Welcome to my Diary. I’ve written this diary since I had my transplant surgery in June 2013. It’s sporadic and about random subjects since my life has changed drastically.
This post is a random selection of some of the past entries I made onto Facebook. As I go forward, the Diary entries will be posted here. Some are funny, some are angry, and some are just ridiculous!
January 12, 2017
Dear Diary: It’s been 1,310 days since transplant surgery. I hit the pain clinic today. Of course the first 45 minutes is wasted while a med student speaks to me as someone tries to find the doctor. The up side? I’m getting new pain meds! Tomorrow I start swapping out a new med with my old med. In 9 days it’ll just be the new med and the old med will be
gone. The pain clinic pharmacist said it’s going to feel pretty awful for 9 days. And, they’re treating me like a junkie. Do I or anyone in my family abuse substances? Do I have ptsd? I must not fill any rx myself at any other pharmacy but mine and they will fax them in for me so I apparently don’t steal them? I don’t know, but I haven’t stolen my other opiates yet so seems weird to try now. Had to sign a contract. Have to have urine testing. Am I in prison or the pain clinic?
I guess those are the down sides. The other down side. My knee tried to lock today. Snapped nice and hard. Now it’s a swollen painful ball of fluid. Let’s hope that settles down soon lol. Anyway. That’s today’s progress! Bring on the new drugs! And withdrawal! And new side effects! And less pain, I hope! Or else rum.
December 9, 2016
Dear Diary: It’s been 1,277 days since transplant surgery. After 3 years I finally saw the pain clinic. 3 years of waiting. And now I will get treatments for 1 year. And then on my own again. I hope they have some damn efficient pain treatments! Need yet another mri. And more med changes. And courses on coping. Lots of them. Sadly, looks like working anytime in the foreseeable future won’t be happening. Like, distant future. Deep down, I didn’t think I was ready to hear that. I think I really believed this would just go away.
There is an upside, however! The doctor, for the first time in memory, said they were going to focus on QUALITY OF LIFE. Not statistics. Not productivity. Not goals. Just quality. Happiness. Purpose. So despite knowing there is no magic cure, at least they now care that I feel better just for the sake of feeling better.
Now to recover from a too busy week with too little sleep and too much poking and prodding.
The in-laws arrive tomorrow!! Yay!
November 25, 2014
Dear Diary: It has been 532 days since my transplant surgery. Yes, Jesus or Shakira or Donald Trump or whomever built the pyramids did so in less time than my knee has been taking to recover. I’m not even joking. I could have had my own pyramid in this time. And slaves. Lots and lots of slaves. Which, while politically incorrect, seems convenient when you don’t walk so well (and how else are you going to get pyramids built in under 532 days, really, with today’s bid process and all). (kidding, I’m very anti slave as you all know, with the exception of maybe 5 exes which I wouldn’t mind watching clean my floors)
Dear Diary: Pyramids aside, I’m going in for surgery number 5 on my right knee this week. I have officially written to South Africa to have Pistorius’ right leg mailed to me, and I’ll just use that and ask for this one to get chopped off in some fashion. Strangely, I’m mainly stressed about the IV as usual; I’d rather have my limb sawed off than watch a nurse give me an IV, especially when I’m hungry and thirsty. It’s a nice long drive this time, to Golden in fact. Not so bad on the way there, way less fun on the way back. If anyone has a helicopter they can pick me up outside my house tomorrow evening.
All in all, this surgery will tell me what the next surgery is. Sort of like telling the future without the crystal ball and sexy future reading lady. They’re making me stay awake for this surgery so he can discuss it with me. Which is fine because I’ll just faint anyway once they show me.
June 18, 2013
Dear Diary: Day Six of being trapped in the house. Spending the night with no cryotherapy has made my knee look like a poorly made sausage. Cannot go outside now for fear that the neighbourhood dogs will attempt to eat my leg. Cannot get comfortable. Attempted to hack into the FBI database to get my name off the most watched list, only to discover I forgot my password to my own laptop and couldn’t hack into that, either. I’ll send a text message if I can remember my phone code. On the upside I didn’t stagger once going to the bathroom. Getting back on the bed is an exercise in what I can imagine appears distinctly like a walrus attempting to get on the bed. It could be adorable, in theory, but really it’s NOT. Today my goal is to acquire food without falling over or dropping it on the floor. Or maybe beer therapy. The meds I got yesterday aren’t working as well now that I have no cryotherapy. I suspect they prescribed me white tic tacs. Can’t get addicted to tic tacs! And who cares if the pain is addressed lol. Maybe a stripper will come by today. One can only hope.
Dear Diary: Supplemental Entry. An angel came and took me out for beer. I may have died and am currently in Heaven. It looks like Mr. Mikes steak house, but I don’t care. I originally envisioned Heaven to be more like a strip club with an endless supply of blondes, but at this point spinach and artichoke dip celebrated with a hot girl named Stella Artois is equally good. I feel like any step above Hell is likely a good choice at this point as up to this juncture in my life the Bible and any other scripture I’ve read indicates I’m going to spend eternity locked in a room with hairy men.
June 17, 2013
Dear Diary: Day five trapped in the house. Please accept apologies for lack of entries of days three and four. The surgeon made it clear that the first week would suck but only gave me four days of medication. Therefore, the weekend was a hell filled blur lacking entirely of vodka. Watched Misery. Can’t help but be jealous of the guy Kathy Bates kidnapped, as despite his predicament, he seems to always have a good supply of pain medication. My spider is tired of my inability to entertain it and has taken off with a homeless man with a better wheelchair. I
have attempted to notify the authorities repeatedly of my plight but only seemed to have managed to secure a spot on the FBI’s most watched list. I think the house is now bugged and I feel eyes on me whenever I am buying Metamucil.
June 14, 2013
Dear Diary: Day three post-transplant and day two trapped in the house. The spider has moved on, clearly bored to death of watching me watching it. I chased a speck of dust with the fly swatter for an hour, only to discover later that the speck of dust was a volunteer from meals on wheels and the fly swatter was my shoe. Clearly the medication is potent. I also now have court next week for shamelessly flogging a large man carrying a plate of pureed potatoes. All
in all the next eight weeks may be interesting. The bathroom continues to taunt me and I’d sell my soul and the souls of several of the meals on wheels employees to be allowed in the bathtub all by myself.
June 13, 2013
Dear Diary: 2 days post-transplant and day one trapped in the house. I watched a spider slowly walk across the ceiling for 30 minutes. I hope it goes and turns the tv on. For now it taunts me with its eight perfect legs vs. my one marginal leg and one decorative leg.