Eeyore’s a rat bastard…

2:11 a.m.

A knock on the bedroom door. “Mummy? I weoijf  oerjn osd doj ewo sdifj om.”

*dragging my Mersyndol affected carcass out of bed*

“Coming!!”

I walked into the bathroom where the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Part Eleven, was being filmed.

*wtf?*

Ah, nosebleed.

*grabs Oil of Olay wet-wipes and cleans off child*

*stuffs a wad of toilet paper up his nose*

*tucks child into bed and stumbles back to bed, tripping over something on the way to the bathroom before I forgot to pee*

*collapses like an epileptic elephant into bed*

Morning. Too soon.

Yet another episode in the made-for-tv-movie version of “Husband Has Eye Surgery” saw my return from the school bus run met with a, “The hospital called, and my appointment is actually at 1:15 p.m., not 10:00 a.m.”

*blink*

“I’m sorry, what?”

Sure enough. Right there. At the bottom of the paper: “1:15 p.m., January 29th”

Seems 10:00 a.m. was that appointment he’d gone to the day after the surgery.

That part was at the top of the paper.

That part was not, in fact, today.

Seems you only have to read said paper until you feel like stopping, which was right after the ” . ” of the “10:00 a.m.”

So, in 2.2 minutes, I went from managing the body-spasm-riddled anxiety of praying today wasn’t going to be a snow-day due to impending freezing rain, having driven my battered ass across my end of town in a fucking snowfall last night to get all the errands done I could have done today…..

….*takes a breath*….

…to….I couldn’t freakin’ take him anyway, because of the afternoon school bus run?!!??!!??!!??!! ( <—— was that enough exclamation points? I’m not sure it fully justifies the “W.T.F.” I felt)

!!!!!???!!!!!?!!!!! (<——better, I suppose)

Whilst darling husband was in the shower, the telephone rings. Caller ID displays the hospital’s number.

“Oh this sure as shit better be good,” I muttered to myself.

Seems the surgeon did NOT have any surgeries booked for this morning, so he could come in at about, oh, 10:30 a.m.

(o.O)

*twitch*

So, now Go, Go GimpyAss is back on board for driving! HUZZAH!

Upon commencing our journey to Mordor to the hospital’s Eye Institute, I suddenly realized that I’d remembered to bring his hospital papers (which, incidentally, he did not require) but had forgotten my book to study while I waited. How the FUCK did I remember HIS shit, and not my own?!?!?!?!?

!!!!!!????!!!!!!!!!????!!!! ( <——–about right)

I may or may not have vocalized said realization out loud.

*shifty eyes*

Poor guy. You can’t really slink away while strapped into a motorized vehicle travelling 80 km/hr down Innes Road.

Just sayin’.

You have to understand. There has been NO goodness of any kind to this ridiculous farce of a surgery. They didn’t call me, for starters. There was a note explicitly telling them to call me. They did not.

They didn’t give him ZILCH in regards to information pre-op. Standard, mundane “do this” and “don’t do that.”

Not anything related to, “No, you will NOT likely feel hot-shit after just a couple of days…more like 4-6 weeks, so don’t plan on going to work for the next 3 weeks, at least.”

This becomes a problem to fucking Go, Go SnarkAss here who then has to manage the household, in the throes of a lupus and fibro flare and a pulled shoulder that I’ve NO idea how I pulled.

Beavers. Brownies. Driving hither and thither for the odd milk bag or gas tank fill up.

I. Am. Exhausted.

Preparation is 80% of the event. Even to have been able to get into the proper mindset of “Hey, I’ve got to figure stuff out for the next three weeks”….

DENIED.

I can’t stop the heart palpitations, which are freaking me the FOOK out!

*I get the irony of using “fook” whereby I’ve previously used “fuck”…*

I am in searing amounts of pain.

I am bordering on the delirium of surpassing exhaustion.

I am sitting on a pity pot so wide my I’ve-earned-this-ass is barely hanging on.

And then?

And then I lost a friend. Her death felt, literally, in every fibre of my essence.

And I cry.

And I’m still angry.

And I’m still sad.

Everything held in a vortex around the already made-for-tv-movie version of the chaos of my reality.

eeyoreSeems I’ve got myself a case of “The Eeyore.”

I’ll get up and out of it soon, of this I’m certain. It’s what I do. I’ll get frustrated at the feeling of loss and frustration and bitterness and anger.

I’ll find my #gladitude every day.

 

I’ll continue to chuckle (maniacally, of course) at the “Even Oprah couldn’t make this shit up” chaos of my reality…because to look at my life from outside the box, my first thought about myself would be,

“Dude, you are certifiably rat-shit, bat-shit crazy!”

Indeed I am, my friend.

Indeed I am.

3 responses to “Eeyore’s a rat bastard…

  1. Nah… might be rat-shit, but bat-shit crazy(1) involves exposure to a guano cave and I’m pretty sure you haven’t had time for that lately.

    (1) Real, honest-to-Nameless diagnosis. Not sure if it’s in the latest revised DSM, but involves nitrate/nitrite neuro-toxicity from mining bat guano.

    (2) Well Wishes to you and hubby and if you want to talk to a longtime Ophthalmic Tech you know how to reach me. I /may/ have a helpy hint or two you haven’t heard yet.

  2. ((hugs)) In light of this, my state of overwhelm and discomfort is nothing next to this version of hell you’re going through right now. (it’s all relative)

    I’m sorry for your loss.

    Please let me know if I can do some driving/pick-ups/errands for you. I’m sure I can re-arrange a few things to be there for one of my besties.

  3. Fuck your friends .. main peolpe who you should be concerned about is your self and be with peolpe who mean the most wich is family they come first .. friends come and go with and with out sickness

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