I want a beer. A cold sweaty cocktail would be nice as well. I could sit, as I used to, on the patio with my husband talking smack about our teenage children. After a hard day at work we would sip and swat mosquito's while I outlined my plan to sell them both for parts to finance our retirement in Belize.
Sadly, my therapeutic cocktail hours are over since alcohol encourages cancer cells to multiply. Protein is also on restriction with green vegetable and fruit juices taking a primary role in my diet. These are the negotiations I am having with my traitorous body: I stop having fun, you stay healthy and stop making mutant cells. Fair is fair.
Unfortunately my body is not ready to arbitrate and I have developed infections in both frankenboobies; cellulitis in one and an open hole in the other. Tomorrow I go back to the doctor with my husband and a packed bag, ready to be admitted. It might be necessary to install a drain or two, or we might have to remove the expanders all together. My hope is that he will debride and pack the draining hole and keep me on antibiotics since the cellulitis appears a little better and release us in time for a delicious dinner at P.F. Chang's but I know the chances of that are small.
I hate hospitals and regard them as flesh eating bacteria infused torture chambers. I am not far from wrong. The idea of spending more time there is freaking me out. The spectre of medical malfunction is popping out of the closet in my mind, MRSA is the monster under my bed.
Life is a tricky bastard and my body is its minion. Make me a Margarita and keep them coming.
1 comment:
I'm sending you a psychic margarita, on the beach with white sands and the Australian rugby team jogging back and forth for your amusement.
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