I'm writing to find out if I really am different on Vicodin. The bottle says, "Use care using machines." I've asked AK to hide the keys to the forklift, but I'm not sure how this applies to internet machines (a.k.a. AK's laptop). I do plan to spell check, so hopefully that counts as using care.
In classic Cheryl style, I psyched myself out for a month only to have the actual surgery go totally smoothly. The nurses were nice, the doctors were nice, my dad and AK had a nice chat in the waiting room, sharing a Subway sandwich and debating the pros and cons of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (AK is of the Michael Pollan eat-real-food school of thought, my dad is totally '80s in his love of low-fat products).
One of two nice nurses named Karen promised, "It'll be over before you know it," and I realized that this was literally true. One minute the anesthesiologist was telling me how he was giving me a preliminary drug that was the equivalent of three margaritas. The next a non-Karen nurse was wheeling me to AK's car, saying, "I had the same surgery a while back. I went to a restaurant that night. I never listen to doctors' orders."
Doctors' orders or not, I was way too queasy for anything more than ginger ale and toast yesterday, but I did watch two episodes of Dexter, including the one where he finds a hotel room entirely drenched in blood, so I think that bodes well for stomach strength.
Today I just feel like someone kicked me--hard--in the abs, but the abundance of emails and cards (and one stuffed baboon with detachable baby baboon) from my incredibly awesome friends is a nice reminder that no one seems to actually want to kick me. Quite the opposite, apparently. So thank you, all of you, and next time you're under the weather, I hope I can bring similar sunshine and/or stuffed monkeys to your day.