My Kidney Journey: What was I saying?

Disclaimer: I am writing this post while under the influence of pain meds. There is no guarantee whether or not it will make any sense at all. ;)

Okay, so like two days ago, I promised you a post tomorrow. Sorry. When recuperating, you never know what to expect. Good days and bad days are all meshed together in a swarm of wakes and sleeps within a haze of narcotic unknowing. 

Not wanting to be dependent on meds, I tried to be brave yesterday and not take pain meds. This was great for my intestinal track, as I spent the afternoon in the restroom, voiding my bowels of everything from the past week...but it was bad for today. Pain like I can't describe. Word of advice to future donors: DON'T. Just don't. Take your pain meds regularly. When you think you're better, stretch out the time between meds, don't just quit taking them. Getting pain BACK under control is so much harder then keeping it there. 

So, I was going to tell you about my hubby getting arrested, right? Oh. My. Gosh. What a crazy story. So, the morning was awful. The mag citrate they gave me to clean out my bowels the night before, well, it took a nap overnight and decided to start working in pre-op. So I'm back and forth to the bathroom with butt-vomit. I already have a migraine from not sleeping well, and nausea from it and the mag-citrate, so I'm puking my guts out too. All the while, the nice anesthesiologist, Dr. P, is trying to tell me everything that he legally has to tell me before knocking my butt out. He keeps telling me to just hold on and he can give me something to help me relax, but in between the butt-vomit and the real vomit, I can barely hold it together long enough to sign the consent for whatever the crap he was talking about.  So he finally rushes through it all, I scribble what may or may not have been my name on his paper and he says he's going to give me some Pepcid and Reglan. He pulls out a vial, whispers to the nurse that they might go ahead and get the blah-blah-whatever and sticks a needle into my IV. That's the last dang thing I remember before waking back up in my room. Vioila, no chance, no time, no getting scared about surgery, I pulled that off like a champ!!

Meanwhile, Dr. P gives me the blah-blah-whatever and they roll me off to surgery. My hubby, finally glad to be rid of his double vomiting wife for a while (not really, he was super nervous), heads to the hospital Starbucks for a shot of wake-me-up. He grabs a triple-shot-ginormous-mocha-something and turns around to find himself surrounded by Johnny Law. These guys are huge and demanding that he go with them. No explanation, just come with us. 

These nice officers cart my beloved off to the hospital pokey and order him to cough up his i.d. Him, being just  little upset by their lack of communication skills, decides that they need to tell him what is up before he gives them anything. The punk kid handcuffed in the seat next to him all the while spewing racial slurs and expletives about the porcine nature of the gentlemen holding them captive. Finally, a woman comes in and explains to my love that he fits the description of a man on another floor begging for money. They confirm his identity, confirm his recent whereabouts, and send him on his way, kindly reminding him to stay "where he is supposed to be."  That seemed to be a recurring theme throughout the rest of my 5 hour surgery, but that is another story altogether!

So, begging for money in the hospital is not okay and butt-vomit is not fun! That's the moral of today's story. Have a great 4th, friends. God bless America and a sincere thanks to all of those who serve and their families serving at home.