get back in your seat!
On Tuesday,
We headed to the hospital at 6:30 am. We did the normal assortment of pre-op room-hopping, blood-letting, IVing up, getting shunted around the hospital on a rolling bed, and so on. Surgery was scheduled for 9:30 am.
Finally, in the last stage, my surgeon (Dr. M) stopped by. He brought a friend who was a plastic surgeon.
"I bet you thought I was here to talk you into reconstruction," the plastic surgeon friend (Dr. C) said, "but nope!"
I told him, "That's exactly what my first thought was."
Dr. C said, "It used to be that women weren't informed about reconstruction, and so doctors made a big effort to change that. But the pendulum has swung so far that women who don't want reconstruction no longer have any guidance or a path to follow."
I could have hugged him. He talked about how it is reasonable and likely that I'd need small corrective surgery, and that insurance might throw a tantrum because they won't have a ticky-box for that situation. He also drew the cut lines on me, and gave my surgeon surgical tips. "I like to cut as close to the areola as possible," he indicated the top edge, "so that the scar sits as low as possible."
I was elated and also soothed. (I even revised my opinion of my surgeon. Then Dr. M said, "You just got a free $500 consultation! I just happened to bump into Dr. C in the hallway. Isn't he nice?" and I revised my opinion of Dr. M back down to the middle again.)
Here is what Hawaii drew for me:
She gave Jammies strict orders to wait to give it to me until we were at the hospital. I think it's pretty beautiful and also really sweet of her.
This is the back of it:
It is written on an old worksheet from school. The worksheet says: TOLERANCE. Acception others at different levels of maturity. What the hell. That is not at all what tolerance means. Not one iota.
I woke up from surgery and was able to walk around the ward that evening. I felt unexpectedly good. I have been in the hospital seven times in the past seven years, and this is the first time that nobody has cared about my genitals! I was not even catheterized.
I spent the night at the hospital. At home, they celebrated We Miss Momukkah, and the kittens slept like so:
In the morning, I ambled about the ward some more. There was construction outside:
and we checked out and went home. I had to ride in a wheelchair. My mom took a long time to bring the car down, because she couldn't find "reverse" on E. Messily's car, in the shadows of the parking garage. We argued about the layout of the gears. I drew a diagram for her. I love my mom and eventually we got home.
On the...
Fourth, fifth, and sixth nights of Hanukkah:
and
.
We got really into Hanukkah this year. I've never celebrated Hanukkah so hard.
On the 8th night, we threw a Mow the Lawnukkah party. Hokey Pokey helped E. Messily, who was in the kitchen all day long:
making latkes and sufganiyot:
"I'm eating for 0.8," I quipped, reaching for my second doughnut.
We made the kids complete a cerimonial obstuhkkle course to celebrate the miracle of the grass that grew for eight days straight. The adults drank ceremonial gin and tonikkuhs:
It was rigidly scripted and very fun.
I intended to write some scripture verses but I couldn't find the right voice to drone on didactically.
So how am I doing?
I have pretty good mobility in my arms, for being five days out from surgery. Today I washed my hair, myself. I have not needed pain meds for the last few days.
The worst part is the drains. I still have two drains. I empty them twice a day, and record how many cc of pus-blood has accummulated in each side. In order to get them taken out, I have to total less than 30 cc on each side, for two consecutive days. I'm working on it.
Here's what I looked like before and after.
Don't I look happier now?
"You do!" answered E. Messily, when I showed her these photos. "What exactly were you so nervous about?"
I had to think about my current answer (because I've discussed it extensively with Jammies) but it is this: that the cosmetic change would mess with my identity. That I'd be unhappy matching my sense of self to the body. That was part of why I hated my first pregnancy - I went from this sporty, androgynous, scrappy person to this big, lush symbol of fertility. It did not match my sense of self. "I'm no earthly mother nature giant-breasted Gaia," I snarled in the mirror.
But now, I do feel like me. All week I've been calling myself Sporty Spice. Until I was writing this, I hadn't connected it to the pregnancy change - I'm back to feeling sportier and more androgynous - but I guess it's all one big neurotic mushpot.
Both me and this piano got our organs out. It's been a big week.
On the first night of Hanukkah, we celebrated Taco Cabanakkah (as scripture dictates). Here's how the kittens celebrated:
and how Rascal celebrates:
Hey Rascal, whatcha doing in that closet all by yourself?
"NOTHING. Please shut the door."
On the second night of Hanukkah,
again. Rascal, get back in your seat!
On Tuesday,
We headed to the hospital at 6:30 am. We did the normal assortment of pre-op room-hopping, blood-letting, IVing up, getting shunted around the hospital on a rolling bed, and so on. Surgery was scheduled for 9:30 am.
Finally, in the last stage, my surgeon (Dr. M) stopped by. He brought a friend who was a plastic surgeon.
"I bet you thought I was here to talk you into reconstruction," the plastic surgeon friend (Dr. C) said, "but nope!"
I told him, "That's exactly what my first thought was."
Dr. C said, "It used to be that women weren't informed about reconstruction, and so doctors made a big effort to change that. But the pendulum has swung so far that women who don't want reconstruction no longer have any guidance or a path to follow."
I could have hugged him. He talked about how it is reasonable and likely that I'd need small corrective surgery, and that insurance might throw a tantrum because they won't have a ticky-box for that situation. He also drew the cut lines on me, and gave my surgeon surgical tips. "I like to cut as close to the areola as possible," he indicated the top edge, "so that the scar sits as low as possible."
I was elated and also soothed. (I even revised my opinion of my surgeon. Then Dr. M said, "You just got a free $500 consultation! I just happened to bump into Dr. C in the hallway. Isn't he nice?" and I revised my opinion of Dr. M back down to the middle again.)
Here is what Hawaii drew for me:
She gave Jammies strict orders to wait to give it to me until we were at the hospital. I think it's pretty beautiful and also really sweet of her.
This is the back of it:
It is written on an old worksheet from school. The worksheet says: TOLERANCE. Acception others at different levels of maturity. What the hell. That is not at all what tolerance means. Not one iota.
I woke up from surgery and was able to walk around the ward that evening. I felt unexpectedly good. I have been in the hospital seven times in the past seven years, and this is the first time that nobody has cared about my genitals! I was not even catheterized.
I spent the night at the hospital. At home, they celebrated We Miss Momukkah, and the kittens slept like so:
In the morning, I ambled about the ward some more. There was construction outside:
and we checked out and went home. I had to ride in a wheelchair. My mom took a long time to bring the car down, because she couldn't find "reverse" on E. Messily's car, in the shadows of the parking garage. We argued about the layout of the gears. I drew a diagram for her. I love my mom and eventually we got home.
On the...
Fourth, fifth, and sixth nights of Hanukkah:
and
.We got really into Hanukkah this year. I've never celebrated Hanukkah so hard.
On the 8th night, we threw a Mow the Lawnukkah party. Hokey Pokey helped E. Messily, who was in the kitchen all day long:
making latkes and sufganiyot:
"I'm eating for 0.8," I quipped, reaching for my second doughnut.
We made the kids complete a cerimonial obstuhkkle course to celebrate the miracle of the grass that grew for eight days straight. The adults drank ceremonial gin and tonikkuhs:
It was rigidly scripted and very fun.
I intended to write some scripture verses but I couldn't find the right voice to drone on didactically.
So how am I doing?
I have pretty good mobility in my arms, for being five days out from surgery. Today I washed my hair, myself. I have not needed pain meds for the last few days.
The worst part is the drains. I still have two drains. I empty them twice a day, and record how many cc of pus-blood has accummulated in each side. In order to get them taken out, I have to total less than 30 cc on each side, for two consecutive days. I'm working on it.
Here's what I looked like before and after.
Don't I look happier now?
"You do!" answered E. Messily, when I showed her these photos. "What exactly were you so nervous about?"
I had to think about my current answer (because I've discussed it extensively with Jammies) but it is this: that the cosmetic change would mess with my identity. That I'd be unhappy matching my sense of self to the body. That was part of why I hated my first pregnancy - I went from this sporty, androgynous, scrappy person to this big, lush symbol of fertility. It did not match my sense of self. "I'm no earthly mother nature giant-breasted Gaia," I snarled in the mirror.
But now, I do feel like me. All week I've been calling myself Sporty Spice. Until I was writing this, I hadn't connected it to the pregnancy change - I'm back to feeling sportier and more androgynous - but I guess it's all one big neurotic mushpot.
Both me and this piano got our organs out. It's been a big week.
