Post-Op Depression Part Deux

Okay, I'm back. Nothing much has happened. I did cook dinner for myself after a nice cathartic cry. Some real woe-is-I stuff went on and then, as usual, it passed because well, I can't stay sad that long. Plus, I have my giggly little sister Nyira in the house with me and she gets tickled so easily that I can't stay angry with her around. It's hard to be upset when someone is chuckling merrily beside you. I learned a long time ago not to even bother, it's pointless.

Right now I'm mildly disgruntled because my abdomen hurts and is wrapped like a frickin' mummy. They opened all my incisions and did things through them. I'm very fortunate, I don't have a smiley face (huge half-moon incision) across my abdomen, it's just three half-inch marks and then a full inch incision in my belly button. the half-inchers actually fade into non-existence after about a year and a half. I can't even find them once they have faded. the belly button scar sticks. But, I've been having such a great time since my second to last surgery for the ileostomy, healing steadily, building strength, feeling good - that being slapped back into just a corner of the post-op vulnearbility more or less pisses me off. I'm tired, I nap in three-hour stretches. This is normal post-op behavior, but no longer normal Camille behavior. I think this is callled cognitive dissonance, what my brain wants and what the reality of my situation is are at odds. Mmmm. maybe some subject verb confusion in that last sentence. let's blame it on the painkillers, though.

Happy Feet ended up being a sneaky "message" movie. I'm all ready to start sending my funds to greenpeace because of the tap dancing penguin Mumble. I did enjoy Brittney Murphey in this movie. i think she's one of my favorite young talents. Her raspy voice and doe-eyes are great modes of communication. I loved her in Sin City, which is very nearly in my pantheon of favorite movies of all-time. Brittney kicks ass, but she maintains a pretty low-profile. she's doing her damn thing and I give respect to that.

Okay, all this sitting up has me feeling winded and my arm is going numb. Frick Frack Frick. I'll be relieved or some equivilent emotion when all of this is over. I do mean ALL of it, too. When every surgery is done, when all the healing is complete and I know what it means to be a healthy human being with and interesting medical history, I cannot imagine what my life will be like. Hopefully it will closely resemble my life in Heavenly Acres - calm, reflective, filled with observation of funny events and participation in activities with people I love.

I dare to dream at this point. I dare to dream.

Hollaback Robin...

So, I've moved down to my dad's house for a little R&R. My petite soeur says I'm having "celebrity-style rehab" with three other people waiting and watching on me, peaceful and expansive surroundings, and no financial obligation. I'm not opposed to this. It's actually a milestone that made me cry when I finally arrived last night because this was the point at which I knew *before surgery* that I would be healing.

So, I'm healing. It's righteous.

Anyway, my parents have this game cock. Maybe he used to fight, I don't know, I would fight with him, he'd kick my ass. He's nearly my height and just as beautiful as they come - gorgeous colors. Well, as a rooster he's prone to making a fair amount of noise in the mornings He starts at four a.m. and serenades the rising sun until about 7 or 8, then he rests his vocal cords and gives a lunch concert - much abridged - for an hour around noon.

Usually I spend that 4-5 a.m. time period thinking of chicken recipes. This morning, though, I was up before he started crowing and since I'd had 5 hours of continuous sleep and felt perky I eagerly awaited his crow. I had some other music on and began remixing the rooster in my half-sleep state. It was awesome for about five minutes, then he faltered.

The frickin rooster faltered! He lost his tone, there was no pride in his voice, he was crowing sotto voce! It killed me. So I turned off my music thinking perhaps I was doing the impossible and drowning his loud ass out. No sucha thang. He was just barely audible and my room is not 100 ft. from his pen and I usually hear him like some harman kardan speakers are involved at close proximity.

So, I started coaching him, mentally. It's very entertaining to do vocal coaching for a rooster. I was thinking I might be able to produce a youtube video on the subject. This idea I get from Neil Gaiman since his episode of bat training was so ingeniously captured and distributed.

I (mentally) encouraged Robin the Rooster on the topics of phonation, intonation, breathing techniques and finally I just flat out said (to myself) "Sing BIRD, SING!!!!"

He failed miserably. Like any good svengali I was not deterred and decided to do what the best of them do when the talent is lacking talent: I created a remix. Remember that song "Hollaback Shawty?" Well, I decided Robin, being red and slightly shorter than an average adult human female, qualified and if he could just crow to the beat in my head we might have a winner.

He failed to pass muster today, but I have hope for the coming weeks. Get the rooster to crow on beat. I know he likes cherry tomatoes so I've got my incentive plan.

Wish me luck!!!