Yesterday I went to the plastic surgeon for follow-up. It was my first foray outdoors since I came home from the hospital. When I went outside I thought I would have that kind of woozy, overstimulated feeling, since it was only the second time I'd been outside this month. Luckily no, it felt pretty normal.
We reclined the front seat and I rode lying down on my side in D's car. Kinda awkward. Then I waddled slowly to the surgeon's office. I had just taken my pain meds, which hadn't quite kicked in, so the walk to his office wasn't too comfortable. The walk back to the car was muuuuuch better. When we got to the office, I told the receptionist my name and she said, "You're all set, have a seat." I thought. "Well, not exactly." Instead, I stood in the reception area and kinda leaned against a wall. I think I looked sufficiently pathetic for them to take pity on me because they got me into an exam room where I could lie down after about 10 minutes.
It was time to bid farewell to the friend I brought home from the hospital: the wound drain. I had two of these suckers during my stay in the hospital and I was required to go home with one as a souvenir. It wasn't much of a burden. It was more of a nuisance than anything else and just kinda gross to squeamish types like me. But oh man, I was soooo happy to have that thing out. I was a broken record afterwards, telling D over and over how glad I was to have the bloody thing (literally) gone. It was just one more step toward freedom. So I've officially got no more foreign objects attached to me. Nice.
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