How’s life in the slow lane?

Dear Diary,

This most recent surgery hurts quite a bit, but hopefully it will be my last. I saw the surgeon last Tuesday, exclaiming that my incision continued to weep synovial fluid. He asked me to come in for follow-up surgery the very next day. He said he would read up on it to see if anything new had come up on synovial issues, and I thought of him studying for an exam and my leg the test.

I awoke from anesthesia much better this time, and didn’t rage that I was mentally ill so I couldn’t handle the stress of waking up. That’s a relief, because I was quite embarrassed later by the things I said while in a stupor. I’m also embarrassed I had such a hard time breathing on my own, but I don’t know why I’m embarrassed about that. It’s hard coming to after you’ve had a tube down your throat for so long.

Anyway, this time the surgeon changed his tactic on my leg hole. He opened the incision wider, and as the surgical assistant would later tell me, they found exactly what I described: a wound tract leading straight out for the fluid to weep to an opening in my skin. Opening the incision wider, the surgeon added additional stitches deeper in my tissue then sealed the whole thing back up. And he’s serious this time.

This time, the surgeon took no chances on my one-in-a-million odds status and completely immobilized my leg in a plaster cast. I got to choose my color this time, and my right leg is adorned with stylish hot pink synthetic fibers. I’m proud of my pink cast in my own weird way, because at least I had control over the color. Matthew and I want to write “LOL” on it so that it will be a “LolCast.” Approximately five people in the world will think that’s funny, so I have not had the courage to follow through with it yet. I have also considered having everyone I know draw a flower on it instead of signatures, but the cast comes off in a week and a half so that seems too excessive. If I get a second cast (which they are threatening), I’m definitely going ahead with the flower concept. It’s just a shame I don’t have more friends. I’ll have to sneak in a lot of my own flowers.

Diary, this surgery has sucked, even though I was the most prepared for it yet. Since I never tidy up, everything was pretty much already in “go” mode from the last surgery. I did need a new DVD player though. The pink one I bought last time may have had the advantage of being pink, but it skipped, so I went with something less pink this time. It’s awfully dull, but it works.

Anyway, this surgery sucks because it hurts a lot and I can’t move without the aid of my two buddies, the crutches. Or my BFF the walker. It’s the hurting part I can’t stand. Or the lack of mobility I can’t stand, I don’t know. I did have an excuse to buy new sweatpants though, so that made it kinda fun.

Oh, Diary, that reminds me! Matthew and I got to have a good time at Target because of surgery leg. I tried to use the electric wheelchair, and just laughed and laughed. It’s no wonder the people in those things seem so angry—the electric carts are hard to drive and frustrating as hell. Matthew coaxed me out of the electric wheelchair and into the regular push one. One which we’ve used before and it’s kind of broken.

The problem with the push wheelchair is there’s no basket. So I had to hold everything in my lap. I ended up with a coffeemaker, my new sweatpants, coffee, and some other sundries in my lap as Matthew pushed me with one hand while the other held an eighteen-pound bag of dog food over his shoulder. I decided this was the time for comedy. I decided I was going to try with all my might to pull the most miserable looking mug I could for the rest of my trip in Target, instead of smiling at how silly we are. I really put the blackest parts of my heart to work at frowning and hanging my head.

Guess what? Other people don’t make eye contact with people in wheelchairs. All that emotional strain of staying in character for nothing. Not a soul looked at me, which is a shame because I know we were comic gold. I gave up and laughed at my own joke. I’m funny enough for me.

I’ll add that to my list of mantras, Diary: “I’m funny enough for me.” I like that.

Good night Diary. Cross your fingers for no more surgery.

The title of this post comes to me courtesy of Monya's ever-humorous e-mails, when she enquired after my post-op health. The answer to the question is "Slow."