So I had my first post op checkup today. The fact that I am not posting the cellphone pic I snapped of my naked foot all covered in stitches and bruises is thanks only to my Annie, who zipped north to be with her mommy in her hour of need. I was so proud of my foot. Battered, bruised, a little worse for the wear it looked beautiful to me. Sigh. All flat where the bumps used to be. I thought it a thing of beauty in the same way a mom coos over her ugly baby - cuz in my mind, it's six months from now and for the first time in my life I (a) have purdy feet that (b) actually match (since it's been two years since I had my left foot operated on).
However. . .
today comes on the heels of what can only be described as 36 bizarre hours during which I took pain meds. Commit this to memory: Oxycontin + Vicodin + Ambien = Total Freakin' Weirdness. I didn't want to take anything, but knowing how much worse this surgery was than my last one, I decided to heed everyone's warnings about "staying ahead of the pain" when things started to hurt.
First came 12 hours of deep sleep interrupted by urgent lurches to the bathroom which is not a good thing when you're drugged and your only conveyance to the loo is two sticks. Then came bedtime during which I literally could not stop talking. I can hear you laughing, but I'm serious. I know what you're thinking. But I literally COULD NOT STOP TALKING. AOK was beside himself laughing for the first while.
I'm going to stop talking now, I finally said.
OK. Goodnight, sweetie, he said, ears numb from the continual litany I'd been spewing ever since we went to bed 45 minutes before.
So do you think if there was ever such a thing as pink elephants they'd be able to fly better than grey elephants? I'd ask.
Goodnight, sweetie, he'd say.
Sorry, I'd say. I know you want to go to sleep.
That's okay, honey, but it is 1:30 in the morning and the alarm goes off at 6:30.
I know, I'd say. I'm going to be quiet now.
Do you think radishes know they're radishes as opposed to, say, eggplants? I'd ask.
It was at this point that AOK's responses sounded sort of muffled, like his face was covered by a pillow. It was also at this point that the two tiny little drug-free cells left in my brain finally spoke up and told me to take an Ambien so AOK could get some sleep. I followed instructions.
Which means I went to sleep and had weird conversations with myself in my sleep, some of which took place while I was cozied down inside the softest of moon craters, looking out at navy blue space sparkling with planets. I was waiting on the earth to rotate so I could see if you really can spy the Great Wall of China from space. Oh! and I was eating Smarties and being very careful to eat the wrappers, too, so as not to leave trash behind.
The only other thing I remember was being a goat. I had on the prettiest baby blue corduroy coat and a hat with fresh flowers around the holes where my ears poked out. And I was walking to the music store for violin lessons.
Draw your own conclusions, folks, but I'm thinking 36 hours of pain would have been way better than taking narcotics. When I got up yesterday morning, I flushed every damn pill down the toilet only to discover that starting then stopping narcotics brings on another set of symptoms I feel are only now wearing off.
But maybe I'm not out of the woods yet.
They took my cast off today and sent me home with an Ace bandaged foot with a sort of tube sock over it. The sock is open at the toe - no stitching or anything - so they just tucked the ends down inside. And it's looking for all the world like some other body part I can't quite identify.
Oh wait. I know what it looks like - a foresock!!!!
Aiiiyyeeeeee. Is there an antidrug for this????