Friday, March 27, 2015
Rats, forgot the soft food!
Before every operation I stock up on stuff that’s easy to eat and free of spices. I’ve discovered that my digestive system, furious at being messed with, rebels after each surgery. Food is no longer my friend.
So off I go to Safeway. Ramen chicken soup, six bowls, check. Ginger ale, spring water, a couple of tomatoes, egg whites, check. Bob Evans macaroni and cheese, check.
The mac and cheese always makes me feel guilty. My late and sainted mother, when we first came to America, could not come to terms with yellow cheese. She likened to the blocks of wax used to polish the floor in our Paris apartment and in all honesty, the consistencies were about the same. She considered macaroni and cheese to be the devil’s food, designed to bind up a child’s insides. Whenever I had a stomach ache as a kid, that was the first question she’d ask: “Tu as mangé du macanjeeze?”
"Tu es sure?”
Of course I was sure, I didn’t like the back stuff then and to this day am still not enamored. But it has actually been recommended by a couple of physicians, and who am I to buck medical wisdom.
Cat is fed and watered, humidifiers are full. Floors swept, bathroom moped. My surgery clothes are laid out: triple extra-large T shirt, leisure pants without a belt, espadrilles I can slip my feet into. No socks because after surgery I can’t bend over and put them on.
Ear-ring out. I’ve worn a single large hoop in my left ear for several years. No jewelry and is allowed, so I leave that at home.
There’s always the sense that I’m forgetting something… I’m operating on clean-underpants-in-case-there’s-an-accident mode.
It’s raining outside, and the last of the dirt-stained snow piles are gone. Spring was just a few days ago and there are daffodils in my yard. I’m going to have to clean the pond out and hope some of the fish survived, and raccoons got in the garage, and I’ll attend to that as well. But not today. Today is surgery number nine.
Okay. Ready to go. Keep your fingers crossed.