I feel like the little mermaid if she was a spokesperson for Gas-X. Tongue returns but stomach burns. Actually, thankfully, two days later when I am finishing up this overdue scribble, my stomach has toned down some of its G.I. Jane defensive tactics. But, in the aftermath, we (being the rest of my royal body) remain penitent and cautious.
On Wednesday, my tongue was liberated from soli-teary confinement! I thought it would burst out in a bravado solo (reminiscent of a musical a hardened ex-con penned behind bars) as this jacked up, reformed albeit still smooth criminal but instead it looked like a ghost of itself, according to my mom, pale and shaky to the touch. I guess I Cask of Amontillado'd the sucker (licker? That still sound crude! Innuendo, why do you plague me?).
I photo-documented the event itself, because it had its share of Hallmark/someecards moments.
Here is my view from the chair at the surgeon's office in the waiting room. You can't see it, dearest reader, but on the screen are intimate portraits of the different surgeries and fix-ups the surgeon performs. Also a couple newspapers on the table to keep people grounded. Their office is pretty fancy and contempo. Chairs without armrests, sinks without faucets. It's the future! Can you handle it?
Here is the surgeon with his assistant taking off the majority of my rubber bands. My tongue's jail cell was being deconstructed as though a war had just ended, and a news of a ceasefire was broadcast over a coconut radio!
Here is the moment of truth where I am opening my mouth for the first time, and a heavenly light shines down on my face. Don't question it! My surgeon is standing by!
My surgeon also has a sense of humor because once normal human speech was returned unto me (albeit with two "guiding" rubber bands. Can't go cold turkey right away.), I told him one side of my face hurt more than the other, and he told me that his assisting surgeon did that side of my face and he did the "good" side. Charmer!
I made a thank-you card for him, which my mother quite vocally instructed me to present as though I were an infant (I haven't even started teething again)! But that was nothing compared to when she asked how my diarrhea was right in front of everybody and when there was stuff in my mouth so I couldn't even defend my honor! Straight outta Cosmo Girl. The surgeon tastefully and tactfully pretended she hadn't brought it up at all. "What diarrhea?" he might have innocently asked in a post-appointment no-holds barred interview with Fox's off-off-off cable subsidiary.
Boyfie helped me come up with the concept of the card which is the shark Jaws on the outside:
And the interior of a thankful mouth when you open it up, plus that delicious "Jawesome" play on words:
Guess what?! My surgeon really liked the card! He even gave me a hug!!! I could barely handle it. I think my pain meds have been making me superduper emotional lately so I would have started bawling then and there, but I reined it in. He even ran around his office and showed the card to his office manager and secretary and everybody. He said he'd put it up in his office and praised its creativity. I felt like I just won a Golden Globe. Does that make me out of touch? I hope so.
As proof of my non-stop sentimentality, I also made a card for my dad's co-workers in the operating room and intensive care unit for him to take to work to thank them for taking such good care of me. And apparently they put it on their braggy bulletin board! Two out of two! Outta the park!
Well, right after tongue release, my mom and I went out to lunch to celebrate my gradual return to the outside. Sadly, we learned right away, I have barely remastered the art of eating yet. We went to a tasteful chain Italian restaurant and I tried breaking the soft rolls into little pieces but no dice. Nothing would stay in my mouf! Everything just fell out, as confused as I was.
To cope, later that afternoon, I stealth-read The Lovely Bones in the bookstore while my mom perused self-help books (her favorite)! Self-help is subjective.
To add even less humor to the situation, I got overambitious and thought I could go tell some jokes right away that night, but ha! Jokes were on me. My stomach staged a Class III ambush to seek attention away from my mouth and rained down destruction and despair on my corpus for the next 48 hours. This included some uncomfortable moments the next day sitting in a two-hour long office meeting and trying to indicate with subtle eyebrow arches to the person next to me that the strange sounds emanating from me were totes my tummo, not my tusho, not that that did anything for our "on the rocks" friendship.
So I had to bench myself for a widdle bit from real life. Eating has proved to be a bit of a slurpy adventure coated with nuisance powder. I can't get much down except textured soups and yogurty deals, and quite a mess results regardless. I have permanent egg on my face.
My tongue is basically on parole right now because it can't come out that far and my mouth opens just enough to make attempts to haphazardly shove stuff in and hope for the best. I am basically a half-baby/half-old person right now. There's my diet and then there's the wit and wisdom and eye twinkles I have developed over time. Not to mention the constant crying, but I like that part.
Ah well, as they say, stiff lower lip and all that! No, you're right, I say that. Nobody else. Hup hoop!