Saturday, July 25, 2009

I do not think it means what you think it means

I had my hysteroscopy on Thursday. I'd been warned by Dr. M that there would be some "discomfort."

To me, "discomfort" does not mean "doubled over, bathed in a cold sweat, going entirely grey, and wishing that some kind nurse would come by and put you out of your misery." Seriously, if someone had come by and offered to off me, for about 20 minutes I'd have taken them up on it.

Fortunately, that passed, but it's been an uncomfortable few days. The worst part is that there's a balloon in there (to prevent adhesions), and until that comes out on Monday morning, my body desperately wants to get the plastic the hell OUT of there.

Whine, whine, whine. I'm glad it's over. I'll worry about next steps when I have to.

I've had pretty good coverage, friends-wise, since I've been recovering. Tonight, though, is one of the first nights I've been home totally alone with nothing to do since my sweet Vertigo Dog left me. (I had an invite to go out, but given some of the equipment associated with having the balloon, I'm feeling less than festive. WANT IT GONE.) I am still not adjusted to not having her little face around. I still flinch when I drop something or make a loud noise-- she'd gone so deaf in her last years that sudden noises startled (and often scared) her.

She's not there any more to be startled. It's just so wrong.

I've had several people tell me that they "saw" or "heard" their pet around, after the pet was gone-- not a ghost, of course, but probably some kind of emotional memory. All have said it was very comforting.

I haven't seen or heard her; I wish I could, because it would feel less lonely around here. And maybe it would help me know she's all right. I know that sounds silly. But there it is.

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