Tapeworm

I am so grossed out right now I can hardly type this.

Last year's family recreation photo 1.

I had my third follow-up appointment with Dr. Sleeper.  I was very prepared to be told that my drain was NOT coming out because I have yet to drain under 30 ccs of yuck (yuck meaning blood, pus, and the unnamed “other fluid”).  There was still a whole lot of pain going on at the drain site… still not sleeping… back pain… you know the same crap I’ve been writing for the past week. 

The Bosnian nurse’s name is Anita.  She called me back into the examination room.  I asked when all the adhesive tape was going to come off of my incisions.  She told me usually not until two weeks after the surgery.  It’s not that I really mind; it’s just that I figured that the longer it stays, the longer it’s going to take the scrub the black glue off of my body.  She got together all the supplies to change the gauze and waterproof the drain tube area so I can shower (which I can do now without passing out – yay!).  Then she took a look at my Jackson-Pratt tube, you know, the old grenade.

“This looks good,” she said, fingering the grenade.  “Yellow.”

I had noticed that my drain yuck had gone from blood red (literally) to pink to clearish yellow.  I didn’t realize this was a good or bad thing.  I just thought it was a thing, a fun experience of my tummy tuck adventure.

“It may come out today.  I’ll get the doctor,” she said, leaving the room.

Darryl looked at me and raised his hand to give me a high five.  I didn’t return it because I was afraid to get my hopes up.

Photo recreation 2

Of course I want the drain out because it hurts like hell, but I also had other motives.  I’m going to post-Christmas family celebration in New Jersey tomorrow.  It is a great time filled with tons of food and family jokes.  Last year we recreated old family pictures.  I hope we can do it again this year.

My Gram on her 85th birthday

So what’s the problem?  I didn’t want to do it with a drain.  I have a fair amount of baggy clothing (ok, all of my clothes are baggy) and I could probably safely hide the stupid grenade under my clothes.  But I wasn’t so much worried about Gram seeing the pump (her eyesight isn’t that great) as just knowing it s there. 

See, Gram just knows things without being told.  I wouldn’t’ say she’s psychic, but I do think she has some sort of sense of things.  I didn’t tell her I was having a tummy tuck because she forbid me from doing it.  I usually call her every day, but when I call her when I’m sick, even if I pretend not to be sick, she just knows.  Another example was when my brother Kenny and my sister-in-law Martha were thinking about getting pregnant.  They had been married for more than eight years and had pretty much decided not to have children.  When they told me they were thinking about it, it was both a surprise and a big secret.

Photo recreation 3

I was sitting in her living room and out of nowhere, Gram said, “I think Kenny and Martha should have a baby before I died.” 

I nearly choked.

Tomorrow, she might know I had surgery, but it would make it a million times worse if I had a drain.  It just would, believe me.

So yeah, I sitting there in Dr. Sleeper’s office with Anita going to get him with the possibility of having the drain removed was almost more I could stand. 

Dr. Sleeper came in with Keith in tow (he showed Darryl and me pictures of his kids today, two of the cutest little kids I’ve ever seen!)  They started pulling off all the adhesive tape (you know, the ones that I was just told wouldn’t be off until Monday).  Darryl watched and said, “wow” a lot of times because the scars were pretty minimal.  Dr. Sleeper told me which ones to put this sulfide cream on and to use alcohol wipes to get all the black sticky stuff (did he not realize it’s my color). 

Then he turned to Keith, “You can take it out.”

Did I hear that right?  The drain was coming out?  Now?  Even though it wasn’t under 30ccs?  I wasn’t going to question it because it was coming out!

“Is it going to hurt?”

Dr. Sleeper and Keith just looked at each other.  This was not a good sign.  I asked Darryl to come over and hold my hand. 

The whole procedure took about five seconds.  While it didn’t exactly hurt, it was one of the most disturbing sensations I have ever felt in my life.  I’m even having a hard time writing about it without physically feeling it right now.

It felt like a snake was slithering through my body quickly.  I looked over to see what the drain (the part inside of me) actually looked like.  It was a ten-inch long white flexible flat tube with holes in it every quarter inch.  I had no idea that was the part of the drain I couldn’t see.  I actually felt it move from my left hip to my right hip.  It was a horrible, uncomfortable, deeply disturbing experience.

Actual tapeworm (ew)

Then the cramping started.  Remember that my insides sort of got used to having this alien tapeworm in my body.  It was hanging out of me and it hurt, but inside, my muscles and organs and stuff were used to it, I guess. 

So now my outsides don’t hurt but my insides hurt with the worst menstrual-like cramps than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.  Again, I’m only on the way-useful Tylenol (sarcasm).  I hurt.  I’m cranky.

At least tomorrow I can just tell Gram I have wicked bad cramps and not be lying…

Christmas and stuff...

Since my family is spread out in New Jersey, everyone pretty much does their own thing on Christmas.  The weekend after, however, we all get together at my aunt’s in Point Pleasant to celebrate post-Christmas and my gram’s birthday.  It’s usually a great time.

When the three of us became a family five years ago, Darryl,

Tiernen's favorite!

Tiernen, and I started creating our own Christmas tradition.  On Christmas Eve, we go out to dinner.  Usually it’s someplace we don’t frequent (an Indian restaurant in Syracuse, a new sushi place, Cambodian or Thai) but this year because of my surgery, Darryl wanted to stay close by… Olive Garden (his choice, not mine).  I do not love Italian food (irony), but it was still pretty good.  Tiernen could live on their soup and salad.  Also ironically, that’s all she ordered this year.

Reverend Eve putting the star on our UU tree.

I joined the UU three years ago, and we’ve been attending Christmas Eve services since.  I really enjoy UUUtica.  Darryl and Tiernen don’t attend, but I can usually get them to attend on Christmas Eve.  I was really happy to introduce them to my favorite church family.  There are two small children aged five (the brother) and three (the sister) who I adore.  The little girl has been wanting to meet Tiernen for weeks (she’s going to work in the nursery and just hasn’t gotten cleared yet).  I introduced the little boy to Tiernen.  He smiled.  Then I introduced him to Darryl.  His response?  “I’ve met enough of your family!”  That kid cracks me right up.

Can you guess whose stocking is whose?

Christmas day, we have dinner at home, just us.  Breakfast is always cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa with candy canes.  We open presents.  We open our stockings… you know, typical stuff.  This year, I got lots of clothes from Darryl (guess what color?) because I’m hoping that after this swelling goes down I will actually look good in clothes.  Tiernen got me a manicure and pedicure from my favorite salon.  I am thrilled.

Lunch is light:  Brie wrapped in filo dough and raspberries with crackers.  Dinner is a humongous affair.  We start cooking around 4 or 5 and don’t actually have dinner until 8.  We actually make way more food than three people could actually ever eat.  We eat until we are so full, our bellies hurt.  More food is packed into glass storage containers than is actually consumed.  We will eat it tomorrow for lunch… and probably dinner. 

We never learn.

Of course, we buy presents for the four-legged members of our family.  Nox and Zephyr get bones.  Viktor, Misha, Zazen, and Bodhi get treats. I would love to buy the cats catnip toys, but Zephyr would just eat them.  At dinnertime, all the animals get a special Christmas dinner too:  stinky wet foot on individual plates.  Darryl timed Zephyr’s stinky food eating:  she finished hers in a minute ten seconds.

I love our house at Christmas.  I’m not overly religious, but I was

Super cute and not too religious-y

raised Catholic, so I have a teeny tiny nativity set.  Of course, because it’s me, it’s kind of cartoonish, but I like it.  I used to put it underneath the tree once upon a time, but the cats kept playing soccer with the Christ child and I figured that was just some bad juju.  Now it stays up on a sofa table… better to keep my cats free from temptation (and hell).

Ignore the dark parts.

We usually put up a tree the day after Thanksgiving (fake, just in case you were wondering because despite the delicious scent of a real pine tree, the dead needles are murder to vacuum out of the carpet).  This year, the tree had to wait a few days because we were in Texas visiting Darryl’s grandmother.  We take it down New Year’s Day.  Darryl wants to take it down December 26, but I told him that’s not how we do it (“we” meaning how my gram taught me).  Darryl wanted a Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown tree...

tree, so I we have one of those too.  It is in addition to, not in lieu of.  I like plain ornaments, but since Darryl joined our family, Bobby Orr and Darth Vadar ornaments have now entered the picture.  Um, no comment.

My favorite!

My favorite Christmas decoration by far is a ceramic tree that my gram made in the ‘70s.  There are all these little holes in it where you put multicolored bulbs (I prefer the blue, but Tiernen nixed – pun intended – that idea).  You put a light bulb in it and plug it in and voila, cute little Christmas tree.  I love it.  My best friend Michelle referred to it as cheesy, but I don’t care.  For as long as I’m alive (or it is in one piece), I will keep that tree. 

But you know what, the most important part of Christmas is spending time with the two people I love most in the entire world.  It’s corny as hell, I know, but it’s true. 

Recycling is the reason for the season, right?

Love, love, love!

Very random...

This could be me...

Last month, my assistant principal asked the teachers in an informal poll what we would do if we weren’t teachers.  I said I would be a doula (for those who don’t know, doulas are people, usually women, who support and take care of newborn babies and their mamas.  I love babies and if I could make a living loving on babies, I’d be a pretty happy camper. 

Of course, this was sort of only half true.

I mean, I DO love babies and that would be a rockin’ job, but what I’d really love to do was be a counselor for transgendered people, specifically trans youth.  I didn’t write that down because I figured it was way too much for the 3x5 index card we were provided and because, well, I thought it was too personal and too political to share with my colleagues (even the ones I really, really like and call friends.)

My first Master’s degree is in adult education with concentrations in higher education administration, student development, and… counseling.  I know that I would be a terrible counselor though.  I would let my patient complain (I mean talk) for one session and then I’d ask what the hell they were doing (as in action) to change the problem.  Yeah, I can imagine my clients would come all of two times.  I’d be way poor…and I guess not particularly helpful either.

That being said, I still have a soft spot in my heart for trans folk… especially trans kids.  I guess I wouldn’t be so brutal with them.

I love Laverne Cox aka Sofia

The reason I bring this up is because I’ve recently started watching “Orange is the New Black” on Netflix because what the hell else am I going to do with all this freakin’ free time I have coupled with all this pain?  (About fifteen FB friends recommended it, so I figured they ALL can’t be wrong.)  One of my favorite characters is Sofia Burset, the trans inmate played by Laverne Cox.  In OitNB, Sofia is a transwoman who has to cope with the relationships with her wife and son and their struggle with her transition.  It made me think a lot about relationships… and mine.

I’m insecure.  I’ll admit it.  I’m so insecure, that I would often ask (ok, I still do) Darryl questions to test how much he loved me.  It would go something like this:

Darryl working on gaining 50 lbs himself.

“Would you love me if I gained 50 pounds?”

“Yup.”

“What about 100?”

“Yup.”

“What about if I had to be in a wheelchair?”

At this point, he’d sigh, “I would take care of you.”

“What about… if I got a sex change?”

Without skipping a beat, Darryl would respond, “I’d be gone in a minute.”

I joke often about my boy self.  He’s a redneck named Ralph who has a pickup truck with dangling balls hanging from the back.  Ralph hunts and fishes and loves to eat meat.  Basically, Ralph is everything Rebec isn’t.  Darryl would not like (and especially not date) Ralph.

Please know, Darryl is not homophobic; he just wants to be with me in a female form. I guess I’m ok with that.  I guess I have to be.  Lucky for him, I have no desire to have a sex reassignment surgery.  It makes me sad that he would leave me though…  don’t judge him.  He’s a good guy.

Me very, very fat

I like the body I was born in, even if cosmetically there are things I’d like to change.  Of course, I know that the things I don’t like about it are my fault.  In addition to being insecure, I’m also incredibly realistic and honest… especially with myself.  I realize that the reason I was overweight was the same reason that so many other people are overweight:  I ate too much of the wrong stuff and exercised too little.  I take responsibility for that and I worked (and am still working) very hard to change that.  The tummy tuck is just fixing the stuff that diet and exercise can’t fix.  But I don’t want a penis.

That isn’t to say that I haven’t been known to tell people to suck my d*ck on occasion (because I have).  When someone (usually Darryl) will tell me I don’t have one, I offer to grow one.  Yes, I know I am vulgar.  But I don’t want one.  I swear. 

I’ve never wanted to be a boy.  I’ve never had penis envy.  When I was nine or ten, I remember sitting in the car with my dad and noticing his weekend scruff and commenting how yucky it must be to be a man and have to shave your face every day.  Instead of laughing it off and saying something like, “It isn’t that bad,” or something else like that, he responded in his typical gruff fashion.  “It’s better than bleeding once a month like women do.  Did your mother tell you about that?”  Right then and there, he cemented his ideology:  being a girl was worse than being a boy. 

Still, I never wanted to be one. I still don’t. 

This is in/hanging from my body

How is any of this related to my stupid I-had-a-tummy-tuck-and-I’m-in-a-buttload-of-discomfort?  Well, it has to do with the drain.  Lately, everything has to do with the drain (I’m a one track mind kind of girl lately, aren’t I?)  Let me explain a little bit about the drain, shall I?  

As I mentioned before, I have the Jackson-Pratt drain which

involves a ¼ inch tube in my right hip (ew).  At the end of the foot-long tube is a bulb that looks like a grenade.  The purpose of the drain is, through negative pressure (yes, I Googled it), to drain blood, pus (ew), air, and other fluids (I have no idea what “other fluids” could be in there!) from the incision. 

I’m not allowed to let the grenade dangle, and so I have to pin it on my clothes.  Obviously, I don’t want it on the outside my clothes because who wants to see a blood/pus/”other fluid” filled grenade hanging at someone’s waist?  I mean, I don’t even like to look at it.  I’m sure Darryl and Tiernen don’t’ want to see it, though neither of them have said anything.

So I pin it to the bottom of my waist binder or my pajama pans and put it inside my pants.  Problem solved, right?

Wrong.

The result is a giant bulge in my crotch area.  I would win the most well endowed man contest… if I were a man.  I will be sitting on the couch (you know, my new home) and look down at my enormous crotch bulge.  It is unnerving.  I do not like it.

So yes, as much as I joke about sexual reassignment surgery, it is nothing I plan on doing.  I empathize deeply with the struggles of transgendered folk, but I am not one of their ranks.

The official name is "truck nuts."

Sorry, Ralph.