How am I doing? Good question. The short answer is immobile, in pain and full of crap, all on purpose. Years ago, I had a foot problem. I’ve never been a heel diva, lord knows, but costume designers would put me in a heel for an acting role and it would just kill me! My mom thought I had gout, but she was wrong. I’m not some 17th century lord eating goose livers and drinking port. I am, however, a lady with a bony-a$$ed foot and a family history of bunions. That big lump on my foot was a bunion. I named him Paul. I am overly proud of this name.

Fast forward to years later. I married a nice fella, co-opted his insurance and am working remotely. It’s the perfect time to have that jerk Paul eradicated. Um, it’s not exactly the perfect time. I mean, I have this active little Boychild who just loves to play outside, which I can’t do for a while and that pains me. What if he starts to love his dad more than me? What if he forgets that I’m fun? I decided to have a bunionectomy anyway, because it’s not going to get any better on its own. Also, YOLO as the kids say.

Tuesday was my surgery day. The doc told me to remove my toenail polish days prior because it could chip and get into the incision. I don’t know why my brain focused on that one tidbit of knowledge, but it mildly horrified me. I got the same feeling one gets when you hear about someone getting injured on a carnival ride. It’s like, “this is supposed to be fun, not dangerous and now it feels weird.” after I learned that my nail polish was plotting against me, went to work getting every freakin’ bit of that blue glitter off my toes, and lemme tell ya honey, it was some WORK. Ever use glitter polish? It’s a lovely nightmare.

I was also informed that I would not be able to have any liquids the morning of my surgery, which caused me some concern. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me when I wake up, but I am a grumpy mess. My brain is an old-a$$ed Dell computer that takes a long time to boot up in the morning. It’s got fuckin’ malware and out of date software and backup stuff from Y2K rummaging around in there, so it needs time. Time and coffee. God help you if you ask me questions in the morning. I am not having it, and I will roll my eyes at you until I’ve consumed cup #2 of that sweet, sweet elixir of common sense. Knowing this about myself, I was concerned that a morning without coffee (or water!) would jeopardize 1. my future with Husband 2. my ability to compose a normal sentence without being hateful 3. my relationship with anyone who deigns talk to me. I did some deep breathing, and I made it through the morning without coffee, but it was tough. I was not a happy camper, at least not til they stuck that dart in my hand and gave me them GOOD DRUGS.

Then they put a thing on my face and I woke up sans Paul. It’s been a few days since he was evicted, and I have more perspective now. I clearly had a pain block on my foot, because the day of surgery was all sunshine and rainbows. Day two was hot lava and barbed wire. Thank the sweet lord for pain meds, because day two was wretched. I was wretched. I made everyone else wretched. Also, I couldn’t poop. This is one of the reasons I don’t think I could ever become addicted to opioids: being constipated is the worst. Ugh. Your insides feel stuffed with wet lumps of wool and clay. You spend the day ineffectually farting like a bagpipe with nothing to show for. It’s no fun. After two days of the ‘codone, I “couldn’t even buy a turd,” as my sister would say. So, I stopped the ‘codone, ate lots of veggies and sucked down a couple of Senokot, and here I am! No longer a victim of constipation’s devastation! Actually, this whole post is so I can talk about poop and farts- where I feel most comfortable. I’ll tell you the rest later. Right now, the toilet is calling, and I must go . . .