“Hey! How come Andrew gets to get up? If he gets up, we’ll all get up, it’ll be anarchy!!”

Warning: This post composed while under the influence of physician-prescribed narcotoc painkillers. Continue at your own risk.

Be advised that this may be a bit graphic, but since this is my blog and my domain that I pay for, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Might I suggest www.cuteoverload.com for your oh-so-fragile psyche? Lots of cute and fuzzy things.

Ten days ago, I had surgery. A hysterectomy, to be exact. My cervix/uterus has been trying to kill me for the last couple of years, so the bastard had to go. My doctor and I tried compromising with the thing, but it would not be reasoned with. Now it’s in a medical waste dump facility somewhere since they wouldn’t let me take it home, which I consider to be violently unfair. I have the opinion I should be able to leave the hospital with all of the parts I had going into it, even if they are in a different container. They disagreed.

At any rate, the recovery process is annoying and ongoing and now I have an infection in my stitches and blood in my urine which is being investigated so I get to wait (granted on painkillers but still). One thing I have learned throughout this ordeal is, when you spend ALL of your time at home, making sure to take note of every odd-ball thing your body is doing, since it’s been violated, trying to distract yourself with Netflix and work and the terrifying content of YouTube…and people ask you how you’re doing?

They really don’t want to know.

They want to hear “OH! I’m doing great! Much better than I expected! Things are MARVELOUS!” They don’t want to hear about the “stuff”. They don’t want to hear about the fact that your body protests every time you shift in your bed and you have crusty blood and surgical glue anchored in your navel and your body protests at functions it used to take for granted. They don’t want to know that things ooze ALL.DAY.LONG. And WHY is everything I want on the wrong floor of the house? Snarf.

Because for some reason, people find the human body and all of it’s goings-on “TMI”. TMI? Pppbblltthhhh. Ok, so yes, maybe a dinner party or a business meeting is not the most appropriate locale to discuss such things. But when people genuinely ask me how I’m doing and I even hint at anything biological? Ye gods. Pregnant women of the world, you have my sympathies. From here on out, every friend I have who conceives a child, feel free to rant and rave to me to your heart’s content; I will be a sounding board for you. Now I know why the elderly tend to express themselves so passionately about the inner workings of their anatomy; they’ve stopped caring and are making up for lost time.

I honestly have NO idea why we, as humans, find ourselves so revolting. It’s a wonder people even manage to have sex. Seriously. We gross ourselves out; how did this happen? Did modern medicine keep us from having to suck it up and set our own broken legs while traveling cross-country so now we grow faint at the sight of a hangnail? Good lord people. Grow a pair and deal. Yeah, I have blood in my urine. OH MY GOD! People will watch a video of two girls eating each others feces out of a cup but I mention my internal stitches being infected and all of a sudden I’m the one crossing the line? The mind reels.

Voulez-voulez-vous peritoneal drainage!!

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