Silver Bells

When one is forced to stare at the popcorn stucco of her ceiling as she lays supine recovering from spinal surgery, one tends to realize she a.)hates popcorn, b.)hates ceilings sprayed with that shit and c.) really needs to get a life.

A life that doesn't include medical toilet seats equipped with bars! Or the fancy cane complete with a padded handle and the non-slip rubber bottom!

I went from being a healthy 34 year old woman who could put her ankles behind her ears on command to a geriatric arthritic nag yelling at the kids to keep the damn music down and get off her lawn over night it seems.

It's no wonder my husband is actively looking for reasons to escape the house and get away from his wife, who is armed with a bell she shakes whenever she needs her pillows fluffed or her water glass refilled. He just can't handle my new brand of sexy.

There aren't many perks when one has had her ass up in the air and a surgeon slice her back open like he's filleting a trout, but dammit, shaking that bell is one of them, I tell you.

There is, however, a slight drawback to feeling like a gibbled up princess as one shakes her shiny silver bell in the air and demands to be attended and waited upon, I have learned.

That drawback being that I may have annoyed my husband and alienated my children so badly with my pitiful cries for more icecream! scratch my foot! no the other foot! I can't reach the phone! change the channel, I wanna see more Miley! that I may have convinced my husband that not only am I the most annoying surgical patient to have ever layed flat on her back and whined in all time, but perhaps I require more help than he and my children are able to provide.

Of course, he doesn't discuss this with me. No. He phones his mother, my father, my sister, Mr. Lady, and any other damn person he can convince to listen his tales of woe (which, by the way, woe? Seriously? I was just carved open like last year's Thanksgiving turkey and your whining that it's too hard to cook dinner, parent the kids and bring me a damn glass of water with out any freaking help, when you have happily abandoned me to the same situation every time you leave to go to work??? Please read that in the screechy tone in which I wrote it.) and he plots.

I couldn't hear what he was plotting, but I could tell by his nefarious cackles that it didn't bode well for me.

There may be something more irritating than not being able to actively snoop and spy on your spouse while recovering, but damn it, at the moment I can't think of it.

I knew I'd eventually be filled in on whatever he was busily conniving to accomplish so I just continued to stare at the shadows on my popcorn ceiling and ring my little bell while biding the time until I can once more put my ankles behind my ears and race across the kitchen floor using only my butt cheeks and hands for support.

I didn't have to wait long. Maybe it was the tinkle of my little bell or my moans for more frozen grapes, but whatever it was, my husband was motivated.

"So Tanis, I've been doing some thinking."

"Does it hurt?" I chuckled, because lame jokes? They are my forte.

"Ha ha. It seems I have to go back to work soon, honey."

"It's about darn time you stopped letting me support your sorry butt while you practice being an unemployed bum. I'm supposed to be the kept one in this relationship," I snort.

Boo's eyebrows knit tighter together and I could see the vein on his left temple twitch with aggravation and he inhaled slowly before continuing on.

"Well, since you are laid up I decided that when I leave, maybe we should bring in some help. You know, to help take care of Jumby when the kids are in school and he doesn't have school."

"Oh we'll be fine," I quickly assured him. If there is one thing Boo knows about me, it's that I hate having strange people in my house.

"No, you won't be fine. You can barely wipe your own ass, how are you going to take care of our son's when you are all by yourself?"'

"Easy. I've decided to let hygiene go. It's overrated anyways," I joked. Boo didn't laugh so I quickly added, "My dad. Your mom. The homeless dude that walks around town collecting pop cans. It's only Mondays and Fridays I need to worry about and I'll only need help for lunch time. I'll work it out. You are just being a big worry wart," I tried to convince him as I patted his hand.

"Nope. I've decided it's not safe to leave you alone."

"WHAT? It's totally safe. I had back surgery not a lobotomy," I huffed.

"I'm not talking about your mental faculties. I've long since made peace with that defiency," he joked. "I'm worried about you hurting yourself. What will you do when you need to tie your shoes? Or feed Jumby?"

"I'll manage. I always have, I always do. Your job is to listen to me whine about me managing and to continue to bring home the bread to feed me. Not to worry about HOW I manage."

"Nope. Not this time. This time we do it my way." I swear, he puffed up a little as he channeled his inner manliness.

"Reeeaally? And just what is your way?" I shouldn't have asked.

"I hired a nanny."

"For Jumby?"

"No. For YOU."

Silence filled the space as I processed the news. "You hired a babysitter? FOR ME??" I screeched and swatted at him.

"What? You are an invalid. Deal with it." He said invalid like it was a dirty word.

"No. We can't afford it. I don't want it."

"It's covered by my health plan and you don't get a voice in this decision. It's too late. I've hired one already."

"No! I don't want a stranger in my house! Touching my things! Touching my kid!!"

"Sorry honey, but it's done. She starts Monday."

"What? You didn't even hire a male nanny for my visual enjoyment? What kind of sick husband are you?" I whined.

"The kind that considered hiring a hot chick just so I could say I have two hot women who answer to me, but I couldn't find any willing to put up with you."

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

"What if I promise not to ring my bell anymore and stop asking you to shave my legs for me? Will you cancel her?"

Boo chuckled and shook his head.

"What if I promise to ring your bell?" I offered as I waggled my eyes suggestively.

"Oh honey. You pee on an old person potty, take stool softeners and can barely brush your own hair. The last thing I'm interested in is you ringing any part of my bells."

With that, he patted me on my head like I was his own personal pet and walked away chuckling, leaving me and my shiny silver bell to be alone.

Perhaps I should never have asked him to trim my toenails.

Hmm. I wonder if my new nanny will do it for me.

Aiming High by Bending Low

Before losing my mind, my virginity and my dignity (not necessarily in that order) and populating this corner of the world with my own special brand of mini-me's, I never spent much time in a hospital.

There were the obligatory trips to the hospital as a small child to visit to the elderly and infirm alongside my parents. A trip to the hospital back then meant spending time staring at the bed pan sitting in the corner of the room, wondering just what it was for, while searching for abandoned wheelchairs to race down the hallway with my brother when my parents weren't looking.

There was a childhood trauma where I discovered, up close and personal, how much damage the business end of a horse's hoof can do; how flesh sews up surprisingly similar to the polyester fabrics folded in my mother's sewing room and how it may take well over eight weeks for a nose to return to normal after being smashed by said hoof, a class filled with 11 year old hyena's will make it seem like forever as they point and laugh along the way.

There may have even been an incident as a teenager involving an ankle, an aluminum cheese tin lid, a pool hall and an artery which culminated in an annoyed father, a grumpy emergency room resident and me whining 'ow, ow, ow' each time I received a stitch.

But it wasn't until I tested my womanly organs and pushed forth life out of my loins that I started spending more time under a hospital's roof than my own.

Yet another reason to be thankful I was horny and dumb in my early twenties. Rewarded with children and the inside knowledge of how to steal free jell-o when the nurses aren't looking.

Sadly, the knowledge of how to steal free jello is not near as thrilling when one is a patient in the hospital being encouraged to eat the jiggly gelatin. I learned this myself as I shuffled slowly down the hospital hallway in search of non-jello related food items while my butt cheeks peeked out from behind my hospital gown.

*Side note: When one's back has recently been filleted to correct spinal damage, one could care less who see's what part of her anatomy and more about where they keep the good drugs. Another lesson learned this past week.

I can officially add survivor of back surgery to my resume. Because future employers will be duly impressed with my bionic spine and my complete inability to touch my toes. It'll distract them from my finger pecking typing skills and from noticing the only thing professional about my resume is the quality of the paper it's printed on.

Surgery went fine. I think. I mean, I was there, but I was rather drugged up and drooling onto the floor as my ass cheeks saluted God Himself. My surgeon tells me all went well and he seemed quite pleased with his handiwork when he was telling me about it. Of course, he could have been bold-faced lying. Let's face it, if he's smart enough to pass medical school you'd think he'd be smart enough to not to tell me if he forgot a sponge in my spine or some other mishap.

However, all signs point to Go! and I'm recovering as well as can be expected after one's back is slit open by a pimply faced doctor who looks young enough to be dating your daughter, who then roots around and rips out your spine and replaces it with popsicle sticks and staples.

My first and most favourite tattoo, however, did not fare as well.

I don't know how bad exactly the tat held up after being attacked with a scalpel but I think it's safe to presume it isn't going to look the same once the bandages come off if my doctor and his resident's peels of laughter are any indication. Not only did they laugh when I asked them how my ink looked but they then tried to distract me with promises of Jell-o.

What can I say? Jell-O. It's a party in my mouth and I can't resist it.

One thing I discovered I could resist while I was laying flat on my back and listening to the moans of the other residents on the neurology ward: the power of the BedPan.

Listen, I understand the usefulness of the bedpan. I'm a big believer in the theory of the bedpan. However, in practicum I'd have much rather they inserted a catheter into any orifice that required future draining. However, since that didn't happen to be my fate, I had to make friends with the dreaded bedpan.

I tried. Really. But when one's dignity is already shattered, one's back is sliced open and one's bladder is about to burst, it is not the optimum time to make nice with new toileting tools.

It was a complete and total bedpan fail that had my nurse shaking her head and my husband wondering how he could have married someone who couldn't figure out how to pee in a pan. I'm telling y'all, it's not as simple as just sliding that baby under your bum and letting loose. There is a science to it, one I never managed to figure out.

What turned out to be a bedpan fail turned into a mobility victory when I managed to stand and shuffle myself to the washroom all by myself just hours after surgery. I couldn't help but feel a little smug about my accomplishment.

So smug about peeing in the potty I had to commemorate the moment for posterity.

I mean, I had just failed to piss in a pot. At this point, I'd see a victory in just about anything.

I've since discovered peeing in a bedpan is much easier than having a bowel movement post operatively. I was drowning myself in fibre and worrying I would never make nice with number two again when my dad dropped by my house with a box of suppositories. Take it from me people, nothing will scare the crap out of you faster than the thought of having your arthritic grumpy old father cram a sliver of glycerin up where the sun don't shine and smile while he does it.

Ahem.

The worst is finally over; all systems are a go and the pain is finally manageable thanks to my friendly neighbourhood pharmacist. In fact, at this rate, it won't be long before my husband posts video of me on Youtube walking across the kitchen floor using only my bum cheeks.

I am one day closer to making my dream come true and bringing back the bendy in my life.

Sometimes in order to aim high enough to reach your goals you need to learn to bend low.

**********

In other news, I learned almost as soon as I was wheeled out of recovery that my blog was named as a finalist for a Bloggie in the Best Canadian Blog category in the tenth annual Weblog awards. If I were politically correct, I'd tell you to wander over there and peruse the finalists because there is some fabulous blogs from all over the world nominated for an award. If I were politically correct, I'd tell you that it didn't matter to me if you voted for me or not, just that you voted at all. But I'm not politically correct. See this post for proof from last year. I want to win because my self worth is based soley on the acceptance and approval of my internet peers.  I want to win for every person who ever felt like they never fit in, that they weren't cool, that they were destined to never rise beyond the mantle of geekdom that some jerk in junior high shrouded them with.

Plus, I want to win because a sandwich blogger beat me last year.

And that just hurts.

So go, look, and vote. A vote for me is a vote for freedom. Er...too much? A vote for me is a vote well wasted. Closer to the truth but not quite right. A vote for me, is a vote for the YOU you always wanted to be.

I give up. Obviously I don't write slogans for a reason. Just go vote.

Please.

Update

I haven't been on my blog this week because big family happiness has occurred and it's hard to type and celebrate all at once.

But in the midst of all our family's joy, I've been dealing with medical issues of my own.

Remember last year when I fell and damaged my back?

Well, the back has gotten so bad that the doctors finally took pity on me and scheduled surgery to fix my pain and allow me to get my gumby bendiness back.

It's been a flurry of pre-surgical appointments, slipping on more ice and wailing at my husband to bring me a heating pad and more drugs. It's been a lot of fun. Heh.

Today I go into the hospital and tomorrow I get my favorite tattoo sliced open.

Wish me luck, health and all that jazz.

I'll be back new and improved.

Or at least highly drugged. That alone, is worth the price of admission, no?