All Better Now

The Gimp is back at work today. He was still in pain and walking gimpy until one day late last week when everything magically went back to normal. Almost normal, anyway. He's still stiff and gets a little whingey when he has to stand up for too long, and the doc advised him to wear one of those back brace things the Sam's Club cashiers have to wear, just in case he should have to lift a 48-pack of double-roll toilet paper.

In all seriousness, I'm absolutely thrilled that my man is straightened out. He worried me for a while there.

And it goes without saying, this set back our bathroom work. This weekend was a complete wash, and next weekend basically will be, too, because of that pesky baby Jesus. Fortunately, Darwin has the whole week after Christmas off work, and I expect some serious bathroom work to happen - injured back or no injured back!

This weekend I was sorting through old photos looking for ones I could delete (because my computer is full to the brim, and I urgently need an external hardrive), and I found a folder dated 10-15-2005. To my surprise, it's been more than a year since we took out the carpet in the half bath and started taking down the wall tile in the master bath.

Looking at the pics of the intact bathtub and tile surround and the candy cane bubble bath sitting on the ledge made me feel something unexpected - I MISSED the bathroom the way it was! Obviously, it's going to be so much better when we get it finished, but I miss the long-ago time when I could take a bath if I wanted, when my heaps of bathroom stuff were tucked quietly away in a room no guest ever saw, when I had a bleepity-bleeping master bathroom.

*Sigh*

As I told Darwin last night while he was trying to ignore me and go to sleep, I just really, really, really, really, really want this bathroom done.

The Gimp Lives

With our bathroom, it's always one step forward, two steps back. In Darwin's case, two very gimpy steps back.

On Saturday, we were trying to figure out exactly where to cut the openings for the outlets. I had the bright idea that Darwin should lift the massive cast iron sink and hold it in position on the wall, so we could see if the spot we'd marked would work.

But as Darwin struggled to grasp the beast, I reconsidered. "We can just measure it!" I said. "Don't worry about it!"

Have I mentioned my husband is stubborn?

"I can get it," he insisted.

"At least let me help," I said, but he just laughed and pointed out that I wouldn't be much help.

He was probably right. I'm not known for my upper body strength, and I'd already squashed my finger between it and the edge of the trunk when I was trying to get the thing home.

So I just stepped back and let him go.

The sink was lying on a bed of cardboard across the narrow room from its final position. Darwin half-squatted and heaved the thing up onto his thighs. He turned with it and hobbled toward the wall, then leaned into it briefly with the sink.

"Okay, looks fine," I said quickly, seeing his face turn red and his forehead vein protrude.

Then came the worst part - lowering the gargantuan sink back down onto the cardboard. He couldn't let it drop because it would certainly dent the pine floor and probably shake the house from its foundation. I watched him carefully lower it, his face turning purple now, and worried for him and for the floor.

At last it was down. He straightened, and all was well. He continued on to cut the outlet holes (a dramatic process in its own right, since the circular saw was smoking and the other tools just weren't doing the job).

That night as we got ready to go to the Tuscaloosa Ballroom Dance Club Christmas Ball, Darwin complained of his back hurting. I ignored him because that complaint was mixed in with about 50 other reasons he didn't want to go to the Christmas Ball.

We made it to the ball and managed to have fun in spite of his complaints and initially bad attitude. He danced the rumba like a champ and finally conquered a waltz move that had stymied him in the past.

We went home and to bed in high spirits.

Then Sunday morning, Darwin woke with a pain in his back. He'd had this sort of pain before. For a few days at a time, it would make him walk slowly, bent to the side. Like those other times, I found his old-man walk pretty hilarious and nicknamed him The Gimp.

But then it got worse. He could barely walk by bedtime, and he couldn't find a way to sit that didn't hurt. When I found out he was hurting all the time, it stopped seeming funny.

He woke up first thing the next morning, hoping it had gone away. Instead, it was worse, and he woke me up to show me something weird. Even when he was standing straight up, his torso slanted to the left from the waist.

He called into work - something he hasn't done all year - and I knew it was bad if he was willing to mess up his perfect attendance record 9 days before the end of his work year.

I took off work, too, and drove him to the chiropractor. We'd never been to one before, but his brother had been to this guy, and a 9:15 appointment sounded a heck of a lot better than sitting in the miserable hospital waiting room for hours just to get a prescription for Loritab and a referral somewhere.

On the way, he whined about every bump in the road, which was pretty weird for Darwin. I never hear him whine about much.

While we waited for the doctor, we studied the skeletal diagrams on the walls and tried to figure out which one might depict Darwin's problem.

When the doctor - a young, personable guy - came in, he poked and prodded Darwin and made him bend and maneuver. Darwin couldn't bend over from the waist more than an inch or so, and even that pained him. I'd never seen him really hurt before, and it brought tears to my eyes to see him in so much pain.

The doctor could tell right away what was wrong - a slipped disc. I'd heard the term before but didn't really know what it meant. The doctor pointed to a diagram and explained that a disc doesn't actually "slip" but becomes damaged. In Darwin's case, it had probably been thin for a while and had probably been injured before. The sink just triggered a problem that had been waiting for an opportunity to happen.

The doc took X-rays of Darwin's back and showed us how Darwin's hips had twisted, making one leg 2 inches shorter than the other. The muscles in his back and hips had contracted to protect the inflamed disc, the lowest in his spine.

It was a pretty freaky sight, but the doctor said he could get him straightened out again in about a week. So Darwin has been at the doctor twice a day all week and will continue to go. Today, he drove himself for the first time. He put on his own pants and shoes, and he's walking at almost-normal speed, though his body is still oddly twisted.

I'm thrilled that he's doing better. The spine is not something to mess around with, and I admit I'm scared this won't be the last we hear from that pesky disc.

We both know this will change the careless way we do things in our home improvement. We have neighbors/friends who can help and are willing to help when we need to move something heavy. There's no reason Darwin should risk his health just to be all independent macho man.

Just Call Me Beltazor

In case anyone's wondering, I'm still alive post-surgery. I'm sitting at home, feeling bored and frustrated because for once I have all the time in the world to work on whatever I please ... only I can't work on it!

It's Day 4 post-op, and I can now get up and down off a chair (or the toilet) with ease, but getting out of bed is a different matter. Darwin went back to work yesterday, so he helped me get out of bed when he left at 4:30 a.m. and deposited me on the couch, where I could more easily maneuver myself up. Anything that requires stomach muscles is still strictly off limits. No picking up my precious kitties, though yesterday I started to be able to bend over just enough to pet the tops of their heads.

I'm running out of pain pills, so I've started rationing them. No sense taking one last night before bed because then it would just be wasted on sleep-time. Today my plan is to space them out from every four hours to every six. Let's see ... I took one at 7 a.m., so I have 2 more hours to go.

I don't know when I'll get to go back to work. My mom made her gall bladder surgery recovery sound like a breeze and a half, so I figured I'd be back by Wednesday. Ha. My mom must be one tough broad. This sucks. And a half.

The doctor's orders are I can't drive until Friday when I go back to see him, and if I'm hopped up on pain pills, driving is probably not such a hot idea. I don't know. I already missed so much work leading up to this surgery that I feel really guilty missing a whole week again. Plus, I'm bored! If I watch one more episode of Charmed, I think I might turn into a demon with a ridiculous name.

Slice and Dice

It's official - I'm having surgery. But on my 10th straight day of feeling bad, I'm pretty darn excited about putting an end to it all ... the pain that is. And my gall bladder.

I've never had surgery before - other than wisdom teeth - so I'm a little nervous. Fortunately, I'm not worried about the four small scars it will leave on my belly - this gut was never going to win a beauty contest anyway. The incision in my navel, though - eww, I don't like to think about that one too much.

The surgery will be on Friday morning, and I'm just hoping I can make it till then without any more attacks (like the one this morning). Believe it or not, I'm actually tired of missing work!

This little adventure has made me appreciate the joys of showering, getting dressed and going somewhere, anywhere. And feeling good enough to do something around the house. I tell you, the poor bathroom is languishing for some attention. (Meanwhile, the functioning bathrooms are getting much more attention than they ever asked for.)

Maybe this weekend I'll be so pitiful from the post-surgery pain that Darwin will do anything to alleviate it - even work on the bathroom!

Attack!

Just look what happens when I ask a question and then disappear for a week: a firestorm of debate over the merits of big-box vs. Rejuvenation light fixtures.

Meanwhile, you might be wondering where I disappeared to. For the past couple of months, I've been having periodic "attacks." Severe abdominal pain, then vomiting, chills and sweating. Fun times.

Just so you know, I HATE talking about stuff like this. I hate when people regale me with the details of their latest medical ailments, and I don't like thinking about the inner workings of my body or anyone else's. Indulge me this once, and I promise I won't bring it up again!

I'd been self-treating with Pepsid and other antacids (and trying to avoid offending foods, though I couldn't discern much of a pattern) since the symptoms sounded similar to acid reflux disease and/or a stomach ulcer.

My mom all along maintained that it was my gall bladder; she had hers out 10 years ago and said my attacks sounded just like hers. But being a daughter and myself, I couldn't listen to her advice. That would go against nature.

Then suddenly the Pepsid stopped working. This weekend the attacks decided to escalate from every two weeks to every few hours. Not cool!

I finally let Darwin take me to the emergency room Monday morning. Of course, the latest attack miraculously disappeared on the way there, and other than the pitiful lack of magazines in the waiting room, I was perfectly chipper. Somehow, smiling and smacking gum while you describe your unbearable pain is not as convincing.

The doc confirmed my acid reflux/ulcer suspicions without doing any actual tests and prescribed me Prevacid. Just to rule out gall bladder, she set me up an appointment for an ultrasound the next day.

But I bet you have guessed the ending to this story already. The ultrasound found unpleasant things happening to my gall bladder.

The same doctor from the previous day referred me to a surgeon and told me to keep taking my Prevacid just in case.

My mom pulled some strings (she knows everyone in town or knows someone who does) and got me an appointment on Monday. She learned from her inside source at the surgeon's office that I probably will have to have surgery to remove the offending gall bladder. Goodie.

I really really hate having health problems. Not that anyone loves it. It's just such an inconvenience, and I HATE needles, and I HATE people asking me questions about my internal organs and warning me about how being without a gall bladder affects one's bodily functions.

Still, the concern amongst family, friends and co-workers has been comforting. When I came back to work today for the first time this week, my boss grinned and said, "I'm so glad you're back!" and I knew he meant it. Golly gee, I feel so appreciated!

It almost makes up for the fact that I had to spend my 25th birthday at the hospital reading Tuscaloosa Christian Family magazine.

Snot Rag

Ugh. Blech. Darwin and I are both sick with colds. I don't think we've ever been sick at the same time in our 5.5 years together.

Usually, it goes like this: Darwin gets sick, mopes and moans about the house, sleeps constantly. I continue kissing him and whatnot because I am not a person who worries much about germs. Darwin gets better. Miraculously, I do not get sick.

Or like this: I get sick, whine a lot and make Darwin fetch me things. He makes grossed-out faces when I want to kiss him because he is a person who worries about germs. I get better. A week or two later, Darwin gets sick.

This time I'm about a day behind him. Saturday we both felt fine. Sunday he felt like poo, and I felt fine. Yesterday, we were both miserable. Today, I still feel terrible, and he's feeling a little better even though he forgot his Aleve Cold & Sinus this morning. So I'm hoping that means I'll feel better tomorrow.

It's funny to me how people say, "Oh, it's just a cold." Sure, I don't have a fever, and I'm not hanging my head over a toilet bowl, but I'd wager I feel just as bad. How am I supposed to work when I'm sneezing and mopping my nose constantly? When I have a headache, and I can't breathe with my mouth closed?

Mostly, I just feel gross, and I hate being around people when I feel gross. In high school, the absolute worst days were the days I had a cold. I was always so paranoid, terrified that boogers or Kleenex crumbs were clinging to my reddened nostrils.

Now I'm at work, and I worry that each sniffle is grossing out my office mate. I worry this icky taste in my mouth translates to a plume of nasty breath every time I speak. I worry that the sight of the wadded tissue on my desk makes people want to flee the room.

So, blog readers, be glad you're a safe distance from me. Germs can't travel through the computer - at least not yet.

Learn from my Mistakes

I wish I'd known before this weekend what a good workout demolishing ceramic tile is; I could've saved myself the $39 a month for a gym membership. In fact, I'm thinking of hanging a sign on my front porch and charging people to help with the demolition. Learn real-world skills while buffing up your bod! A great workout for the glutes! Yeah!

Okay, maybe not. But I am willing to share my newfound tile-bashing expertise FREE OF CHARGE right here on the Internet. You can learn from my mistakes and have an excellent tile-bashing experience with these easy steps:

1. If you can afford it, hire somebody else to do the work.
2. Oh, you're not that kind of person? Me neither. Guess you better do it yourself.
3. Wait till your husband is outside doing something with a chainsaw, so he won't stand over you and critique your work.
4. Wear safety glasses. Darwin made me wear them, and I'm glad he did because I felt many shards of tile ping off my face.
5. Wear appropriate footwear. House slippers do not count. I've got a bloody shard of ceramic to prove it.
6. Long pants would help, too, if you plan to sit down (I always plan to sit down).
7. Don't try to just bang on the tile with a hammer, like your husband suggests. Pull up the air conditioning vent and begin there or at some other edge area. If you don't have an edge area, well ... maybe a sledgehammer would work? I wouldn't know because Darwin won't let me have one.
8. Use the appropriate tools, which I guess would be a chisel or crowbar of some kind. I decided to do this project on the spur of the moment (I know you're shocked), so after some trial and error we figured out that if you wedge the nail-puller end of one hammer against the edge of the tile and hit the hammer head with the head of another, heavier hammer, the tile will usually break loose. Sometimes you have to bash it about a thousand times.
9. Work on one square-foot area for about an hour because you really suck at this.
10. Take frequent water breaks when you get all trembly from the physical exertion because you are a giant wuss ... oh, is that just me?
11. Finally get into a rhythm and begin bashing out tiles with a fiendish energy.
12. Slice open foot and two fingers with shards of tile.
13. Feel elation every time a tile breaks free.
14. Look at the mess of a floor and try to picture how gorgeous it will be with the new pinwheel tile.
15. Wake up the next day with sore arms and legs (and thumbs and foot), just like after a good workout.

Sounds fun right?