I've had poo in my brain, I think. My head is just a big pile of mess, which is how I explain that I was curled up in bed last night, trying not to have some crazy anxiety attack. My insides are going to be on my outside on Monday, and I am freaking out a bit about it, which is just "not me".
Maybe some of my mental drama is because I don't know how bad it is in there. I'm in pain from my old C-Section scar, all the way up to my waist. I can either be gifted with a neat little 4" incision, or I can wake up to find that things were worse and I look like Frankenstein's Monster. I'm sure to have the moaning and groaning down. All I'll need are some bolts in my neck.
Now, I had wanted to be incredibly diligent with my dietary needs, and hopefully lose some weight before going into the hospital. I'll give ya three guesses as to how that has gone. The nurse at the hospital said that I can't take my pain meds this week, unless I want to take some Tylenol. She seemed to be surprised that I'm in pain. Now, I'm not a wimpy gal. I feel the need to say that. There are some people who act like they are going to die from a paper cut. I am not one of those people. I have a high pain threshold, probably from being put into so much damned pain. Let me just go on the record as saying that despite how many medical professionals seem surprised that I'm hurting, I'm in a lot of friggin pain! Best yet, neither of my doctors thought that I might actually have need of prescription pain medication during my wait to be hospitalized.
Maybe I'm slow, and I don't understand how these things normally work. When your doctor says that your abdominal wall is all jacked up with scar tissue and is now tearing apart because of the strain... shouldn't someone expect that it might hurt a bit? Blah. Nevermind me. I'm just cranky. What I find darkly funny is that the nurse said that they would want me to evaluate my pain and give them a number from 1-10. I feel as though someone is continually jabbing me with a searing knife and dragging it through my guts. What kind of number is that? When you've been living with it for a while and the pain becomes so familiar, what kind of number do you give it then? I don't even know how much pain I am in, because I've gotten used to so much of it all the time. I think it sounds like a grand idea for them to give me some drugs and then ask me to rate my relief, instead of my pain. It might be more accurate.
Um. So I've been in a not good place. You can imagine how my lofty ideas of losing weight has gone. My brain says, "Eat well and rest." The little gremlin inside my brain begins chewing on my gray matter, and it says, "Eat everything until you are stuffed and so fuzzy and overcome that you can sleep like the dead." Since my brain has neither teeth nor claw to fight this hungry little gremlin, it hasn't been winning. I've been eating too much, and most of it crap. I'm having a hard time building up any motivation to stand in front of the stove and cook meals. I've been so stressed out at home, on top of my pain, that I feel like just grabbing my skillets and running through the house, busting people up. I don't like cussing, but anymore I feel like I am just constantly surrounded by whining, bitching, and general laziness. I swear, I'm going to just explode.
So, while I am anxious about going in the hospital, there is a part of me that is really looking forward to it. I have to pay in pain for a little bit of peace and quiet.