If I weren’t in so much pain, I would howl in indignity. How dare they! I am quite thoroughly insulted and rightfully so.
Let me ask you something. When Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, didn’t ‘all the king’s horses and all the king’s men’ try their best to put him back together? Did the King summon the Palace janitor and order him to patch Humpty Dumpty together with Gorilla super glue? Of course not! The entire kingdom marched to save him. They failed but that is neither here nor there. I am sure Humpty’s soul rests in peace today knowing that he died with his dignity intact. So why, I ask you, don’t I rate the same courtesy?
No, I have no head injuries. I am quite sure that I have no concussion. But I do have 4 holes in my stomach. And that, my friends, is the source of my ever-rising irritation.
If you read my ‘New Year’s Resolution’ post, you would know that weight loss has always been the elusive pot of gold at the end of my rainbow. So you can understand my reaction when my doctor told me last week that my gallbladder had to be surgically removed. Ok, so I needn’t have squealed with glee and grabbed the ‘doc’ to waltz in the 4x4 examination room but hey, is it my fault I didn’t know that gallbladder is a teeny tiny sac the size of my palm? Isn’t it just my luck that the one part that I can afford to lose happens to weigh under a pound or so? Why couldn’t it weigh, say, 20 pounds? Chop, chop and I would have been 20 pounds lighter today. I give up now. When the many forces of the universe at large conspire to keep you (there is only one way to say it) chubby, what’s a girl to do?
Coming back to why I feel insulted, guess what the great doctors at the hospital did? You can’t guess, I bet. After yanking my gallbladder out, you would think that they would have the courtesy to stitch me back together, wouldn’t you? A few simply sewn stitches (I am not asking for French knots here, mind you) that I can show my husband to justify the enormous bill that is coming our way. For thousands of dollars, they could not bother to leave behind some eensy weensy sutures?
An even bigger dilemma is this. What do I say to all those friends who have cooked their hearts out for my family this week when they ask ‘When are you going back to get your stitches out?’ How do I tell them that I don’t need to go back? How do I tell them that the doctors actually slapped some ‘derma glue’ on me and sent me home? Glue, for god’s sakes! How insulting, really! What did Humpty Dumpty have that I don’t, I ask you.
Until I am strong enough to get up and stomp my feet around to vent this anger, this post will have to do.