Some days are like 'If it weren't bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.' Or maybe it's just one bad decision after another. I'm not sure, but something isn't working in my favor.
I guess it pretty much started a few years ago when I had cancer surgery. The doctor declared it was all gone and there was rejoicing in the streets. Well, not so much the streets as my hospital room but David and I were relieved.
I was thrilled when I was released from the hospital about a week later. Everyone took good care of cranky old me as best they could but after getting constantly bugged for blood (It's a wonder I have any left), oxygen checks, blood pressure checks, etc. sleep was just not an option even on one of those incredibly (har!) comfy beds.
One thing they had which took David and me a few days to figure out was the fact that the hospital now offers a menu we were supposed to use to pick out my meals in advance. Easy, peasy right? Wrong. When I finally had enough mental capacity to use the menu, I ran into a problem. Everything I ordered was, according to the person on the other end of the line, not on my permitted list. At least that's what they claimed. I suspect they had leftovers they were trying to unload. It didn't really matter anyway. I just can't eat when I'm in a hospital.
I was finally allowed to go home where David took great care of me, and all was right with the world for about a week (seems to be a pattern here). David would place a shower chair (which barely fit) in his shower and give me a good washing. I highly recommend his services since I always felt fantastic when he was done.
Anyway, as I was saying, about a week later, David was washing me and I started smelling something. Sewer? I thought 'Oh, no, are we going to have plumbing issues on top of everything else?' David moved me into the bedroom, I sat on the shower chair, and I was still smelling the 'sewer' smell. It was coming from me! It was like someone had turned on a faucet. It was literally running down my stomach in a steady, stinky stream.
A trip to the doctor's office two days later (heaven forbid he should see me when it started) landed me back in the hospital where I was hooked up to a 'wound vac'. It's a nifty little gadget that sucks out the 'poison' and heals the wound. Three to six months ought to do it, said the doctor. I went home where I dragged around this nifty little device everywhere I went. A real conversation starter, attached to my abdomen.
Less than 10 weeks later one of my home health nurses decided to remove it just because I asked how they know when it was done. Almost immediately I developed a hernia that grew and grew and grew because none of my doctors cared about that. I guess they were only concerned about the cancer treatment I started later.
Last year I finally got my surgeon to do something about it, then had nightmares of the insurance company denying the claim AFTER the deed had been done. I've always made it clear that I don't do anything they won't pay for. I'll just suffer. Anyway, because I wasn't pushy enough it got too large, and the doctor was unable to do the surgery robotically which meant another stay in the hospital. Boo! My hernia surgery leaked like my cancer surgery but without the smell this time, so David and I took care of it ourselves, which worked fine, at first. Then I developed a clot, lump, something not quite right, just under my breast area spreading several inches. Back to the doctor's office, where I was informed I should wear a tourniquet (my words, not his) and it would go away. It didn't.
Still fearing the insurance company, I waited another year before I insisted it had to be fixed. I had to find another surgeon, as mine had sadly passed away way too young (55). My new surgeon's office assured me they'd acquired permission to operate and off I went again. This was beginning to get old. My stomach is beginning to look like a badly drawn road map with way too many roads crisscrossing.
The good news was that he was able to do it robotically this time and I didn't have to stay in the hospital. The bad news is, at my age, it takes a little longer to bounce back each time they cut on me.