d is for drama

Generally speaking, I am not much in the drama department.

I'm pretty even keel.

I'm rational. Not prone to hysteria. Not really a "the sky is falling" kind of girl.

Generally speaking.


However.

In one particular area, I am pretty much a basket case.

That area is the medical world. I'm cool with most any doctor visit, but in all things hospital related, I am a worst case scenario freak show.


Case in point.

I had all three of my boys without any form of pain killer, and it's not because I'm a free spirited, embrace the pain, natural granola kind of girl.

It's because they make you sign a piece of paper saying that you understand that you could possibly die from your epidural.

I didn't want to die from my epidural. The very small rational part of my brain totally knew that statistically speaking, I was not going to die from an epidural, but the larger, irrational when it comes to all things hospital part of my brain didn't want to actually become one of the statistics that led the lawyers to draft the paperwork you're required to sign if you decide you are indeed going to have an epidural.

And yes, I know those statistics are somewhere in the one in a hundred kazillion range.

I would much rather just suck up the pain than take my chances, and three bouncing baby boys later, I'm still alive.

Ha! Take that, Grim Reaper.


Fast forwarding a bit, and making a long and very boring story a little bit shorter, I've had a surgery hovering over my head for the last couple years. I came close to taking the plunge several times, but when push came to shove, I always chickened out. Obviously, it wasn't life threatening, but it was quality of life threatening and last week, quality of life finally won out.

As you can see, I have cheated death once again. And this time, it was full anesthesia death that I cheated. Full anesthesia makes an epidural look like a walk in the park.

Let me know if you'd like me to buy you a lottery ticket, because I'm obviously on a roll here.


I cried before my surgery, but only for a minute. Once I got it out of my system, I was okay. I was extra, extra okay once they put the "little something to relax you" in my IV.

I got to wear the dreaded open back hospital gown during my stay, but the quality of my painkillers was such that I didn't even really care if my backside was exposed while I strolled down the hospital halls. I'm a pretty modest person, but I truly did not care even one little bit. Fortunately, my hubby cared enough for both of us and was my rear guard, as well as my IV holder and general all around fabulous care taker both in the hospital and since I've been home.

As far as the painkillers go, I now totally understand the term "take a chill pill". My pharmaceuticals left me in a warm and fuzzy state of half awareness and total not careness. I'm not gonna lie...I kind of enjoyed it. I was only on them for two and a half days, but I think it took a whole week for the fog in my brain to clear out.


Now that my head is clear, I've got a raging case of cabin fever, so I think I must be well on the road to recovery.

Unless, of course, the doctor left a scalpel inside me.

It's happened before.

I saw it on Dateline.


I had great plans to catch up on all my blog visiting and emails while I was recuperating, but the aforementioned fuzzy brain did not allow for such things. If you've sent me an email, look for a response shortly!

Just don't expect it to make much sense.

Have yourselves a wonderfully drama free Wednesday!