In my grand bucket list of health problems, I have finally crossed one of them off completely. Shortly before the procedure, a dear Friend reminded me of that very fact. I had to agree. Pilonidal cyst, removed. Next up is hypogonadism, thyroid disease, and an unexplained illness yet to be determined. Now, sewn up neatly as I am, I deal with the discomfort of itching in crucial places that can never be scratched. This is a good sign. A scab means healing is in process.
I don't want to have surgery again for a very long time. It's a hassle. In addition to being an emotional drain, it's a time drain. Lots of paperwork. Lots of waiting. In an ideal world, I wouldn't have to worry about medical carelessness, but being on a medication that has major side effects with certain drugs used in anesthesia, nothing can be left to chance. These days, I'm so scared reading about all of those stories regarding surgical accidents and doctor neglect that even the thought of something going wrong stresses me. I should probably buy a medical bracelet specifying the medication I'm on, should I have to have emergency surgery for any reason. I've also thought about leaving a list of medications in my wallet for the same reason.
My partner helps me with household chores for the time being. I can't stoop or bend at the knees, because the stitches must remain in place until it is time for them to be removed. Still, I'm used to loading the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. And there other things I can't do, things that make me feel productive, like laundry and vacuuming. She also has to help me take a shower, since my backside doesn't need to get wet and/or soapy. I'm a pretty independent person, so I feel annoyed at how much I can't do myself. But I am lucky to have her. She's happy to do it, and I'm glad she's willing to help, but I still would rather her not have to go out of her way. At her request, I keep her largely off my blog and out of my writing, but I've recognized in the past several days exactly how much I love her. I wish it didn't take something extreme like this to lead me to that conclusion, but I appreciate the reminder in any case.
My days recently consist of staring at walls, watching middlebrow television, and monitoring my Facebook page. Half the time I'm completely drugged up and unnaturally calm on painkillers. I see the appeal of opiates. It is nice to not have to worry about much of anything, though my productivity has not been particularly high. I have written a little bit, even though I've been told specifically to rest and not worry about anything serious for a while. Doctor's orders. I suppose I can't help myself. Any writer will tell you that, after a time, writing becomes both reflexive and addictive. However, the only way I can write anything coherent is let the latest pill wear off to the point that I begin to feel pain. I suppose I'm perversely devoted to the craft enough that I will risk almost anything to get a piece completed. After all, it's not like William Faulkner and O.Henry didn't write in alcoholic stupors half the time.