This recovery business is getting old; but then so am I so it evens out, I guess. It's been three days since I had a minor procedure that was handled robotically but it feels more like three years. Okay, three weeks maybe. I'm just grateful they didn't keep me in the hospital for almost a week like last time. In at the crack of dawn, I was home in time for a late lunch, which I couldn't eat anyway. Don't ya love it when you're told it's a minor procedure? It’s surgery. It involves cutting, blood, pain and my stomach muscles, which I need for so many things. I tend to forget how much I use them until I'm having trouble getting out of my recliner or my bed. So, my inability to help myself post-procedure is frustrating. Just picture a turtle on its back. A very large turtle with limited mobility flailing its little arms and legs in every direction. That might not be a great analogy when you consider that my total lack of full-body strength pre-op wasn't anything to brag about. I swear, the older I get the lazier I get.
The week before my surgery, I had gone to my daughter's house to help take care of her youngest after her knee surgery and made the mistake of sitting down in their chaise lounge chair that was obviously made for contortionists and not normal (?) people like myself. I knew I'd made a BIG mistake as soon as I lowered myself into this impossible situation and now I was stuck. Visions of 'The Little Shoppe of Horrors' kept running through my head but instead of a maneating flower, I was sitting in a grandma-eating lounge chair.
As deep as it was indented, merely raising up was out of the question so I tried rolling onto my side. The problem with this was the leg portion of the chair is the size of a small mountain I could not traverse. I was in a real pickle since I had the car and couldn't call David for help. I did consider calling our daughter if I couldn't extract myself in a reasonable amount of time, say two days. I'm sure my daughter would have rescued me well before that, but I have little patience. I eventually got myself out of it and will now avoid it like the plague. I'm not sure if my granddaughter, who was sitting just a few feet from me, was aware of my dilemma but if she was, she had the good sense to ignore me since there was no way she could help. I don't consider laughing helping unless the situation is reversed.
I had a brilliant idea for a column when I woke up this morning. I had several paragraphs already written mentally. Then I got out of bed, with the help of David. If this keeps up, we may need to check into installing some kind of heavy weight-lifting equipment by the bed. Maybe some kind of block-and-tackle device. At least David is getting a workout for free. He can thank me later when he recovers from the strained back he's bound to suffer from sooner or later yanking me up several times a day. As I was saying, my problem is I have a very short memory so the long walk from the bedroom to my computer (maybe 10 or 15 feet at most) was enough to make my mind go blank. (I heard that.)
David makes a great nurse but is severely lacking in the part of my health care I need -- reading my mind. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect him to know when I need a drink, snacks, or medication. I told him it was his job to keep track of when I need my meds, but I should know better. It ain't gonna happen. I've made peace with it. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean I won't keep on his case. He should anticipate my needs and if that's too much he could always ASK.
Anyway, I'm working on getting myself up and down without waiting for David who refuses to keep his phone handy in case I need him. He uses the excuse he can't carry it around while he works and can't hear it since he won't wear his hearing aids while he's working. I give up. In the meantime, I guess it's just me and my abs.