Well. I just don’t even know where to start. I have to say first and foremost, thanks to all my guest bloggers.

Norma Jean enjoyed her send-off, I read. Good thing she did since I did not. Well, not at first, but I’ll get to that.

Noel’s poem made me laugh which, at the time, was not a good thing. There’s only so much Percocet a girl can take, people. Now, however? It sums it all up so nicely.

I want Lisa’s art as a t-shirt to wear for open mic night, preferably with some very fun and funky text to go with the very fun and funky graphics.

Missy’s cookies didn’t get made. I figure Percocet + oven = not a good idea, so I put “make those dadgum cookies” on my To Do list. If you’re not on any kind of pain meds that prohibit you from operating your mixer and/or oven safely, go make ‘em right now. They’re goooooood.

Jane’s girls are about as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen, and man, do we need to make a trip up that way soon. (Another thing on the To Do list. Boy, that sucker’s getting long.)

Now, on to the updating. I offer now a fair warning to the menfolk and the squeamish — I’m about to talk about pain, girlbits and painful girlbits. Read on, if you want, but don’t e-mail me about how you didn’t know I’d be talking about my cooper issues. (Yes, my beloved Bulgarians, I’m talking to you.)

So, I go in Monday morning. I am filled with glee. Well, and an irrational fear that I’m going to croak on the table. But mostly glee. Okay, fine. I was up most of the night before worrying about what would happen to my family if I croaked. But I figured if I lived, I’d be gleeful about a couple of things — being alive and no longer having a uterus.

They ask me boatloads of questions, then they administer dope. The rest of Monday is fairly hazy, although I’m told I had a very long conversation with one nurse about my wishes if something should go wrong. The phrases “Terri Schiavo”, “my mama will do some crazy shit like point out I blinked so I must be in there somewhere” and “Bill knows what to do” were bandied about, I’ve heard. It was also funny enough that other nurses came in to listen and laugh about it, or so I’m told.

When I woke up (and I mean really woke up because I don’t think you can call coming halfway out of a drug-induced haze long enough to say, “My pain is at a four,” waking up), I was in pain. A lot of pain. Pain like I had never, ever experienced before, and hello? I’ve given birth three times.

This pain was in a class all its own, let me tell you. I have never before experienced pain like that, and I pray to God I never experience it again. Ever. For the first time in my whole life, I answered the question “On a scale of 1-10, what’s your pain,” with “It’s at a [expletive which rhymes with mucking] ten, okay?” Again — I’ve given birth three times, people. I never believed anything could be worse than that. I was so very, very wrong.

Worse was the fact that I couldn’t have a morphine pump. Apparently, morphine makes me stop breathing. For a while there, it was a very tough thing for me to accept that breathing was better than ending the pain. I figured if they could keep Terri Schiavo alive as long as they did, they could figure out a way to give me some damn morphine without killing me, the rats.

When I woke up Tuesday morning, I felt slightly better. Which is to say I no longer felt like morphine would be better than breathing. But I wasn’t ready to get up and about, yet that’s exactly what those crazy people at the hospital thought should happen. Buh…whaaa? Get up? Hello, I just had a major surgery! I stopped breathing on your table! Get up? The hell you say.

And yet, I got up. I felt better for it, although I have to say lugging around a catheter bag and an IV pole is not an experience that I’d care to repeat. But hell, I figure now I have a very long list of things I can say I’ve done. Oh, it might not sound as exciting as “bungee jumping,” but you try showering with that stuff and tell me it’s not every bit as scary.

I decide I’m ready to go home Tuesday afternoon, pain notwithstanding. I figure I can lie around at home and take drugs just as easily as in a hospital, plus at home, I can eat what I want. And no one will be poking and prodding me. Home is good.

From Tuesday to today is pretty much one long episode of “I’m getting better, so I’ll try to do more…whoops, that was too much”, so I’ll spare you the details. Let me just say that should you ever have a hysterectomy, they really do mean it when they say five days of solid bedrest. They’re totally serious. It’s not like how when the hairdresser tells you to wait 48 hours to wash your hair but she really means 24. Oh, and one other thing I’ll say without going into detail — have Milk of Magnesia on hand. Really.

So, I’m back. I’m still tender, but I’m officially off Percocet. (Although I’d imagine Motrin is going to be my friend for a while longer.) I plan on resuming my “normal” life tomorrow while Bill’s still home to make sure I don’t wind up on the floor in a big ball of pain from overexerting.

For the record, I’m still glad I did this. I get more glad every day really. And about four weeks from now, I bet Bill and I are going to be *really glad about this. Hee.

Related:

• Now, you just wait one minute here, Norma Jean.
• Goodbye, Norma Jean
• Goodbye Norma Jean
• Guest bloggers.
• Norma Jean as art.