Come In for a Follow Up

I haven’t had anything to say for a week now.

That’s not entirely true.  There are, as I scan the top of this editor page, no fewer than 7 unfinished drafts of potential things to say.  So there’s a week of posts, just not finished or published.  I can’t ever seem to finish anything I ever start.

That’s also not entirely true.  I do finish things.  I finish things like socks, and afghans, and dishcloths.  I finish things like homemade pretzels and macaroni & cheese.  I also finish things like the bottle of wine we open at dinner.  Haha.

My last post about the whole gallbladder thing was rather glum, so I do feel it necessary to say that things are pretty okay on that front.  I saw a surgeon yesterday, who wasn’t able to tell me much but who seemed very competent, so it’s likely that when there is something to tell, I can believe what he tells me.

The surgeon is originally from Istanbul.  My husband, comedian that he is, keeps calling him “that Turkey”.

My kids want to see pictures of the “rocks in my belly”.  They have read Curious George Goes to the Hospital, in which dear George must presumably have a little laparascopy to yank out some jigsaw puzzle piece that he mistook for a piece of candy.  I told my daughters that I had rocks in my belly, but that I would be fine because I was going to go to the hospital and get them taken out “just like Curious George did when he went to the hospital.”  Unfortunately, once said, it was too late to stop the analogy-train-wreck.  My daughters’ little faces clearly showed their logical assumptions that Mum must have mistaken the rocks for pieces of candy, and they shook their little heads in sympathy.  “You shouldn’t eat rocks, Mama,” my older daughter said.  “We don’t do that.”

Gotcha.  I’ll keep that in mind.

My younger daughter, two (both in age and birth order, which is sort of confusing sometimes), is all set to diagnose everything and make the world right again.

“You belly hurt, Mama?”  She asks me this like a little cherubim Florence Nightingale one afternoon, as I was being completely lazy and wringing every last drop out of the gallbladder issue resting.

“A little bit, sweetie,” I tell her.

She shakes her head knowingly.  “Mama see DOC-ter.  Mama need MED-sin.”  Then she pats my belly and kisses my head.   Finally, she pulls the covers up under my chin before scampering off to find her sister.

Funny…  I feel better already.

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2 thoughts on “Come In for a Follow Up

  1. ack! just catchin’ up on the news, hope you get it sorted out quickly. I hear it’s as painful as giving birth, and you don’t get anything good afterwards! Your hubby sounds similar to mine in the sense of humour stakes, “that Turkey” heehee

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