A stitch in time…

Things not to do when in post-op recovery: Watch Pauly Shore and laugh until your sides split literally. I broke through my stitches. Who knew?

 

In the wonderful morphine haze that accompanied my post-operative state I neglected to clear up a few salient points with my esteemed surgeon. For example the 6 weeks referred to. Is Week 1 the week of hospital or the first week out? My mother maintains the latter and I am holding out for the former. Then again, she was sober and took notes. According to her schedule this week I can walk around my garden for 10 minutes. According to mine, I can go out for lunch. I know in my head she is right, but in my heart I wish it were me. I have paid the price for pushing too far over the last week. I overdid the exercises, I've been outside and I've suffered the excruciating pain associated with your guts trying to escape your body. So this week I will try harder.

 

The father of my offspring was finally released from hospital last Friday. I think they became afraid he was harbouring Prison Break fantasies and would upset the other inmates. They still have no clue what alien lifeform lives within him, but sent him home with much relief. He does not fit the profile of The Good Patient. He reads his file (who does that?) and then Googles from his hospital bed. He admonishes the nurses when they don't give him his meds (quite rightly) and can wield a drip stand like a warrior with a lance. So, when he could eat jelly they sent him home. Much thinner if none the wiser as to what caused him to become so ill in the first place. Like many men who do not quite understand the silent and deadly fear women have of being fat, he has happily pointed out to my mother, my friends and some women who fight daily with eating disorders that now he weighs less than them. Don't gloat. It is unbecoming. What you do is when commented upon, say breezily, "Oh yes, it was horrible! I lost so much weight when I was ill and was horrified by gaunt I looked."

 

As for me? During that week my sainted mother looked after me making up for a childhood of leaving me with the maid every time I got ill. I adore her. She cooked for me. You know, those wonderful childhood meals only your mum can ever make right? She fluffed my blankets, she arrived at 6am to ferry the kids to school and brought them back in one piece later on. I don't know how to thank her properly, but without her I think I may have gone mad.

 

On his release from the white walls of Morningside Clinic Marc packed a tent and took the boys camping as part of the Dads and Lads Camp Out. How twee is that name? Nonetheless, off they went in Bella, the 1976 VW Kombi, comfortably ensconced in a mountain if duvets. After yelling at the boys to pack their pillows and duvets, Daddy left his behind. Good thing Mummy pressed an extra blanket on him before they left. I don't know why I packed so many clothes for them, or soap for that matter. They arrived back on Sunday in the same clothes they left in, just a little soggier.

 

Apparently at these events there are three groups of fathers:

Group 1: The avid outdoorsman

Group 2: The man child

Group 3: The (How to put this nicely?) organic metrosexual aka pussy whipped husband

 

Group 1 has every outdoor gadget known to man. They are the Camel Man, the Marlboro plan and the boer that maaks a plan. They expect the same of their children. During the week they are doctors, lawyers and CPAs, but in the bush… they are the hunter. Their kids are rough, tough and ready. They take turns on guard duty through the night and eat freeze dried army food.

 

Group 2 form the largest grouping. These are guys who remember going camping with a six pack of beer and a tape mix of Tones on Tail and David Bowie. They know how to light a fire and stare into its flames. They like to give the truth scope and share stories and tall tales of back when. Their kids run around unfettered on bikes with glow sticks and a boerie roll. If they go to bed at all they tumble into it fully dressed and emerge only at the smell of bacon frying in the morning before they disappear off again.

 

Group 3 are the ones I feel for. Even far from the watchful eye of their wives they desperately try and force organic celery sticks down their sons (who just pop over to Group 2 for a quick bite of meat anyway). Bath time is at 6pm sharp, dinner consisting of soya and a nice organic salad served at 7pm and in bed by 8pm. Not a chance. These guys battle it out for 48 hours and instead of coming home energized with masculinity, crawl home to their wives and whimper.

 

Now you also have the outliers. These are those who provide entertainment on a nouveau riche scale. The dad who arrives with a rented motorhome and toilet. Not a porta-pottie. A whole bathroom in marble and gold. I should just explain that the camping ground they go to in on the banks of the Vaal. There are bathrooms and mowed grass and no-one has to kill an impala for supper. It is very civilized. After all these boys go to a very civilized school.

 

Nonetheless my boys arrived home on Sunday morning, sunburnt, grubby and exhausted. They had a marvelous time. Small boy aged 8 (almost 9) dragged himself through the door, flopped on the couch and tuned into MTV. Small boy aged 6 joined him. Man dragged himself to bed and watched Grosse Point Blank. Conversation was held in grunts until the return to civilization kicked in with mother threatening to physically throw small grubby people into a bath. Not that I could have done it, but the threat was real enough. I could have called ADT as it was a family emergency.

 

The best thing was getting them up and dressed and off this morning and then falling back into bed for another hour. Blissful and decadent. Now if only I can get the cats to stop kneading my stomach…

The warrior, the wizard and the angel

The monsters we battle are secret ones. They track us no matter where we hide and just we think we have vanquished them forever they rise up stronger than before. This is why I should not have been surprised when the panic gripped my throat in the middle of Woolworths. Certain fears are socially acceptable, spiders, fire, heights, rats and so on. These are fears rooted in the solid reality of our world. The fear that plagues me has no basis in solid fact. I am mortally terrified of frozen foods. Supermarkets, crowds and shopping malls too, but it is always the frozen food section that finally sets me off.

So there I stood on Thursday afternoon in Woolworths laden with shopping and completely unable to breathe. In retrospect, shopping during lunch hour was not a good idea. In fact shopping anywhere that is not virtual is a bad idea for me. Despite that I won the battle that day. I did not cry. I did not pass out although it was a near thing. I simply went into a change room and waited it out. Finding out that the boots I bought for Small girl aged 5 were too small finally reduced me to tears, but at least I was home and safe. I also ended up with a lovely green dress I have no recollection of choosing. I am not a coward, so I went back on Friday and exchanged the boots. Me 1. Irrational panic 0.

The purpose of the shopping trip was to get some new pajamas for the trip into hospital on Tuesday morning. I may be going to feel terrible, but I'll be damned if I have to look like it. I now have fabulous sleepwear, Mac powder foundation and long last lipstick. Another not so irrational fear I have is what surgeons and their teams say about you when you are, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Lying there at their mercy. Her thighs are wobbly. Her boobs are sagging. Her legs are hairy and so on. Of course, I never got around to the wax so Immac will have to do the trick.

I also have some real fears about this operation I haven't quite given voice to yet. There's the obvious dying bit. So, just in case everything I have is left to my children and my husband. I also do not want to be kept in some horrible coma stasis if I do not wake up. Give me two weeks and then flip the switch. Oh, and I'd like to donate my organs. What else while I am on this morbid diatribe? Yes, the funeral. I want a Wiccan/Pagan ceremony – Sally and Adam are in charge of finding someone to do it. I'd like to be cremated and at the ceremony have 3 small vials of the ashes given to each child and the rest returned to the earth. Music wise, I like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan and some Leonard Cohen. Julie can sing. I think that would be nice. Afterwards I big party with a big bonfire and the sharing of funny stories about me. That would be a good send off and a hell of easier that raising a dolmen!

I am also concerned about living my life in a wheelchair. However, with a bit of creative interior design and some driving lessons I think I could survive that. I could still wear high heels and never have to worry about getting sore feet standing on them. Most of all, I am terrified the operation won't work. That my aorta will be attached to my spine and they can't do the disk replacement. That despite everything I'll still be pain and not be able to sit through a movie or go dancing. That my beloved shoes will have to go into storage for Small girl aged 5.

And what about the things I have yet to tell my offspring? Like how to apply liquid eyeliner. Who will hunt down and kill the first people to break their hearts? I will, even if I have to from beyond the grave. Instead I have bought a bag of goodies for their father to distribute for each night I am in hospital. Still, I do want them to know that they are each wonderful, unique and much loved. The warrior. The wizard. And the Angel. Okay, maybe Small girl aged 5 is a bit more Valkyrie than Angel.

Enough! I still have to pack. The new PJs, underwear, make-up and make-up remover, towel, face cloth, movies, Keith Richards autobiography and my hair straightener. The final item on the list may raise some eyebrows. I can't be separated from it. The laptop, modem, cellphone and associated chargers are all too obvious. I know that I will probably feel too ghastly to go online, but the thought of not being able to fills me with the fear of entrapment. I must have access to Mr Delivery should the food be too awful.

The next on my to do list is to pack school bags with everything they need for the week in the hope this will reduce morning trauma. Must remember to ask devoted father to call educational psychologist and set up a time for the feedback interview – also to sign permission slip for extra reading lessons. I know absolutely that devoted father is perfectly able to cope and that all will go smoothly. I am slightly and bizarrely jealous of witnessing my ease of replacement, but c'est la vie, mainly I am deeply relieved he is going to be there for them and here for me. I cannot imagine how I could do this if I were a single parent and my heart goes out to all those who are. They are immensely strong men and women who deserve many accolades. I read an article about how gay parents are more socially acceptable than single ones. This callous disregard for single parents fills me with ire. Very few choose to be single parents and in all certainty dreamt about raising a happy nuclear family, it just didn't work out that way, so why treat them so awfully?

I have devoted today to completing my role in the Great Wendy House Construction. The door is a pretty pink. So is the bottom of the floor. Sadly, I don't think the underside of the floor is meant to be a light shade of pink. Husband went off to work and I thought how clever I'd be. I couldn't find a tin called varnish, but I did one marked Wood Primer and I thought that would do. It looked just like varnish when I opened it and set to work. Lesson: Read the instructions. Soon I'd used all the oil that sat on top and was left with a thick pink ooze. It became too thick to apply so I added some wood oil sealer to the mix. I guess I thought it couldn't get worse. I was reminded of a friend of mine, John Lee, who as a child spilled Nesquik powder on his mother's white carpet. Instead of getting the vacuum he went for a bucket of water and you can imagine the rest. I did a similar thing with worse consequences involving a coal heater, a towel and a wardrobe. I hope the floor is fixable and at least it is the side that sits on the ground. I am looking forward to renting one of those air spray guns to paint the outside walls. It sounds likef a lot more fun than a brush.

All in all it has been a pleasant last weekend before the rest of my life. I saw Rango at the cinema. Johnny Depp was the hero's voice and I could listen to him for years and not get bored. In fact, I must put Pirates on the hard drive for the week's entertainment along with Pauly Shore and with any luck True Blood. I have has a long and interesting conversation with my darling Dad about postmodernism and political correctness and found out more history of my family. Uncle Willie Bruce who fought against the Boers and who could leap a horse clear over a road and some daring WW1 pilots. I understand the African respect for ancestors as I become more interested in finding out who mine were. Great Aunt Diana or Dr Diana Knowles-Spink, is having her final send-off next weekend at her home in London. I am sure she will liven up the other side as much as she did this one and am somewhat relieved to have her watching over me now. I think eternity with her would never be short on excitement. These chats with my Dad make me realize how much miss him on the other side of the world and how much I wish my children could grow up near him and benefit from his extraordinary knowledge, wealth of stories and huge capacity for caring. I walked into his old tobacconist the other day (to buy my boys penknives, an essential boy's tool) and was poleaxed by the scent of his tobacco.

Ah well, I'm going into hospital tomorrow, I'm allowed to be maudlin. See you on the flip side.