Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Bird. Cage.
Yesterday was a really bad day.
As my surgeon put it, “Guts are like rebellious teenagers. They do what they want to do. You have to treat them like they have minds of their own.” She’s right because she’s a person who slices and dices intestines for a living, but she’s also right because that’s exactly what they’re like. Yesterday, after three days of being “awake,” my stomach and guts decided they would freeze up. I was in terrible pain all day long after eating a few bites of food. It didn’t go anywhere after going down into my stomach and that, my friends, is a painful situation. Stuff’s supposed to move constantly once it’s swallowed. When it doesn’t, it creates agonizing pain in the stomach and lower tract. Pain meds won’t touch it. You just have to wait it out.
I ended up throwing up everything I had eaten in the past couple days. It was highly unpleasant, especially for my sweet friend Essie, who was present for that. Sorry, Essie.
If my systems hadn’t started working by today, I might’ve had to have an NG tube, but I got some action from my guts mid-morning, thank goodness. It’s still painful, but we’ve got peristalsis for now. They say I can go home tomorrow, but I’ve heard that before. I’ll believe it when I have my discharge papers. In the meantime, I’m in that space of not wanting to be in the hospital and being stuck here, anyway. It’s like being at a sleepover that you hate and knowing it’s hours and hours before you get picked up by your mom.
I have had lots of visitors, though, and thank you so much to everyone who’s come by. It’s fun, right?
Still dealing with the reality of my situation. Still struggling with faith. Still dazed. Still.
Monday, September 28, 2009
One Year.
This time last year, I was in a scrumptious gown made of ivory lace. I was probably twirling.
There was this amazing moment when Madonna’s “Beat Goes On” came on over the system, proving my point that I could be an incredible DJ and we didn’t have to have the band play the whole time. That song came on and it was my jam. I got in the center of the disco circle that had formed and was bringing out moves that were sightly too scandalous for my role as the archetypal bride. If some of my new relatives had seen me I’m sure I would’ve gotten the stink eye, but I was enclosed in the clapping, stomping, Soul Train circle.
But before I could really work my stripper-on-the-pole (sans pole) routine, there was commotion behind me. Several of D.W.‘s football lineman buddies/groomsmen had grabbed D.W.‘s dad and dragged him out to the dance floor. My father-in-law doesn’t dance. I love him so much—he’s strict but fair, funny and generous. But he doesn’t dance. He didn’t until the night of the reception, that is. A year ago tonight, he was pulled against his will onto the dance floor and all of a sudden, this dignified, buttoned-up, stern Croatian man was doing this little kick-dance thing to the Kanye solo off Madonna’s lastest album. It was priceless—he was grinning from ear to ear.
It was only one moment in a night chock full of them. Happy Anniversary to us all! Because you were there and you were there and you were there and you…
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Happy Anniversary!
This weekend, a year ago, D.W. I were married.
The only gift I could think of that would possibly cover any iota of the gratitude and love I have for this man was an original poem, of course. I’ve never written one for him specifically. I don’t write too many poems for specific people these days, but then again, I don’t write as many poems as I used to, either.
This is one I’ve been working on since August when I saw him marching. The final verse came to me when I saw him waving “Hi!” from the foot of my bed when I was in the hospital last month. There may be a couple very small changes still left to make, but it’s essentially all here.
for stjepan on our one year anniversary
Copyright ?© 2009 by Mary Fons
suffer the angels.
their poor feathers/and reputations tarnished under coats of heavy lacquer/butterfly wings decoupaged to death/majesty packed onto shelves choked with tchozkes/cherubs cry to be candle holders/Metatron on a plate/God on a wheel/these be our angels/these foolish cartoons in bad taste on our mantels/oh holiness/oh clearance rack/oh no.
but/it was not always so.
I have heard tell of ancient messengers/pressed with passion into triptychs/angels designed to survive the flood/ageless ones who sew golden organs into us gutless wonders and shine light into our darkest hollow/Olympus dwellers who kiss mountaintops on ten thousand fingers to blow like dandelion spikes should the mood strike/giants who pad the heavens with walking sticks/who know God’s tricks and play them when they’re not surveying the teeming trillions/when they’re not watching all of us down here where it’s hard.
like any author should/I fear the angel metaphor/it’s beaten down ground by now/there’s a hack hard at work on one for every badly painted ceramic cherubim/but I would be disgracing my post not to use the word for him/nothing else will do/and is this not the job given to me/poets must arrange letters into keys that unlock doors/well/the truth at its threshold/as usual.
he is winged/I have seen the feathered expanses/unfurling from his back so broad/I have felt the breath of God/I have warmed by the heat from the golden ring that he hovers overhead/I have seen this my friend/I have watched him till the earth with his hands/I have heard him sing lullabies to the land/I have seen how he picked up the wounded and carried them.
I met an angel/and I married him.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Well, Well.
The surgery went well.
That’s how it looks, anyway. I haven’t spoken to my surgeon about it yet, but D.W. said she said there weren’t any surprises. It took almost four hours, though, which is a long time. I am the proud owner of a second ileostomy and a pelvic drain (temporarily.) What I don’t have is a midline incision, which is good. That was expected but did not come to pass.
My blood pressure was too low to have an epidural this time around, so I’m in a fair amount of pain, but I’ve got my Dilaudid pump and access to my nurse if I need more. D.W. was waking me up every fifteen minutes or so there for awhile so I could stay on top of the pump. You can only hit it so many times in an hour, but if you fall behind, you’ll be sorry. Now he’s sleeping soundly on the pull out couch and I’m smiling over at him, my 6’5” guardian.
When I first looked down at my tummy today, I wasn’t sad. “Oh, it’s you,” I thought, and I said, “I know you.” I didn’t feel trapped or depressed. I know this territory. I understand what it is and how to navigate my path. Before long, I"ll be back in Bikram class and eating food that doesn’t taste like a loaded gun. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what I’ve got.
Kinda like when you order a sandwich without the pickle on the side but they give it to you anyway, so some of your fries taste like pickle and the little part of your bun tastes like pickle and it pissed you off so you just don’t eat those fries. Or you give them to someone who doesn’t mind the pickle taste.