It has been a while since I have recovered from a surgery. The tonsil surgery went well yesterday, but naturally there is pain. In adults, recovery apparently takes longer. Even so, I felt so bad for the two babies in recovery who had their tonsils out as well. How horrible not to know what is happening to you. I am not supposed to lift heavy things or drive machinery or eat solids or anything. I am pretty drugged up, so my thoughts are kind of random. I have no compuction using pain killers. Bring 'em on. Last night was a little rough as the stitches tickled, forcing me to cough. New adventures in pain. With each hour today, things got better.
Jello is the real joy. It soothes and moistens. Lance made me a bowl of Jello last night and Dot brought over some Jello bars this morning which I immediately devoured.
I also ate four cherry popsicles in the middle of the night, then panicked when I spit out some deep red. Thought I would have to call emergency, as the biggest risk with tonsil removal in adults is bleeding. Took me a little while to figure out that it was red dye #34, not blood.
The hardest part of the surgery was the part I dread the most...the putting in of the IV. The nurses have never had difficulty finding my veins in the past, but even when it goes well, the procedure makes me nauseated.
So, this time they couldn't find a vein. "Whoa!" The nurse said, "you're going to have a bruise there!" I got green. "That vein just exploded!" I got greener. Four pokes on the left hand, two on the right. Then finally, one didn't collapse. By then I was green, boy was I green. So they stuck some anti-nausea stuff right in me. The nurse that finally found a vein was a customer and we talked plants. "All you need is some distraction," she said, as if the onus of finding a vein was on me! I guess the mental state of the pokee actually does make a difference for the poker, but I wasn't too keen on accepting blame for all the holes in my arms.
I had planned to have my last words before going under be "Jimmy Hoffa is buried...." However, they put me under with a mask, so my profoundity was limited to muffled gasping. Imagine my surprise when I read the news this morning that they are digging up another field in search of Jimmy Hoffa. It wasn't me!
No privacy in the recovery room. As Lance and I waited for final instructions, the woman in the next bay, who had obviously had a very intimate (although minor) procedure, was given detailed instructions on which intimate activities she might engage in and exactly how. I am no prude, but the loudness of it in a full room was a bit much. Lance buried his head in his hands until it was over. I admit to some very painful supressed laughter at the absurdity of it all. Poor lady. The doctor (a female, thank goodness) was tactful, beginning her sentence..."It would be best if you could make yourself happy by..."
Oh, I can't wait until I am old enough for the colonoscopies to begin.