The first time it happened I didn't even know what it was. It was like... a vibration. In my throat? Where the air was coming from. It was soft, but it woke me up. Immediately, I freaked out and buzzed the nurse. "I think there's something wrong with my airway. What if I stop breathing--I've done that in the hospital before--what if..." When you're in the hospital and code blues are ringing all the time, you can get a little hysterical sometimes.
The nurse calmed me down by putting an oxygen monitor on my finger.
It happened again in the hospital, but I brushed it aside. If I was in danger of death, I was hooked up to the machines that would tell someone. This is a very comforting thing when you're in the hospital and it's all dark and you're all drugged and hysterical.
But then I went home. And... well... it kept happening. Sometimes the vibration would be really strong and sometimes it would even make a sound. Sometimes it would wake me up. Sometimes it wouldn't.
After about two weeks home I started to realize what it probably was. (In my defense, it took me that long because the sensation feels NOTHING like the sensation you get when you pretend to do it. And also, I was really out of it for a really long time.) I didn't tell anyone, though. It was something I had never, ever done in my entire life. I didn't want people to think I might keep doing it. Because I might not! It was probably just a temporary thing caused by the sedative effects of all the post-surgery drugs. Right?! It had to be that. Because I wasn't someone who did something like this.
But people. Oh, people. I took a nap again today. And three times--count them!--three times I was semi-awakened by "it."
So I can't pretend anymore. I have to confess. To come out publicly with an announcement:
I snore now.
I don't do it every time I sleep. But sometimes I do. I don't know if I'll ever stop. Or if when I finally finish healing from the super-annoying-skin-graft-from-hell (did you know it messed up my heart?! they just put me on beta blockers so I don't keel from a heart attack. I'm friggin 31!) I will magically stop.
But for now. In this place. At this point in my life.
Lily has been sick. Not in the good 'sic!' kind of way, even. In the strep-throat kind of way. She would wake up screaming seventeen times a night and when we took her to the doctor, she fell asleep on the floor and didn't even wake up when I transferred her to the doctor's table to be examined. I'm sure we would have heard all about how sick she was (she does not believe in suffering in silence) but her throat hurt so bad that, after a few final screams, she stopped making any sound at all.
It got really quiet here.
Fastforward to the Penicillin. We gave it to her right when we got home from the doctor, she took it and went to bed. In the morning, she woke up. I gave her a dose. She watched mindless TV. She was still not talking.
But then about an hour after the dose, a very strange thing happened.
Lily got up, out of bed. She walked straight into the living room.
And she started cleaning.
I asked her, "What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Just pointed to her throat.
She picked up the toys. She put laundry in the laundry basket. She gathered all of the trash together and threw it away. She organized the Halloween candy and crawled around looking for stray wrappers and candy corn. She took dishes to the sink. Did a little dusting.
I stood there. So. Confused.
And then she walked back toward her room and I thought she was done, but she wasn't. A few seconds later, she came back--dragging the big, fat, taller-than-she-is vacuum. She unwound the cord. She plugged it in. She turned it on.
And vacuumed the whole room.
I totally want to give her penicillin every day now.
So many of y'all were interested in the pee cream. And I feel really bad that the only link was to a 12 pack. They do have some other single products, but none had the exact product number. Which is important, because I did a test with the "active" ingredient--which is petroleum; aka Vaseline--and I put Vaseline on my heels for a week to see if it did the same thing. And it didn't. Not even close. So that means that it's the *inactive* ingredients that are making the magic--maybe in combo with the petroleum? But in any event you don't want to risk getting the wrong "inactive" ingredients by ordering something with a different product number. Because they may think it's the same thing, and it may work great for, yanno, incontinence, since it's the "active" ingredient that takes care of that. But we're prescribing off label here, people.
To sum up: I'll take the hit and order the 12 pack myself. If you're interested in one of the bottles, I'll give it to you at cost. Just email me. kerryspencer [at] byu [dot] edu.
Y'all remember how ON FRIDAY (it was Saturday when I meant to start this post, due to the fact that it's 12:30AMish on Sunday right now, that WOULD have been only YESTERDAY if I'd done my blogging on time. but I digress) on just this FRIDAY I posted a call for people to pray to whatever kind of God they wanted (I was desperate; desperation leads to open-mindedness) for my open wounds to friggin start to close and not be open anymore already.
Here's the thing.
Overnight, they shrunk more than HALF. In HALF, people! OVERNIGHT. (in HALF!)
And these are wounds that had not shrunk at ALL for more than THREE WEEKS. And this happened OVERNIGHT. Within ONE DAY of asking y'all to pray.
So I want to know: Whose God was it?
So far our only confessors are my SIL, Barb (most of us know her religion) and my blog pal Majato whose body is his temple and whose religion is his beer.
They gave me this one ointment for my graft--they said that it might help any irritation. And it wasn't so bad. Not great. But not bad.
But it turns out that there was something better that it did.
I don't know what made me try it. Genius, maybe. But I put it on my *heels.* And something amazing happened. My heels went from looking like this:
to looking like this:
Seriously, people. My heels look good.
OMG, I thought. I could sell this stuff and be a BILLIONAIRE. Because nothing has ever, not even once, made my heels look this good. And I've tried *everything.* Because who wants to be the lady with the bad looking heels? I used to judge those ladies in my head all the time. And then I was one. And there was nothing I could do about it. Until the magic cream came along.
The cream is actually *incontinence* cream. i.e., it's meant to help protect your skin from your *pee.*
That's right. IT'S PEE CREAM.
Which means that to be a billionaire, I'd have to either convince people that it's not gross to buy and use buckets full of pee cream, or I'd have to, like, do a massive re-branding thing. Or something. I actually have no idea. Which is probably why I am most definitely NOT a billionaire.
So, lazy girl that I am, I'll just give you the Amazon link. And since I get like 1% of whatever anyone spends when they buy something (anything!) after clicking a link from my blog, you could help me make $0.50. And, also, you'll have really amazing looking heels. Which is almost as good as being a billionaire, right?
ps: Just so you know, in two years I have made $2.35 from Amazon links! Oh, yeah, baby.
pps: sorry that the link is to a 12-pack. That was the only link that had the exact product number that I have on my bottle. but the cream is totally worth it and you'll use the 12-pack, I promise.
[post edit ppps: after I bought the cream they changed the price to $140! it probably is *that* magical, but WTF? good thing I ordered early.][but bad thing that I was going to buy another box for christmas presents. $50ish I can do. Not $140, though.]
I *think* this may be the same product, just a bigger size:
There's a simple reason: I'm stoopid now. The first time I wrote blogged up in the title, for example, I spelled it bloggled. And it looked right.
The nice thing about being stoopid is that it means I'm not in pain.
The bad thing is, I'm not cranky enough to post rants. Which is kind of a bummer because I've got a modesty rant brewing.
I guess we'll have to wait until I'm less stoopid.
If you desire, send up a prayer to your own preferred divine being (depending, of course, on your personal faith traditions). Tell them that Dr. S is tired of having big fat open wounds. She is tired of looking at her skin graft and wondering when it will stop buzzing. (Yes, it buzzes. A nerve thing, I think. Or they implanted an alien device on me. Also a possibility.) And so Dr. S humbly requests that the skin graft close up, the buzzing stop, the stoopidness be tapered down, and life be calm and happy and full of blog posts and stuff.
Here's a funny thing: I think I might try to do yoga next week. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
I've been telling my students this, when I apologize for how stupid I've been lately, and they sort of laugh uncomfortably. That's OK. Students laugh uncomfortably around me all of the time.
But it is really nice to be stupid.
See, I've been on and off pain killers, waiting for my open wounds to close up. Sometimes my wounds are on the edge of getting infected and they hurt a lot so I have to take a lot of pain meds. But sometimes they don't hurt all that bad and I don't have to take a lot of pain meds. I get a lot more done when I'm pain-med free. Because the drugs really do make me stoopid.
But here's what's so nice about being stupid: you never get bored. You stare at the wall (sometimes literally) for an hour or more and you don't really care. You don't think about how you're trapped in bed or of what you should be doing. There's no room in your head for thoughts or anxiety. You're not really happy, but you don't really care because caring requires *thought* and having thoughts requires you not to be stupid. All of the voices in your head--the lines of books you just read that keep spinning around nonstop, the ideas for the story you're working on, the line from your last academic article that needs revision, the mental reminders that your house is a mess and that your children have not done their homework in weeks--all of those voices are gone.
It's quiet in your head.
I think I read somewhere that there is, like, a linear connection between intelligence and general unhappiness. Having been smart and having been stupid, I think there might be some truth to this.
So the next time you run into someone that's really stupid, instead of getting angry at how stupid they are, or appalled, or determined never to be.like.them, the next time that happens just remember:
Sam has written a new Fastboy Story. Fastboy is a character he created to battle all the evils in the alphabet. Today's story is about Mr. T. (We've been on Mr. T for awhile, but he's a particularly evil letter. I mean, you thought *Mr. M* was bad...) Check it out.