I wish I could muster up a true abhorrence of dirt and dust, but right now a sickness has rendered me apathetic to my surroundings. In other words, things are bad here. This probably life-threatening illness has strangled my vocal chords, making singing Disney princess songs while sweeping impossible, so of course I don’t want to clean. Plus, I have this headache that seems to be aggravated by motion.
The kids are not all that pleased with me. Caleb and Ben came home from school to find me lying on the couch.
“Mom! Hey mom! Can we have a snack?”
“There is no mom, there is only Zuul,” I replied.
Honest, when I talk I sound like Kathleen Turner if Kathleen Turner had smoked three packs a day.
Plus I have a toothache. An ache within the cavernous depths of my tooth. This is my first-ever toothache, and I must say, it too is aggravating the ache higher up in my head. It’s this horrible throbbing that emanates through the nerve and into my jaw. I’m kind of hoping it just stops, but I have a feeling I’m going to have to succumb to some dental work.
I saw my dentist last week. I had lost a filling about six months ago and finally made an appointment to get it replaced. For the past six months, the tooth has been a horrible food trap, forcing me to floss after every meal and snack. Usually, I figured if I was already flossing in that area, I might as well do the whole mouth. The decay in my tooth got deeper, but my gums have never been in better shape.
So I went to get the tooth fixed last week. My dentist, whom I adore, announced he had joined the army. Immediately, I was concerned about how this was going to affect me.
“How is this going to affect me?” I whined.
He assured me it wouldn’t affect me, as he was just joining the army reserves and would still be maintaining his practice. I may have commented that he seemed a bit old to join the army, and he admitted this was the case, especially since he was “falling apart.”
“You’re falling apart?” I asked. “How is this going to affect ME?”
He told me he had recently suffered from gallstones and was scheduled to have his gallbladder out. I informed him that I had already been through that arduous process. We commiserated over the incredible pain of having a gallbladder attack.
“Isn’t it just the most horrible pain ever?” he asked.
“Worst pain of my life,” I insisted. “Worse than childbirth. And I gave birth to twins.” He reached for the phone.
“I’d like you to please tell that to my wife.” (I didn’t.) “How long did you last before you went to the hospital?” he asked.
“Oh, I was up all night and my husband made me go to the ER in the morning.” His eyes got wide. “Why? How long were you in pain?”
“Ten minutes. I was in pain for ten minutes before I insisted on going to the hospital.”
Men.
He filled in my tooth and warned me that the decay had been very deep and that he had drilled frighteningly close to the nerve. He warned that the pulp within the tooth could swell and a root canal might be necessary. If this should occur, I would experience pain, and I should call him right away.
He stated that now that he knew my high tolerance for pain, if I called he would know it was serious and he would get me right in.
That’s a lot of pressure on a girl.
I’m in pain, but not, y’know, horrible, awful pain. This might be because I swiped some of my husband’s codeine. Which, by the way, is another reason perhaps we should be sending more women and fewer men off to war.
My husband has a sinus infection and his male PA gives him cold medicine laced with codeine. I give birth to twins, and I get extra-strength motrin. What the heck?
Still, I think a visit to the dentist and possibly the doctor is in my imminent future. I don’t know if I mentioned that my throat hurts, too. Not a horrible hurt, mind you, but I can’t really eat. I would say I hurt from my shoulders to the tippy top of my head. Gotta get that all fixed up so I can get back to singing… and sweeping.
Showing posts with label The Gallbladder: A Useless Organ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Gallbladder: A Useless Organ. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 8, 2010
Weight lost, weight gained
As I lay writhing in pain on the hospital bed, a nurse leaned over and listened to my heart. She looked at me quizzically and said,
“Do you workout?” My friend, who had driven me to the ER, responded.
“Yes, she does work out. Quite a bit, actually.”
“I can tell,” said the nurse. “You have a very strong, low heart rate.”
Through the intense pain, which easily rivaled labor pains but without the in-between contraction reprieve, I felt a glimmer of pride. I was an exerciser. I was lean. I could run three miles without breaking a sweat. I looked better-than-average in my one-piece Lands End bathing suit with swim skirt. I weighed almost as much as I did when I was first married, ten years and four children ago.
After they sliced me open and took out my gallbladder, I couldn’t go back to the gym for six weeks. (Something about my stitches ripping open or me hurting myself or some other such post-operation silliness.) Six weeks went by. I got the okay to resume my routine. Eight weeks went by. Ten weeks. Three months. Six months.
I feel like I now finally understand Einstein’s law of energy: matter can neither be created nor destroyed. The pounds I lost slowly came wandering back from their vacations in cool places like Thailand and Hawaii and re-adhered themselves to my stomach and upper-arms. It’s like they never even left. They were perturbed, however, when I tried to squeeze them into the new size four pants I had purchased last March in their absence. They require more room than that. A lot more room.
Last night, things got bad. We had a Super Bowl party and for about an hour, I posted myself right next to the bean dip. During the course of the evening, I ate guacamole, buffalo chicken wing dip, pizza, cake, brownies, and munched on one piece of celery. Just one.
I don’t even know who won the stupid game.
It is time to get my increasingly rotund derriere back to the gym.
This February, I am committed to getting back into a workout routine. I am also committed to giving up oatmeal cream pies for breakfast and my kids’ leftover peanut butter and jellies for lunch. I am committed to discontinuing the use of my treadmill as a storage rack and repurposing it as an exercise machine. I did it once; I can do it again. Finally, I am committed to making sure those pounds stay overseas this time.
(I don’t even want a postcard.)
“Do you workout?” My friend, who had driven me to the ER, responded.
“Yes, she does work out. Quite a bit, actually.”
“I can tell,” said the nurse. “You have a very strong, low heart rate.”
Through the intense pain, which easily rivaled labor pains but without the in-between contraction reprieve, I felt a glimmer of pride. I was an exerciser. I was lean. I could run three miles without breaking a sweat. I looked better-than-average in my one-piece Lands End bathing suit with swim skirt. I weighed almost as much as I did when I was first married, ten years and four children ago.
After they sliced me open and took out my gallbladder, I couldn’t go back to the gym for six weeks. (Something about my stitches ripping open or me hurting myself or some other such post-operation silliness.) Six weeks went by. I got the okay to resume my routine. Eight weeks went by. Ten weeks. Three months. Six months.
I feel like I now finally understand Einstein’s law of energy: matter can neither be created nor destroyed. The pounds I lost slowly came wandering back from their vacations in cool places like Thailand and Hawaii and re-adhered themselves to my stomach and upper-arms. It’s like they never even left. They were perturbed, however, when I tried to squeeze them into the new size four pants I had purchased last March in their absence. They require more room than that. A lot more room.
Last night, things got bad. We had a Super Bowl party and for about an hour, I posted myself right next to the bean dip. During the course of the evening, I ate guacamole, buffalo chicken wing dip, pizza, cake, brownies, and munched on one piece of celery. Just one.
I don’t even know who won the stupid game.
It is time to get my increasingly rotund derriere back to the gym.
This February, I am committed to getting back into a workout routine. I am also committed to giving up oatmeal cream pies for breakfast and my kids’ leftover peanut butter and jellies for lunch. I am committed to discontinuing the use of my treadmill as a storage rack and repurposing it as an exercise machine. I did it once; I can do it again. Finally, I am committed to making sure those pounds stay overseas this time.
(I don’t even want a postcard.)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
My Happy Mother's Week
Table with Mother and Child
Artist: Caleb Jennings
The mother, left, provides her son food. The son, who eagerly reaches for the provisions, loves his mother for providing him with sustenance. The contemporary design of the table is a throwback to minamalism, but the narrative in the piece is telling. The table's simplicity and functionality are augmented by the careful placement of the oversized strawberry, a favorite food of the artist's.
I love Mother's Week. What? You only have a Mother's Day? Oh, I pity you. I also have a birthday week. It's a marvelous thing, the expansion of holidays. Yes, my birthday is a holiday.
Mother's Week kicked off Thursday when I was lying in bed feeling very sorry for myself even while doped up on vicodin. Benjamin's pre-school teacher had kindly brought him home in the late morning and Ben immediately came straight upstairs to give me flowers he had planted in a lovely container. Also in the container was a craft stick with Ben's picture adhered to a cut-out of a flower. He promptly showed me the dirt under his fingernails as a sign of authentication. He then put the flowers on my nightstand, sat gingerly next to me and said in a soft voice, "Let's watch them grow now."
Surprise surprise, Caleb ALSO brought home a plant for me! (If you read my previous post about gardening, you must be reassured that I have placed my fledling plants in a spot where they get adequate sun. Caleb also reminds me daily to water them. He knows my track record with plants.) By mid-Mother's Week, I had accumulated quite a lot of foliage.
Caleb also brought home an essay he wrote about me in honor of Mother's Week. It reads as follows:
My name is Caleb. My Mom's favorite activity is exercising. My
Mom's favorite food is pizza. My Mom's favorite color is blue. My Mom
is 10 inches tall. My Mom is the best at reading to me. My Mom thinks
it's fun to watch T.V. My Mom shows how much she loves me by giving
me hugs.
As if this wasn't enough, he also wrote and illustrated a book all about me! It's not To Kill a Mockingbird, but I was riveted:
I love my mom because she givs me food. I love my mom because she
reds a book to me. I love my mom because she helps me. I love my
mom because she tax me plasis.
I believe the strategy in Caleb's classroom is to just get comfortable writing and sounding out words. CORRECTING misspelled words will probably come around the third grade or so.
Daniel and Ella have not yet produced a gift, provided a story or a poem, or even one of those coupon books good for a free "I'll go on the potty this time" or "I won't be a complete grouchy stinker-pants when I wake up from my nap today." But the week isn't over yet!
And, yes, I will cherish Caleb's writings about me for always and ever and will have them buried with me when I die (yeah- I'm that kind of crazy), although I am a bit concerned that he thinks me a ten-inch person who enjoys exercise. He was dead on about the pizza and the tv, though.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Holly-goes-even-more-light-ly without that gallbladder weighing her down
Here it is, the gory details of the final showdown between me and my diseased gallbladder.
We arrived on time at the hospital and checked in with a young man who was wearing scrubs, thick glasses, and a dour expression. He handed us a restaurant pager. He was professional to a fault. When John asked if the hospital had recently merged with Applebees, he stated they had and continued with his explicit instructions. He never once cracked a smile.
Shortly thereafter, our pager simultaneously buzzed, vibrated, and lit up as a woman called us to her cubicle. We filled out the requisite paperwork for my admission as she collected the all-important co-pay. Here is the conversation we had with her:
Nice lady: You have a $50 co-pay.
Holly: Really? I thought it was $100.
Nice lady: If you stayed overnight, it would be $100, but since this is a same-day procedure, it's only $50.
John: And if you catch swine flu, it's free!
Nice lady: No, no, no, no! He's joking... right?
I was then taken to the pre-op room where I was told to completely undress and put on a lovely blue hospital parachute thing. The nurse opened the curtain too soon and the entire pre-op ward saw my white tuckus, but I'm cool with that. Really.
The nurse stuck the i.v. in and the anesthesiologist explained his most important role in the process. He gave me some "relaxing medication" and then told me how becoming I looked in my parachute. I made goo-goo eyes at him and then we made plans to run away together to Tahiti. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what happened.
The rest went by fast. They were wheeling me down the hall when I remembered to ask my nurse whether or not I could keep my gallstones. She said they weren't allowed to do that any longer. The anesthesiologist piped in about how lawyers were always ruining everyone's fun blah blah blah. I remember feeling irate and I began insisting that they were MY gallstones and I had a RIGHT to see them and put them in a jar and take them home and name them all George if I so desired. It was at this point that someone shoved a mask over my face and told me to breathe deeply. I didn't even fade out. I was just... not there any longer.
The next part is straight out of a Steven King novel. Continue reading at your own risk. I awoke, suddenly, alone in the recovery room, in intense pain. There were no loving eyes peering down at me, no gentle soul was holding my hand, welcoming me back to the land of the living... there was only flourescent lights and the sound of sports center coming from the next curtain over. I was unable to move my legs and I could not talk! (At least not very loud.) They had warned me they would put a breathing tube down my throat. They had destroyed my talking apparatus!!! Nurses were walking in front of me and I COULD NOT COMMUNICATE WITH THEM!!! Finally someone noticed me and put something in my i.v. to ease the pain. This was probably like five hours later.
They wouldn't let me go home until I went pee. It had to be a certain amount of pee. I tried hard: I thought of Niagara Falls, let the faucet drip for inspiration, drank lots of water even though I felt like puking, all because I just wanted to get home and into my own bed. But I could not maketh the peeth cometh.
I've found that when all else fails, whining generally gets me what I want. "I just waaant to goooo hooome...."
The trick is to whine in a pathetic, bleating, almost crying sort of way and not in an annoying "I'm a spoiled brat" kind of way. It takes practice to perfect.
They let me go home. We had to pull over once so I could puke up water and bile. The next 24 hours were difficult. Three days later, I feel a lot better, though it really hurts to laugh, cough, yawn, and hiccup. I had one false hiccup alarm earlier today. Thankfully, it seemed to be just a rogue hiccup without any followers.
I still haven't peed, however.
Just kidding.
We arrived on time at the hospital and checked in with a young man who was wearing scrubs, thick glasses, and a dour expression. He handed us a restaurant pager. He was professional to a fault. When John asked if the hospital had recently merged with Applebees, he stated they had and continued with his explicit instructions. He never once cracked a smile.
Shortly thereafter, our pager simultaneously buzzed, vibrated, and lit up as a woman called us to her cubicle. We filled out the requisite paperwork for my admission as she collected the all-important co-pay. Here is the conversation we had with her:
Nice lady: You have a $50 co-pay.
Holly: Really? I thought it was $100.
Nice lady: If you stayed overnight, it would be $100, but since this is a same-day procedure, it's only $50.
John: And if you catch swine flu, it's free!
Nice lady: No, no, no, no! He's joking... right?
I was then taken to the pre-op room where I was told to completely undress and put on a lovely blue hospital parachute thing. The nurse opened the curtain too soon and the entire pre-op ward saw my white tuckus, but I'm cool with that. Really.
The nurse stuck the i.v. in and the anesthesiologist explained his most important role in the process. He gave me some "relaxing medication" and then told me how becoming I looked in my parachute. I made goo-goo eyes at him and then we made plans to run away together to Tahiti. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what happened.
The rest went by fast. They were wheeling me down the hall when I remembered to ask my nurse whether or not I could keep my gallstones. She said they weren't allowed to do that any longer. The anesthesiologist piped in about how lawyers were always ruining everyone's fun blah blah blah. I remember feeling irate and I began insisting that they were MY gallstones and I had a RIGHT to see them and put them in a jar and take them home and name them all George if I so desired. It was at this point that someone shoved a mask over my face and told me to breathe deeply. I didn't even fade out. I was just... not there any longer.
The next part is straight out of a Steven King novel. Continue reading at your own risk. I awoke, suddenly, alone in the recovery room, in intense pain. There were no loving eyes peering down at me, no gentle soul was holding my hand, welcoming me back to the land of the living... there was only flourescent lights and the sound of sports center coming from the next curtain over. I was unable to move my legs and I could not talk! (At least not very loud.) They had warned me they would put a breathing tube down my throat. They had destroyed my talking apparatus!!! Nurses were walking in front of me and I COULD NOT COMMUNICATE WITH THEM!!! Finally someone noticed me and put something in my i.v. to ease the pain. This was probably like five hours later.
They wouldn't let me go home until I went pee. It had to be a certain amount of pee. I tried hard: I thought of Niagara Falls, let the faucet drip for inspiration, drank lots of water even though I felt like puking, all because I just wanted to get home and into my own bed. But I could not maketh the peeth cometh.
I've found that when all else fails, whining generally gets me what I want. "I just waaant to goooo hooome...."
The trick is to whine in a pathetic, bleating, almost crying sort of way and not in an annoying "I'm a spoiled brat" kind of way. It takes practice to perfect.
They let me go home. We had to pull over once so I could puke up water and bile. The next 24 hours were difficult. Three days later, I feel a lot better, though it really hurts to laugh, cough, yawn, and hiccup. I had one false hiccup alarm earlier today. Thankfully, it seemed to be just a rogue hiccup without any followers.
I still haven't peed, however.
Just kidding.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Goggy and Surgery Update
While my husband and son were galavanting about in Toronto, the pooky-faced goggy Ginger was sold to another family. I had disconcerting flashbacks to a year ago when we bid on a house we had fallen in love only to lose it to a family of vultures. (I don't think vultures should get mortgage approval, either.) It feels like a kick in the gut, or that might be my gallstones, I don't know, but I'm a little sad because I was falling in love with the idea of having that adorable spaniel around.
I appreciate the advice from those of you who have experience as goggy-owners. Thank you Julie and Laura! I appreciate your honesty and your different points of view. We will continue to be on the lookout for a goggy in need of a loving home who is young, already housebroken, great with kids, and who doesn't shed too much. Because my specifications are so... specific... the chance of this happening anytime soon is slim to unlikely. Everyone party needs a pooper that's why my family has me. The pooper who hates poop.
I have other things on my plate anyway. Like twins in their terrible twos, writing projects, t-ball practices, and the removal of my gallbladder tomorrow at 11.30am. Ohhhh, I could've taken the goggy to t-ball practice.
About my surgery....
I was under what I now see is a ridiculous impression that the surgeon would be cutting my gallbladder up with a laser and then sucking it out with a vacuum-like apparatus through an incision in my abdomen. I may have gotten this idea from a dream I had, I'm not sure. However, there will no lasers in this laparoscopic procedure; the gallbladder is actually flattened until it is small enough to squeeze through the above-mentioned incision. I don't believe any suckage is involved either, which I am actually a little bummed about, because I had been planning to give my doc the go-ahead to suck out any fat in that general vicinity so I could stop doing so many crunches.
I have anxiety about this whole procedure, which I know is normal. I've never had anesthesia before, not even when I had all four of my wisdom teeth out at once. Just novocaine. To save money. I was very, very brave. If I could go back, I would not do it that way again.
My greatest anxiety is so freaking ridiculous I shouldn't even write it down. I don't like the idea of people working on me while I'm asleep. I'd much rather be awake, listening to some music. I think sleeping is private business, like binging on ice cream or looking at soap-opera magazines. I don't want people watching me while I sleep! That's weird! I certainly don't want people fooling around with my internal organs while I'm sleeping!
I end this post with a conversation I had with Ben about my surgery.
Me: Honey, tomorrow mommy's not going to be at home because she has to go to the doctor. Miss Janet is going to come stay with you while the doctor fixes my... why are you laughing?
Ben: I'm so happy!
Me: Why are you so happy?
Ben: Miss Janet is coming to play with me!
Me: Ben, focus. I need to tell you what's going on. Tomorrow, mommy is going into the hospital and the doctor is going to fix me so my tummy doesn't hurt anymore. I'll come home later and... why are you laughing?
Ben, with glee: I just can't wait for Miss Janet to come!
Me: Oh for the love of God. I'll have Miss Janet explain it to you tomorrow.
I appreciate the advice from those of you who have experience as goggy-owners. Thank you Julie and Laura! I appreciate your honesty and your different points of view. We will continue to be on the lookout for a goggy in need of a loving home who is young, already housebroken, great with kids, and who doesn't shed too much. Because my specifications are so... specific... the chance of this happening anytime soon is slim to unlikely. Everyone party needs a pooper that's why my family has me. The pooper who hates poop.
I have other things on my plate anyway. Like twins in their terrible twos, writing projects, t-ball practices, and the removal of my gallbladder tomorrow at 11.30am. Ohhhh, I could've taken the goggy to t-ball practice.
About my surgery....
I was under what I now see is a ridiculous impression that the surgeon would be cutting my gallbladder up with a laser and then sucking it out with a vacuum-like apparatus through an incision in my abdomen. I may have gotten this idea from a dream I had, I'm not sure. However, there will no lasers in this laparoscopic procedure; the gallbladder is actually flattened until it is small enough to squeeze through the above-mentioned incision. I don't believe any suckage is involved either, which I am actually a little bummed about, because I had been planning to give my doc the go-ahead to suck out any fat in that general vicinity so I could stop doing so many crunches.
I have anxiety about this whole procedure, which I know is normal. I've never had anesthesia before, not even when I had all four of my wisdom teeth out at once. Just novocaine. To save money. I was very, very brave. If I could go back, I would not do it that way again.
My greatest anxiety is so freaking ridiculous I shouldn't even write it down. I don't like the idea of people working on me while I'm asleep. I'd much rather be awake, listening to some music. I think sleeping is private business, like binging on ice cream or looking at soap-opera magazines. I don't want people watching me while I sleep! That's weird! I certainly don't want people fooling around with my internal organs while I'm sleeping!
I end this post with a conversation I had with Ben about my surgery.
Me: Honey, tomorrow mommy's not going to be at home because she has to go to the doctor. Miss Janet is going to come stay with you while the doctor fixes my... why are you laughing?
Ben: I'm so happy!
Me: Why are you so happy?
Ben: Miss Janet is coming to play with me!
Me: Ben, focus. I need to tell you what's going on. Tomorrow, mommy is going into the hospital and the doctor is going to fix me so my tummy doesn't hurt anymore. I'll come home later and... why are you laughing?
Ben, with glee: I just can't wait for Miss Janet to come!
Me: Oh for the love of God. I'll have Miss Janet explain it to you tomorrow.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Receptionists, Gallbladders, and Pirates OH MY!
Yesterday I had my pre-op appointment at my general practitioner's office. I arrived and the receptionist and I eyed each other suspiciously. We have a mutual dislike for one another. I don't like her because about a month ago she gave me a hard time about coming into the office for a throat culture. I had the audacity to ask to come in a half an hour before the office closed because that's when I could procure babysitting for my FOUR CHILDREN. Apparently, she can't make concessions just because I have children. Other people have children, and jobs. I don't know these things because I am very, very stupid.
After this exchange, there was a pause loaded with tension and then I asked her very politely if I could speak with the doctor. There was another pause and then she said she would put me down for 4:30 but I'd better not be a minute late. She said this in a tone that I did not appreciate. I am ashamed to say that was the moment I got snarky. Now when I go in she barely looks at me and she gives me paperwork without explaining why she is giving it to me. I find this unprofessional. I'm thinking very seriously of doing something about it. Like complaining about her on my new blog.
I thought I would be in and out of the office, but they put me through a whole rigamarole. I was forced to wear some sort of tarp thing and they prodded my sore gallbladder (does this hurt? YES IT HURTS! I have ROCKS in my tummy!) and then they asked me all of these questions. All of this goes to show that you should never assume you won't have to take your clothes off at the doctor's and should therefore always shave your legs beforehand.
After they saw my hairy legs, they weighed me, made me pee in a cup, and sent me off to get my blood drawn. May I just say that my doctor's receptionist, DMV employees, and the blood takers at ACM labs are the most humorless people IN THE WORLD! But not me. I'm very fun. In fact, I thought it would be very fun to run off to the gym and have a quick run after I had filled several vials with my life-giving blood. There was dizziness. There was a little nausea. There were rocks jostling in my abdomen.
I got over it, went home and made a nice, low-fat, gallbladder disease friendly dinner (which three out of six of us ate), read books about pirates to my boys (Argh!), went to watch Lost and got pissed that it was one of those dumb recap shows, then went to bed tired and aggravated and sore and thirsty.
But John always brings me a full cup of cold water for my nightstand (yay hubby!) which always reminds me... grumpy receptionist and sore gallbladders be darned! (Sorry to use harsh words). I really am so blessed.
After this exchange, there was a pause loaded with tension and then I asked her very politely if I could speak with the doctor. There was another pause and then she said she would put me down for 4:30 but I'd better not be a minute late. She said this in a tone that I did not appreciate. I am ashamed to say that was the moment I got snarky. Now when I go in she barely looks at me and she gives me paperwork without explaining why she is giving it to me. I find this unprofessional. I'm thinking very seriously of doing something about it. Like complaining about her on my new blog.
I thought I would be in and out of the office, but they put me through a whole rigamarole. I was forced to wear some sort of tarp thing and they prodded my sore gallbladder (does this hurt? YES IT HURTS! I have ROCKS in my tummy!) and then they asked me all of these questions. All of this goes to show that you should never assume you won't have to take your clothes off at the doctor's and should therefore always shave your legs beforehand.
After they saw my hairy legs, they weighed me, made me pee in a cup, and sent me off to get my blood drawn. May I just say that my doctor's receptionist, DMV employees, and the blood takers at ACM labs are the most humorless people IN THE WORLD! But not me. I'm very fun. In fact, I thought it would be very fun to run off to the gym and have a quick run after I had filled several vials with my life-giving blood. There was dizziness. There was a little nausea. There were rocks jostling in my abdomen.
I got over it, went home and made a nice, low-fat, gallbladder disease friendly dinner (which three out of six of us ate), read books about pirates to my boys (Argh!), went to watch Lost and got pissed that it was one of those dumb recap shows, then went to bed tired and aggravated and sore and thirsty.
But John always brings me a full cup of cold water for my nightstand (yay hubby!) which always reminds me... grumpy receptionist and sore gallbladders be darned! (Sorry to use harsh words). I really am so blessed.
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