I’m sure many of you have seen the contraption I’m wearing until next Wedneday when my stitches come off. Suffice to say, this space agey sleeve stops many people in their tracks and as a result I’ve made many a friend and have probably referred quite a few clients to my surgeon, god bless him.
The surgery went very well. Until I entered the operating room, I was cool as a cucumber. Other than a terrible migraine that kept me up all night and was probably the cause behind me throwing up, unexpectedly, in front of the elevator doors by our apartment (which poor Andrew had to clean up), Tuesday morning went smoothly.
We showed up to the hospital at 5:45am, bleary-eyed. There were lots of meetings with the nurse, the anesthesiologist, the surgical assistant, and, finally, the surgeon himself. I signed lots of papers and listened intently to the anesthesiologist, a kind Indian man, who told me exactly what was going happen and kept affectionately calling me “moya devochka”, “my little girl” in Russian, with a charming accent. I changed into the given-to-me hospital clothes and non-slip socks, and felt like a rockstar. At least I wasn’t going to take a spill on the hospital linoleum.
In the operating room, suddenly everything felt real. There were needles and scalpels laid out; everything was white and brightly lit. There was an operating cot with a headrest, This is really happening, I thought. I’m having surgery. Once they gave me the local anesthesia, I don’t remember much after. I woke up as I was being wheeled into the recovery room and Andrew was waiting for me. He squeezed my hand. You were very brave, he said.
Eventually, we went home, choosing the subway after a bumpy car ride that made me queasy. I slept most of that day and the following day. I stopped taking percaset after Wednesday morning – it was making me groggy and I could manage the pain. Yesterday, I was out and about, marching around the city with my foam arm. By the way, I’ve named the foam arm, Larry. My mother-in-law finds it funny, that both the cyst and the foam arm have male names. I’m not sure what that means, but perhaps if my foam arm was hot pink, it would’ve been named after a girl. Maybe Loraine, or Shirley.
You can probably sense that not much cooking has been going on in our little apartment. Although, I did make us some omelets this morning with pre-shredded cheese, scallions that Andrew chopped up, and some sliced mushrooms. I also made coffee, one-handed. I shower and get dressed by myself. I even type with one hand and one finger on my other hand (the one I can move). I finished Feast of Crows and moved onto a Dance With the Dragons. Dear George, if you’re reading this (which, undoubtedly you are!) please, please write faster. I need the sixth book.
While I don’t have a recipe for you, I have a few links that have, recently, caught my attention. I hope it gives you some delight this Friday.
I’ve been craving and eating a lot of beets. I think that as soon as I can cook again, I’m going to make this, one of my favorite Russian treats. Or, um, Andrew, you could make it for me?
The night before my surgery, Luisa was reading at the Powerhouse Arena. I raced there just to say hello and give her this and sadly, couldn’t stay for the reading since I had just learned I had to waked up at 4am and needed to go home, eat, and go to bed.
Starting tonight, the warm weather will be ending and come tomorrow morning a cool front will arrive. This blanket will keep you warm and look stunning in any setting. It’s a classic and lasts forever.
I was wandering in Lulu Lemon yesterday (didn’t buy anything because I was wearing this and trying on clothes is WAY too complicated right now; besides being broke) and wish I had bought this rain slicker. With my imaginary money, of course.
Jess made pflaumenmus and I want plums to return to the market. Sigh, until next year.
Sarah is raising chickens – a dream of mine some day. Also, after I tweeted about longing to make beer, she tweeted back – they’re brewing some. Can we please be neighbors?
This pillow reminds me of Marblehead where I sort of grew up.
Elissa goes to Tromso ready to condemn farmed salmon and comes back with more questions than answers. A pithy, thoughtful piece.
And finally — if these squirrels don’t make your day, I give up!