Feed Me, Seymour!

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

I am hungry. Someone needs to feed me pretty darn soon. I am not used to fending for myself. My beloved comes home, makes dinner, and serves it to me. This is the way of the world. There is one acceptable alternative;  beloved brings take-away food home for me to eat, puts it on a plate, and presents it to me. If I am not fed, I will live on frozen juice bars and cheesy poofs. EVERYONE knows this about me. If you didn't, now you do.

You may think I am a big baby, but I put nutritious, made to order, meals on the table for every meal, for 21 years. It is my turn to be waited on.  Oh sure, sometimes we cook together. I can still manage to steam some vegetables or cook up some rice; I'd just rather not.

Are the dishes done? Yes. Is the laundry clean, folded, and delivered to the appropriate bedrooms? Yes. Have the dogs been groomed and fed? Yes. Is the house tidy, and the bathrooms shiny and sweet smelling? Yes. I am a pretty face; I am a pretty face who takes pride in making a nice home for my family. I'm simply not a goddess who cares to cook anymore. The big, handsome, strapping man took on that chore last year. He tells me that cooking relaxes him. HA! The children were both living away from home last year. As of yesterday they are all back. It is all too overwhelming now I presume. Sigh. I know, get over myself. The dude has been working all day. The kids can cook. I'm not going to starve. I am just a bit cranky.

May peace and dinner be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

Recovering From Unrealistic Optimism

Today the goddess speaks about herself: 

My horoscope says that I am going to spend the end of my day recovering from 'unrealistic optimism'.  What is that? How can optimism be unrealistic? It's optimism. Dream big; believe in the unbelievable.  Plus, I don't need to recover from one more thing right now.

Big news:  I am now allowed to drive. I thought  I would be more excited, but I find that I actually like to be chauffeured everywhere.  I am kind of surprised to find that I'm not chaffing under a lack of independence.  Of course, my lack of enthusiasm could stem from my attachment to my heart pillow.  After my surgery, the hospital provided me with a red heart-shaped pillow to press against my chest for protection. I use it for getting in and out of bed, coughing, and when I ride in the car.  I ride around with that pillow pressed firmly against my chest more for comfort now than protection from pain.  If I'm in the driver's seat, I won't be able to hug my pillow. I'm not ready to let go just yet.  It will happen. Oooh, is that a bit of optimism kicking up it's little head?

I eventually gave up my bunny pillow. I'm not sure just when I was able to get through a day or night without it. My sister gave me a big comfy bunny shaped pillow while I was in the hospital. I clutched that pillow for weeks -- day and night. I hauled it up and down the  stairs every morning, and every night.  It was pretty comical to see me walking around, like a toddler with her blankie, binky, and favorite stuffed animal, hauling my two pillows everywhere I went.  

I love my bunny pillow too. Now that I have that off my chest it is time to go back to my original topic. 

What am I optimistic about anyway? I don't think I am at all. My horoscope is w - r- o- n- g.

It could be optimistic of me to sit on the toilet. I am taking plug-u-up drugs right now. It could be optimistic of me to get up in the morning. The weather is so bad it feels like we should all be in hibernation. It could also be optimistic of me to make one more attempt at watching, The View. It seems like that show should be good, but it never is.  The View. There it is; my unrealistic optimism recovery moment.   Ahhh . . .      I am glad that is settled in my mind. Now I can rest to try another day.

May peace and optimism of any kind be yours from:  The Goddess of Everything.

Unspeakable!

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

Ack!!  I have jock itch!

It's unspeakable, and yet I have spoken it -- publicly at that.

Our family has been under a tremendous amount of stress lately. Due to family matters that are private (yes, some things are private around here) my husband and I have been out of our minds with worry.  So, the rash developing on my inner leg was not given much attention until it really started to hurt. I didn't know what it was. The moments I even gave it any thought, I speculated that it was some reaction to the adhesive from all of the bandages, and electrical plugs that were attached to me lately. 

It wasn't until I was scrabbling through my underwear drawer, looking for the softest, most non-chafing undies that I came clean to my husband.  "It's jock itch".  He just said it so matter of factly.   "Jock itch!" I screamed.   "How can I have jock itch?"  "I'm a girl."

Evidently girls can get it. How could I have raised two boys, and not know a thing about jock itch? It baffles the mind, it truly does. 

My husband rifled through HIS drawer, and tossed me a tube of anti-fungal cream. Apparently, every guy keeps that stuff handy. He told me it clears up really fast once you start treating it.

Well, I guess that explains why I never noticed if he had jock itch or not.  GROSS!

There are just some things I do not want to know about. For instance, I don't want to know that the frozen juice bars I've been eating three or four of everyday are twenty carbs each. I don't want to know how jello is made, or what chemicals are in my hair dye. AND, I most certainly DO NOT want to know anything about jock itch.

May peace and a blind eye be yours from:  The Goddess of Everything.

He Thinks I'm Beautiful

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

There's no question that I am in a rut. I sit around all day, healing from this heart surgery thing.

My life is the same every day. For the first two weeks, I faithfully showered and dressed for my day each and every morning, as if I might have somewhere to go. This regimen was supposed to help with my healing process. I'm guessing it was working, but I've gotten a little impatient. The last couple of days I haven't bothered with the shower and changing out of jammies routine. This morning I got a look at myself when I was trying to set up a video chat with a friend. I couldn't see her, but my face was front and center on the screen. To me, I looked like a tired out hag. Cringing, I warned my friend not to be too horrified when the video of me came through. The hag look shouldn't have been a big shocker, I'm aware I haven't put any effort into how I look lately. Sure, I have daily visitors, but I haven't been thinking about how I look to them.  My husband is another matter. Generally, I try to look nice for him. He's the one person, besides me, whose opinion on my appearance is important to me.

This afternoon, sitting on the couch with my scrabble game on my lap, covered in tissues and popsicle sticks, my sweetheart breezed into the house. Just the sound of his work boots striding across the hardwood floor lifted my spirits. When he came into my line of sight I could see that he was taken aback when he saw me, and he said, "Wow, you look beautiful".  It was hard to believe him. I challenged him. "No", he said, "You really look beautiful", and I knew he believed it. So, I believed it. No matter how crummy I feel, or look to myself, I am beautiful to this guy, this guy who loves me. 

The other day, Brent commented that I should put him into my blog more. I thought about why I didn't include him more often. He is the center of my universe after all. My conclusion was that I couldn't infuse my feelings for him with humor. Lately, every moment together has been too precious, and terribly serious. The idea that without my surgery, I wouldn't live much longer was such a present force with us, that we have been in serious "Cherish" mode. My thoughts about him, about us seemed too private.  None the less, I have been thinking about what he said. I should include him more, and not just when I am revealing his inability to see a clothes hamper, or his lack of knowledge concerning toilet brushes.  As far as writing material goes, Brent is a writers dream. There is so much to say, and I guess, I don't always have to be funny. 

Stepping up. That is what this guy, who loves me above all others, has done the last couple of months. The moment the doctor told us that my condition was severe, and surgery could not be put off much longer, Brent stepped up. He became a man on a mission to take care of, and love me.  There are countless examples of his diligent attentiveness, and I look forward to sharing them in the future.

May peace and a true love be yours from: The Goddess of Everything

It's A Zen Thing

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

The goddess has a new lap top. It's a Mac Book, oh yeah, who's your goddess? I am totally excited to be able to write as much as I want from my recliner.  As you are all aware, I am recovering from heart surgery --  Moo! (new cow valve)

This is so much more cushy than the chair upstairs. I am sure to be 43% funnier, writing from a reclined position.

I have kicked some heart surgery fanny, and now I am ready to write about it. Although, recovery stories are foremost on my mind, at the moment.

I've been sitting around for the last two and a half weeks getting used to the crack in my chest. Ow, sometimes that sucker hurts. Thank God for those narcotics they dole out just for letting some over educated hotshot cut you open, play with your insides, and sew you back together again.  I am quite grateful for the sewing back together part. 

Back to the drugs; apparently, I was so out of it I was singing, "I'm not going to rehab, no, no, no . . ." as I was coming to, in the recovery room. I remember nothing after the cute guy, in hospital scrubs, inserted something dreamy into my IV line, or before another cute guy, also in scrubs, was bragging about the small incision he had made. (I sure hope that was the surgeon talking).   My next memory was having the breathing tube removed. I was trying so hard to be a little trooper, doing my yoga breathing, and trying to remain calm. That was a totally freaky experience. I don't know why I had to be any kind of alert for that experience!  Umm. . . suggestion for the surgery suggestion box: keep patient heavily drugged while removing breathing tube. My recovery nurse, Kellen, told me that I was very zen like when I was going through that little trauma. I guess it could have been worse. Personally, I can't recommend that part of heart surgery. 

Another thing that I can't recommend -- the massive amount of water weight gained during surgery. I was horrified to discover I had gained twenty pounds in less than four hours. I was sure that it would take me a year to lose it. The good news is that my weight gain distracted me from all of my other little worries like, pneumonia, hospital infections, the owie on my chest. You get the idea. Everyone told me that I was going to lose weight in the hospital, but no one told me it would be weight I gained under the knife. I believe the weight gain thingy is a hospital conspiracy to distract patients from the actual event. In that light, I can live with the new stretch marks that have adopted me.

Many nurses told me what a good little surgery girl I was, and how well I was already recovering. These molly-coddlers led me to believe that I was the star of the hospital. This allowed that insurance expediter to hustle me out of the hospital after a whopping three full days of being waited on, in my own private suite.  I asked for one more day, but no, my great attitude was my undoing in the end. I was jettisoned out of there like a nobodies business. 

I do have my memories to get me through the nights. There was the orderly who walked into the bathroom while I was going number two one last time. She and I had quite the long, soulful conversation. I just had to let go of that little shred of decency that I had managed to hang onto through all of the groin groping during my angiogram debacle.  Dancing with my two sons just prior to being wheeled down to the operating room, is a really happy memory.  This is probably where the recovery room singing came from. The nurses had never seen anyone dancing before heart surgery. I can't imagine why not, heart surgery is such a hoot. My husband and I having a cozy date in the sixth floor solarium was a highlight. We got to snuggle while watching, "What to expect during and after your open heart surgery".  There were a couple of old men, in robes, sharing the experience with us, but I'll always remember it as a special time with my sweetheart.  Also, I'll always remember the way my nurses, tidily clipped my colostomy bag to their hips when they wanted me to go for a walk, the stool softeners -- applied in the southern region, Nurse Dan, helping me on and off of the portable commode, and always being very considerate to lift my gown away from my bottom when I got back into bed, so that it wouldn't bunch up, and cause me discomfort,  and the many, many hospital staff members who measured and recorded my each and every urination. These were the best of times, these were the worst of times, and like Wonder Woman, I took care of business with strength, focus, humor,  and my chest and fanny hanging out.

May peace and a zen-like attitude be yours from:  The Goddess of Everything.

Faking A Wonky Heart Valve

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

I'm am beyond exhausted, and of course, I can't sleep.
Back from a wonderful vacation, where I slept like a log, I have quickly descended into crazy land. I have witnesses who saw me sleeping past ten a.m. I was sharing a room after all, and this time I wasn't passed out! This was actual sleep. So what happened?

Well, it's been such a stressful year of teaching that I decided to check myself into a hospital for a rest. Of course, after the big drama of a spurting femoral artery two weeks ago, resulting in a hospital stay, I now know rest and hospital are NOT synonymous. Too late. I am committed to the week's stay. I had to fake a worn out aortic valve to get it, and that's no small task. All of that pretending to be out of breathe after every little exertion is boring. Pretending to be fatigued wasn't so hard since I really don't get my rest during the week. However, faking the mushy glugging sound every time a doctor listened to my heart was totally hard. I had to study up for that one, AND channel Houdini. (Don't let that guy out of his locked box, I'm telling you . . .).

I'm not looking forward to the scar on my beautiful chest, but I'm sure it will be worth the around the clock waiting on I will receive in return. I even get to have a buzzer to call for room service. I barely have to lift my pinky to reach it. One little flick of the finger, and I will have drinks served with sippy straws, and bed pans rushed to my bedside. The hospital even provides a designer nighty. I'm going to be living large soon. Aaahhhh . . . a bed that goes up and down, a television all to myself, around the clock staff to see to my every need, and gorgeous doctors visiting in the middle of the night. What more could a goddess ask for?

May peace and an open heart be yours from, The Goddess of Everything

Too Much To Write About

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

I have not been writing because there is just too much going on in my life. By the time I sit down to write about one event, another pops up. Perhaps I will take the time to write up everything. Until then, here are the things that I have not written about:

1. The Oolala's step out in their finest, and are inspired by Eartha Kit at her concert with the Portland Symphony.

2. Fay gets another purse puppy, and I really really want one too.

3. My husband won't get me the dog of my dreams.

4. Basking in the mommy moment of my children sharing their own moment.

5. Hospital procedure goes awry, and a dozen men get to touch my groin (they call themselves nurses).

5. b. Things I never wanted to know went on in hospitals, using a bed pan, and boy do I love being hooked up to the oxygen tank.

6. Pig valve, cow valve, Dick Cheney valve, or carbon -- what's a pretty girl to do?

7. My cardiologist is young enough to be my son. How did I get to be older than my doctors?

8. Tripping the light fantastic in Manhattan with fabulous friends.

9. I really do have the greatest husband in the world (despite the whole dog thing, which he is most likely right about).

10. The Very Pampered Goddess.

May peace and a full life be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.