So Shelly and Carol drove me home and Sean was waiting to help me inside the house. My prescriptions were filled, our big bed was prepared with nearly 20 feather pillows, and feather comforter. I had the nightstand with my pillbox filled, and any possible medical supplies I might need. I was drained, I slept for some time. The pain was getting to be unbearable and we all just kept with the plan the plastic surgeon had given us and I used my alternative therapies. We managed through the night. Saturday came and the story was the same. The plastic surgeon called my cell and Shelly answered it and explained that the hydrocodone, as we had told him, was not sufficient and this was unacceptable. His response was for us to meet him at his office as soon as we could. I have 2 things to say about this. Listen dick, you could have seen me yesterday on discharge and listened to me when I said this wasn't a good idea, and second dick, you can come to my house, your office is 20 mins away. We get me in the car and this time it was Lil Bit and Carol. Let me explain to you that the mere feat of getting out of the bed, down the stairs, and into the car would be nothing to the overwhelming pain I was about to feel with every turn and pothole on the road. I am sure Lil Bit was about to have a heart attack herself b/c with every bump the tubing from my drains rubbed against my raw muscles inside. And little do they tell you that with each drain there is about one foot of tubing "s"ed and circled around your chest to suck the fluid off. So to say that I was tearful, holding my chest, and breathing in a manor that would mimic childbirth by the time we arrived at the plastic surgeon's office is an understatement. We three had pre-determined that if the plastic surgeon did not listen to us or "fix" the problem we would leave his office and drive the few blocks back to the hospital that I had just been discharged from yesterday...that's how bad it was.
So the plastic surgeon meets me at the door and the first thing he says to me is,"you have to slow your breathing down or you will hyperventilate." My thought was,"Asshole you better fix this or your about to get a right hook!" His next statement was,"wow I didn't realize you were so tall" as if that were the reason why the pain medication was not sufficient. I have 2 problems with this. 1) I was on your operating table for 4 fucking hours and you didn't realize how tall I was nor my weight to prescribe medication. 2) I had seen you twice before the fucking surgery, wasn't like we just met, you idiot. Those thoughts were my pain talking....I pull it together soon...bear with me. My only statement to him was this exactly,"You either fix this now or I am re-admitting myself to the hospital because this is unacceptable." He quickly got on the phone with the pharmacy and got better medication. He then made some comments that made me feel like maybe I had a low pain tolerance or that I was maybe a baby about the situation. I didn't have the emotional or physical energy to deal with him at that moment, but his moment would be coming soon. Really, really, a fucking baby, do I need to remind everyone of the breast biopsy incident in November...if you don't remember go back and read it. Oh and do I need to remind him that I am mentally grieving many things right now, which includes but is not limited to MY HAIR, MY EYEBROWS, MY EYELASHES, MY BREASTS, potentially MY FERTILITY, MY INDEPENDENCE....do you need me to go on, you dick. We got the medication and left with his instructions to come back in on Monday.
And here comes Monday and I am of the right mind now because the medications he gave me worked. So I am sitting on the exam table, which I hate because you just feel like this weird piece of meat and/or that you could have some weird disease and should be kept at a safe distance from the other respectable humans in the office. Anyway, the nurses prepare me for the doctor to come in and see me. Oh let me just tell you about the nursing staff in a plastic surgeon's office. They all look like supermodels, dress in designer clothing, shoes, and jewelry, and appear to be aging backwards. Now with that said, let me paint this picture for you. I have just had my tits cut off, I am still fat from all the fluids retained from chemo and surgery, I can't move my arms enough to wear anything other than "old man" button down pajama tops and sweatpants, oh yeah and don't forget the bald head and eyebrows/eyelashes. So these supermodel, robotic nurses have my sexy ass out on the exam table waiting for the doctor, oh and telling me my wounds look great....really, really, that's what you think....you are lucky I don't bitch slap your supermodel ass right now....but I can't move my arms too well so I will have to rethink that. Okay, so doctor walks in, he is all happy and opens my gown up immediately to start the exam and says,"let's see what we have here." I immediately say,"No, we are going to talk for a minute." and I immediately close my gown back up.
Bahahahaha I win people!!!! I have found my voice and I know myself, so shit will get done!!!!
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