Yesterday's mantra is day-old news. And though, "At least it doesn't smell like poo" was a powerful talisman in my self-help arsenal yesterday, today I was given this lovely, spiritual, uplifting tidbit, from my husband no less, as I may have whined a tiny bit about my throbbing incision sites, my gassy stomach, my bile bag and, you know, just generally whine-worthy stuff.
"It's better than getting your face ripped off by a chimp."
True dat, brother. True. Dat.
PS: On the how you doin' front:
I took a shower, did not die.
I removed my dressing (per nurse's orders) and HOLY SHIT THERE ARE TUBES RIGHT THERE JUST STICKING OUT OF MY STOMACH. I should have NEVER removed the dressing. But now it's done and hopefully tomorrow one of the drains will be removed at my late afternoon follow-up appointment.
I am starting to hate soup.
Post-surgical coughing jags have commenced. NOT FUN.
My discharge papers say I can't have carbonated beverages. I am thinking this is probably just a mean joke by one of the nurses who knows how I feel about diet coke, so I am not going to take this one too seriously.
A three-time review of my discharge papers shows no mention of "avoid alcohol." Just saying.