POST-OP BLUES

I haven't been blogging lately because I've been busy running places for the Bro. He had surgery a couple of weeks ago and is a post-op mess. I'm sure you don't want all the grisly details, but the operation involved slicing his belly open, cutting out a small piece of his colon, and then splicing it back together. And no, it wasn't cancer--just a polyp that was flat and stuck to the inside of the colon so that the doc couldn't snake it out during his colonoscopy.

I DID promise not to give all the grisly details, didn't I?

Anyway, he did okay in the hospital and then was sent home to continue recuperating. That's when he began to fall all apart. Basically, his gut went into overdrive and kept him--ahem, how shall I say this?--running. And running, and running. And weak, and worn out, and cranky.

I would feel a lot sorrier for him if this whole thing hadn't been HIS BIG IDEA. When they found this polyp and said he would need surgery, he went into high speed mode. Let's do it! Now! Let's get it over with! Monday? Great!

I was still thinking, Whoa, Bro. Get a grip here. I knew enough about his medical history to remember that any time he has some medical procedure, weird stuff goes on. One time he had his appendix taken out, and they had to hunt all over his belly to find it. It wasn't where the book shows it is: "Appendix, X marks the spot, cut here."

This time, mostly he has had trouble getting his digestive system up and running again. Oops, I shouldn't have said "running." And also, he has developed a blood clot in one of his legs. Not a BAD blood clot, just one in a superficial vein, but this still tends to get the medics excited. They make him come in for blood tests to make sure the rat poison they are giving him is thinning his blood properly. So I have been chauffering him for that, as well as for follow-ups with his surgeon, A.K.A. The Goat Roper. (His hobby is riding cutting horses.)

And then for some reason he had to go to his urologist. I think it was just a routine checkup that had been set up long ago, before any of this craziness started. You know old men, they all have their urologist. Like us babes have our OB-GYN's. So we go waltzing in there (me waltzing, and him mincing along) and notice--bad sign!--the waiting room is full to overflowing. And somebody had remembered to bring the obligatory screaming kids. What were THEY doing at the urologist's? Getting their little weenies whittled on? Nope, apparently Grandma and Grandpa were just babysitting, and it was Grandpa's day at the urologist's. "Hey, I know--let's take the kids!"

Anyway (do I keep saying "anyway?"), we sat down and I got to read several People magazines about people I never heard of, and old Times and Newsweeks about how Kerry was creaming Bush in the polls. Finally, the receptionist made an announcement: "Attention, people! Dr. Kibbey is running an hour and a half late."

Great. We went in at 2:30, got out at 5:30. And did we go home? Hah! THIS doctor sent him to another doctor--"Go over to the Heart Group and get that leg looked at." So we got to hang out there, and Gene got his leg dopplered and they found a storm cell--no, wrong doppler, it was a blood clot. Same principle, only it doesn't get on TV. Then we went to the Pill Palace (Gene's pet name for his pharmacy), and then to Jeff's Grand Burger so he could give his bruised colon an infusion of grease.

So, that's the story of my life the last couple of weeks. The one thing that keeps me going is SADISTIC PLEASURE in seeming him suffer. And the satisfaction of knowing I was right, the whole thing was a bad idea. As he told me yesterday, "I am going to take a Magic Marker and draw a dotted line across my throat to show you where to cut if I ever consent to surgery again."