I haven’t exactly been sleeping.
You’d think that with the amount of horse tranquilizer I’m on, I’d be comatose. Quite the opposite. Perhaps the doctors prescribed me something else because I’m bouncing off the walls here.
I tried being stingy with my pain pills for a couple of days just to see what would happen. The result was a bit harsh. I was achy, and my belly button felt like exploding. I also felt a whole lot of pangs in my abdomen I hadn’t noticed before. Deep, dull pain in my right side that throbbed ever slightly – just enough that if you thought about something else for a second, you wouldn’t have known it was there. But much of the pain just became more prominent and like a more focused exponential gnawing inside my uterus.
The pain at my incision, where doctors cut a roughly 2 cm hole through my belly button is a rapid, steady fiery pulse. Brup brup brup brup.
The incision itself is starting to look better. The glue that’s holding the belly button in place has proven itself, even in spite of the bloat and gas that could have pushed my intestines straight through the tiny opening doctors used to pull out my endometriosis.
These are the things I think about when I’m shuffling about.
But the belly button pain is persistent.
I ignore it mostly and do the dishes, which involves bending over, unloading the dishwasher and putting everything away. Spoon, fork, knife, mug with a fading football logo, plastic cup from last year’s renfaire, last remaining champagne glass from a set of four…
Then I reload the dishwasher, jammed packed with crummy, sticky plates and silverware. Tupperware galore. I wipe down the counters with 409.
My back starts to throb.
I finish and turn on the dishwasher. It’s the third time I’ve practiced the ritual this week. I’m a pro.
Next I move toward the laundry area and start loading the washer. It’s a small load because I’ve already washed and dried all the clothes in the house, some of it twice.
I do a walk-through of the tiny 500-square foot apartment.
This book doesn’t belong on the coffee table, I think and move it to the shelf. An Xbox controller is off the charger. I put it back. My backpack is on the floor, I lean over and pick it and set it in a basket. I do tiny tasks like this about a dozen times a day this week.
Thursday is the worst.
I decide to drive. With the dogs. To the vet.
A 45-minute wait later, where I spent the majority of the time outside standing with two inpatient dogs, my abdomen is on fire. My back is goo and my legs swell. I need to sit down and go to sleep.
Needless to say, today I will spend my time in bed watching old episodes of the original Law and Order. No More Driving.
Come at me Lennie Briscoe.