Do let's have a quick multimedia meander down memory cul-de-sac, shall we?
I realized quite bemusedly to myself that I am going to miss this whole jaws wide shut saga of healing and hope, as trying as it could be at times. I became something of a misanthrope, only going out in public a requisite few times, once to a class that I just started taking, in which I used a doodle board to make a proper introduction of myself to everyone.
Within my own abode, I became something of self-proclaimed royalty with exacting standards and unrelenting habits. I would make faces at my mother if she dared to eat those most tempting and textured items known as solid foods around me. I would often wear a towel bib, and self-medicate standing up with a silver spoon. I would devour books in one or two days, going through an entire library stack, and fitting in a movie or TV episode here or there to keep myself dabbling in other worlds. Or alternately, I would read the newspaper to stay (internally) relevant. I forgot to check my work email (though I had promised myself) to the point where my boss had to text me to relay a message. I rather enjoyed the effort of the communique.
But I have also been turning quite sentimental, bawling behind my 3D glasses at Avatar and pining for my hospital bed and the consistent nurse pampering where drifting off to sleep is your most required calling.
THINGS I WILL MISS or THINGS I HAVE LEARNED
I may even have to spare a moment of nostalgia for my muscle spasms and mild bloody spittle.
Here were some choice quotes from my caretakers during their time to shine, which they did most ably and with concerted, appreciated effort:
Point/Counterpoint with the Parentals
On Facebook (on two separate occasions)
Mother: You're on Facebook! That means you're famous!
Mother: I don't have to register for Facebook to fill out this survey, do I? I don't want my pretty photos all over the Internet.
[Well, which is it, Mother?!]
On Muscle Milk (on two separate occasions)
Father: It's Muscle Milk. It just sounds good.
Mother: Muscle Milk. Nothing about that sound good.
[Men and women for you, ladies and genteels!]
Verdict: It's no milkshake, but it's not terrible.
But, regardless of all the fun and the glamour I must put behind me and simply reflect back upon through treasured keepsakes such as a drool rag and antibiotic lip ointment, my building excitement for my first "outta jaws jail" meal of mashed potatoes and ravioli cut into teeny-tiny pieces is through the roof and to the moon. And that is one promise that is not fueled by pain meds.