I want to tell my surgeon to please give any future patient that is facing this surgery my name and phone number, so that they will have a better idea of what they are preparing to face. Because I was not prepared for this.

I knew it would take a while. I knew that part of the incision would be left open to heal on its own, in order to reduce the risk of a fistula that would require further surgery. But I really had no idea of the extent of what I would be facing. I didn’t realize that two weeks after the surgery, I’d still feel like this. With no discernable end in sight.

Four weeks from now…. Six weeks from now, more realistically, I’ll be on the fabled Other Side, and I’ll be glad. But damn. I’m going to freaking hate October.

And so it begins…

“Mommy, what are you doing?”
“Changing your bed.”
“Because it’s Monday, and I like to start the week with clean sheets on every bed.”
“Because it’s a habit I’m trying to get myself into.”
“Because it used to take me too long to change sheets when I didn’t have a ritual Monday deadline.”
“Because your mommy used to be a lot lazier than she is now.”
“Because she just was, that’s why.”
“Because Mommy said so.”


I didn’t think I’d give up that quickly. I hang my head in shame.


I haven’t been posting much because I know I’d be a one-word show. And that’s not fun to read. I’ll try to be better.

I’m on a double-barreled antibiotic regimen now, though, so that should help, I think.

You do not want to know any more than that, I promise.