I Was Told There'd Be Anxiety Meds

Wheee doggies! Am I ever glad to be out of that minor surgery and back home again to the Mansion!

I did not have a good time. Even though my Best Forever Friend, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel, assured me that the folks there would be great and give me something right away if I told them how anxious I was...THEY DID NOT! Not until 30 seconds before they wheeled me away to the OR. I was ready to jump off that bed, rip out my IV, and hit the road, Jack! Mabel must have gotten the compassionate crew. I swear, these folks were nothing like the staff who treated me during my unfortunate hospitalization during my multiple bilateral pulmonary embolism episode.

In fact, Mabel must be the most pampered patient in Hillmomba, what with having doctors who will prescribe 60 painkillers for a hangnail, while I always have the type who insult me when I wake up during surgery, then prescribe me 10 pills. WHO DOES THAT? Gives TEN pills? That's redonkulous! Oops! Genius forbade me to use that term ever again. Anyhoo, who does that? Not my doctor today. He prescribed NOTHING.

So, not only did the staff delay my anxiety-reliever, but about a half hour before the surgery, the anesthesiologist let it slip that I would most likely be intubated, which I had been assured would not happen during my pre-op registration. Yes. More and more delectable layers piled upon my crap sandwich.

THEN my doctor did not even speak to me afterward, but instead told Farmer H how things went. According to Farmer H, "You can take...um...that aspirin stuff...what was it? I forget. In case you have pain, you can take Tylenol, and something else. I think it's Advil. No. Motrin."

"I don't think so. Not with my bloodthinner. It says no NSAIDs because they also cause bleeding."

"Well, I can't remember. Oh, and I think he said you have to make an appointment in two weeks."

Yeah. That's how it went. And the icing on the cake was when Farmer H told me that he was not surprised the doctor did not talk to me afterwards.

"That's not unusual, Hillbilly Mom. It's like me going to work and fixing a machine. That's his job."

Uh huh. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a machine that has been repaired. Her squeaks not loud enough to deserve grease.

At least somebody missed me while I was away, and greeted me upon my return.

My sweet, sweet Juno. So much more compassionate than those two-leggers.