I’ve really tried to keep this top-secret, but exactly six weeks ago today I had surgery.
I just heard our entire nation gasp, “WHAT?” I know. I should work for the CIA, with my ability to keep secrets.
Anyway, six weeks ago today is but a blur. I hadda get up at 4:45 a.m. to be at the surgery center at 5:30, and that in and of itself was absurd. But then they WHISKED me off to surgery, and I awoke, sort of, in this little recovery room where I languished all day. Based on a text I sent my boss and HR
A TEXT I RECALL NOT AN IOTA
I headed home at around 6:30 that night.
I mean. Think of how terribly wrong that text could have gone, given how you know how I am and also how I was under the influence of surgery. Think of the myriad possibilities of things I could have sent that would have been SO WRONG to send to one’s boss and one’s HR.
But speaking of how I am, of the few snippets I recall from that day (another snippet is I asked for pot roast and pudding and got fish and broccoli WHAT THE HELL, WORLD?) is that when the nurse said I might could go home after all and not lay up overnight in the horsepital—as my gramma used to call it—she said, “If you do go home, remember, nothing in the vagina for six weeks.”
Well. Okay. Good to know.
Whenever I’d tell Marvin, my husband, fmr., something nag-ish, his response was always, “Good to know.”
“You shouldn’t kick off your shoes and leave them in the living room,” for example.
“Good to know.”
It was kind of his way of saying, “I have no response to this comment.”
Sometimes he’d embellish it:
“Marvin, no one wants to see black cords in the kitchen drawers.”
“Verrrry good. Good to know.”
Anyway. The official word that I could go home had to come from my doctor, who eventually said, “Yeah, you can go home. Just, nothing in the vagina for six weeks.”
I had aftercare paperwork, paperwork I had CLEAN FORGOTTEN I TOOK WITH ME and is this what it was like to be Michael Jackson once he met propofol? Cause holy cats.
A day or two later I think my mother handed said paperwork to me, and right there in bold letters, it read, NOTHING IN THE VAGINA FOR SIX WEEKS.
Were they obsessed? What’s with the focus on the vagina? Are they all 7th-grade boys?
How often did they think I put stuff in there? Do they suppose I store my loose change up yonder? Do they imagine hoards of people are on their way in there like that lineup of cars at the end of Field of Dreams?
Honestly, it’s not even tourist season yet. Mostly it’s just a few wayward bats RN. Some hieroglyphics.
So today is the big day. The day I can officially lift more than 10 pounds [Disclaimer: Have been lifting Lily onto the dryer to eat for the last 4 weeks, and you know that heifer weighs at least 10 pounds]. I can also bathe, work out, and?
Something vaginal this way comes.
I’m IN ISOLATION, and have no mans in m’life with his intrusive man bits anyway. So all this freedom is for nothing.
I considered creating a poll, so to speak, asking what I should put in there now that I can, but I really didn’t want you all thinking about my girl parts that much, says the person who just wrote an entire blog post about her girl bits.
I think I might as well just leave it be. Leave it as empty as Al Capone’s vault. Save it for a special occasion, like a good bottle of champagne.
Oooo, maybe a bottle of champagne!
June. Who knows this piece is derivative, given Grace Kelly wrote something similar based on Rear Window.