Well, I'll use the fact that I'm being tortured to unwanted wakefulness by persistent hiccoughs to briefly announce that I'm home from the hospital and that surgery went wonderfully and all is well. I'm sore, naturally, but recovery was made fabulous by the incomparable care of the nurses and assistants of section 3NT at Froedtert Hospital. My surgeon made the rounds with his team of students every day and was consistently interesting as I eavesdropped (and participated) in the strange pedagogical situation of a set of lessons in which I was the persistent illustration. The bulk of the time was simply spent waiting for my digestive system to restart. (Anatomical lesson of the week: the digestive system is the most complex neurological area outside of the brain/spinal column. Any cut into the area--surgery or not--results in the system becoming "unconscious," as it were. It just all shuts down. So, like a computer restart, one cannot eat or anything without throwing up until the system reboots and "regains consciousness.") What this means is that I largely spent Saturday, Sunday and Monday with nurses and docs coming by to listen to my stomach with their stethoscopes and ask if I'd farted or pooped. That exciting social situation came to a close when, late Monday night, I did in fact poop. However, it was not the colossal, planet-Krypton-exploding, happens-wherever-and-whenever-it-happens diarrhea I had been told to expect, but a set of shy, slow and demure debutante-showing-off-her-new-dress poopies that took place over two hours whilst I re-read Diane Duane's most recent Star Trek novel, Honor Blade. Having finished that now-three-year-old-where-is-the-conclusi
on? novel, I spent Tuesday and today being inaugurated into David McCullough's Pulitzer Prize-winning John Adams, which so far has been the absolute pleasure that everyone has been saying it is. Thanks to my Mom for loaning her copy to me when she swung by the library! And the hiccoughs have just ended in the spurt of strangely-paced, Sprite-swallowing-and-burping that I just engaged in. Thank you all for your part in saving me from that horrible little curse. Alright, it's time for sleep that is not interrupted every two hours by checks of my vital signs. See y'all tomorrow.