Pain in the Neck
A status report from the biggest, whiniest baby you ever knew.
Jesus pancake-flippin' Christ, this is rough. This has been possibly the toughest twelve days of my life. Here's the good news: I've lost 25 pounds since my surgery -- I look a lot better in the mirror, my pants are loose on my hips -- and I've virtually stopped snoring when I sleep. (That's when I can sleep.) I can feel the difference in my nose and throat. With one breath, I can get about as much air into my lungs as it used to take me three huffs and puffs to deliver. I never knew there could be such a noticeable difference. It's like Roto-Rooter snaked out all my air passages and made them half again as big as they were before. But day-umm! It's come at one hell of a price.
My brother-in-law asked me a couple days ago if it was all worth it; I told him the jury is still out.
Of course, that's the short-term answer. I'm sure that in a month or six months or a year from now, I'll look back and say yeah, it was a bitch while it lasted, but it was definitely worth it in the long run. To be able to breathe at night, to not wake up gasping for air or disturb the residents of the apartment building three doors over with my sawing logs all nights will absolutely have been worth all the pain and misery I'm going through now. But I'd be lying if I said that I felt that way yet.
Yesterday, I'll admit, I turned a corner of sorts. After not being able to eat anything at all for over a week, a week where every sip of water was spiked with carpet tacks, I'd begun to handle a few spoonsful of yogurt or Jello or applesauce in the past couple days. Then last night, for the first time since they cut me, I had some honest to god grown-up food, some real-people food. I was actually able to eat a little bit of chicken and pasta, and it didn't kill me to swallow it. For days now, I've been having fantasies -- not sexual fantasies, but fantasies of pizza slices, of bowls of corn flakes with fresh blueberries, of grilled cheese sandwiches -- and just smelling the small bit of roast chicken that Mrs. Generik tentatively put in front of me last night about sent me over the edge. If I hadn't been able to eat it, I probably would have just given up right then and there, and tried to stab myself in the heart with a chicken bone.
I even slept longer than usual last night. Typically, I've been able to stay asleep for no more than three or four hours before the pain wakes me up. Last night I made it almost six hours before the swelling and the pounding of raw nerve ends in my throat forced me to get up. I could probably sleep longer if I was still using the Vicodin, but I had to quit a few days back because I just couldn't stand being that doped up all the time. Besides, it had gotten to the point where it wasn't alleviating the pain any more at all, so why bother? I also quit the Lidocaine mouth rinse a few days back, because it would only last an hour or so, and it seemed like it made my mouth that much more sensitive each time it wore off. Plus, it tasted like crap. So I'm fucking John Wayne-ing it through this, tough guy, I don't need no stinkin' pain medication, what am I, a wussy?
Well, yeah, actually I am. I am a wussy. Why would I be whining like this to all of you if I wasn't?
Jesus pancake-flippin' Christ, this is rough. This has been possibly the toughest twelve days of my life. Here's the good news: I've lost 25 pounds since my surgery -- I look a lot better in the mirror, my pants are loose on my hips -- and I've virtually stopped snoring when I sleep. (That's when I can sleep.) I can feel the difference in my nose and throat. With one breath, I can get about as much air into my lungs as it used to take me three huffs and puffs to deliver. I never knew there could be such a noticeable difference. It's like Roto-Rooter snaked out all my air passages and made them half again as big as they were before. But day-umm! It's come at one hell of a price.
My brother-in-law asked me a couple days ago if it was all worth it; I told him the jury is still out.
Of course, that's the short-term answer. I'm sure that in a month or six months or a year from now, I'll look back and say yeah, it was a bitch while it lasted, but it was definitely worth it in the long run. To be able to breathe at night, to not wake up gasping for air or disturb the residents of the apartment building three doors over with my sawing logs all nights will absolutely have been worth all the pain and misery I'm going through now. But I'd be lying if I said that I felt that way yet.
Yesterday, I'll admit, I turned a corner of sorts. After not being able to eat anything at all for over a week, a week where every sip of water was spiked with carpet tacks, I'd begun to handle a few spoonsful of yogurt or Jello or applesauce in the past couple days. Then last night, for the first time since they cut me, I had some honest to god grown-up food, some real-people food. I was actually able to eat a little bit of chicken and pasta, and it didn't kill me to swallow it. For days now, I've been having fantasies -- not sexual fantasies, but fantasies of pizza slices, of bowls of corn flakes with fresh blueberries, of grilled cheese sandwiches -- and just smelling the small bit of roast chicken that Mrs. Generik tentatively put in front of me last night about sent me over the edge. If I hadn't been able to eat it, I probably would have just given up right then and there, and tried to stab myself in the heart with a chicken bone.
I even slept longer than usual last night. Typically, I've been able to stay asleep for no more than three or four hours before the pain wakes me up. Last night I made it almost six hours before the swelling and the pounding of raw nerve ends in my throat forced me to get up. I could probably sleep longer if I was still using the Vicodin, but I had to quit a few days back because I just couldn't stand being that doped up all the time. Besides, it had gotten to the point where it wasn't alleviating the pain any more at all, so why bother? I also quit the Lidocaine mouth rinse a few days back, because it would only last an hour or so, and it seemed like it made my mouth that much more sensitive each time it wore off. Plus, it tasted like crap. So I'm fucking John Wayne-ing it through this, tough guy, I don't need no stinkin' pain medication, what am I, a wussy?
Well, yeah, actually I am. I am a wussy. Why would I be whining like this to all of you if I wasn't?
posted by Generik at 6:10 AM
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