A One-Breasted Witchy Woman and a Piano Man Enter the ER…

First, a poetic spell that feels too appropriate not to re-share right now:

 

“Healing a Wish”

I call on you, betrayer of living flesh,
cracker of bones… I name you mine,
I hammer my intent into your core.

My will—never you!—dances
in the red of my blood, throbs
in my center and in my limbs

and in the roots of all that is Me,
I’m blooming you dry, pain of mine,
making dandy fluff out of lion’s teeth,

unbinding hurts, healing a wish.

 

And now, a (not so) wee note about the last few days…

My mastectomy went super well (my Piano Man and I have considered proposing to my surgeon 😊). But the aftercare (nutrition, in particular) was nothing to brag about. You can just imagine how thrilled we were to go home. So thrilled, that we didn’t double check my meds. The doctor who discharged me told us I was going home with the same stuff I had been taking, we were handed a bag, and we split.

Once on the road, I went through the meds and noticed the attending physician had given me the wrong medication. I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Although, trusted sources suggest that I might have cursed the idiocy of the attending (and my lack of judgment) once or thrice. You see, my Wicked Luvs, I had already voiced concerns about the competency of the physician in question. But I was soooooooooo ready to go home (you can tell by my excessive use of Os). Anyway, I called my surgeon, she instructed me to go to my local ER to get the right medication, and to call her if they gave me trouble—New York (and the VA) are rather careful, when it comes to controlled substances (I support this 100%, since I have seen some terrible things).

When my Piano Man and I entered the emergency room, my teeth were chattering from cold. I was walking a bit crocked, and the spot where my right boob used to be hurt enough to make the rest of me twitch oddly every now and again. To make things even more interesting, Nature’s violent mood swings had sent temperatures from 90s to 50s in about a day. My sexy flesh and bones and I had not adjusted yet.

I walked into the emergency room trembling, twitching, neck cocked in the well-known confused bird position, with at least 5 needle marks from my elbow to my hand, holding a bag of controlled substances, grinning my well-known (slightly psychotic) grin, and asking for controlled substances. You can probably imagine the general reaction… Don’t feel bad if you are laughing, my Piano Man and I laughed too (once we realized how ludicrous the whole thing looked).

Maybe I looked too happy for someone who had said adios to a booby fewer than 24 hours earlier. Maybe my eternal grin didn’t fit the situation. Maybe the shivering and teeth chattering (provoked by the freezing hospital) looked too much like withdrawal. I don’t know what prompted it, but the ER doctor questioned me and my request long enough to annoy my Piano Man, my love doesn’t annoy easily.

I called my surgeon. And after she gave the ER doctor a piece of her mind, he said that he would give me enough medication until Monday. After he finished checking my records and looking at my chest, he blanched a bit, gave me the same amount of medication my surgeon prescribed, and began treating me like a human being. He was even kind after that… and assigned me a nurse who kept repeating how strong I was, and how she couldn’t believe that I was so light on my feet and could be so self-sufficient without taking meds after my body endured such trauma (I had not taken any pain medication in almost 24 hours… and I was mostly fine).

Things are quite good now. My body (all the maiming and tummy issues aside) is a trooper—I didn’t need any morphine while I was in the hospital, I took some of the heavy meds last night (I needed it after a long car ride and doing battle at the ER). I took some Tylenol this morning and will likely take some more before bed. I don’t need much help moving around or getting what I need, but… who am I to rob my Piano Man of the chance of being even more incredible than he usually is, right?

Now, we are keeping our fingers (and toes) crossed, as we wait for the lymph nodes pathology… which will dictate whether I’ll need chemo or not. I’m hoping for not. But if yes… I shall rock the bald head look (and accidentally on purpose aim all my puke in the direction of people I dislike… for therapeutic purposes, of course). 😉

 

it’s cloudy outside, but my wee garden remains sunny

my passiflora bloomed a gift for me

for those of you not on Facebook or Instagram, here is the glory of my witchy grin right after the de-boobing

 

Wee Books and Garden Giggles

Nature’s mood swings are warming up. We’ve been dancing between low 80s and rain. We like it. And yes, by “we” I mean me. And, perhaps, my amaryllis’ seedpod, who seems to delight in the pleasure that is getting her hair washed.

she trusted
my hand to hold her
wilted hair

 

My youngest oak seems to be enjoying the rain, too. Really. It went from zero leaves to seven practically overnight. The frog that shares the pot with the oak has been pondering about the nature of quick growth (and of blushing leaves).

the frog smirks,
while the witch watches
oak leaves blush

 

I, on the other hand, know exactly why the oak leaves are blushing *cough*:

Flower-lovers do it in the garden.

 

Since I’m certain that dearest Marcus Tullius Cicero was correct, in saying that “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need”, I thought I should show you the wee treasure I got in one of my secondhand books/thrift shop hunts. It’s an English-Spanish Spanish English dictionary set from 1967. When first published, the miniature tomes (approximately 2” x 3”) cost $1.50. I found myself roaring like the wild old-book-loving maniac that I am, when I noticed the 2018 price was $1.49. Yep, the price went down 1¢ in 51 years.

 

What sort of book-loving-plant-adoring mad witchy writer woman would I be, if I published a post about gardens and English-Spanish Spanish-English books without sharing the page that shows the word “garden” in Spanish? Here it is:

Yes, my Wicked Luvs… I, too, blinked thrice when I read the 2nd page. I’ve no idea why the word judía means both green bean and Jewish female in Spanish.

Edited 5/23/18 at 4:05 pm: So, my Wicked Luvs, I went to my trusty Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, and found this: “Arbor Judæ, said to be so called because Judas Iscariot hanged himself thereon. This is one of those word-resemblances so delusive to etymologists. Judæ is the Spanish judía (a French bean), and Arbor Judæis a corruption of Arbol Judia (the bean-tree), so called from its bean-like pods.” Isn’t language the most alluring of wondrous beasts?