Texas Women and The Knives In Their Hair

Well, I have already shared this story with a few people but maybe YOU haven't heard it yet. First off, I will confess (but only this once): Texas Women don't really carry knives in their hair. They just tell everyone that. And no one has yet had the nerve to test it.

Now, back to the story. It started with an incredibly on target remark re my whining about some chest pain. The comment came from some female who shall remain nameless (see? I did NOT mention you by name, Bike Princess!) and she wrote: "so puleeease be better after another fucking nights rest..." She knew not how so very apropos her comment/wish was. Well, guess fucking what? I got me some of that "fucking nights rest" and I feel ever so much fucking better now.

Recently, after a night of not eating enough food and drinking various "liquids" I woke up not in my own bed with a really bad headache and feeling like I had been brutally stabbed all over my chest. Which it turns out, I had! By a bunch of men wearing masks and I had even paid them for the privilege. I had chest surgery to remove the old chemoport (which I wore out) from the left side of my chest and have a new, modern chemoport installed. Surgery went pretty long because they could not put the new one in the old location. So they had to chop on the right side and install the port over there. With the extra anesthesia required I also got to delight in vomiting for the next 24 hours. Which aggravates chest stab wounds. Did you know that? Neither did I! Plus, I didn't even get to bomb myself out with The Really Big Ass Post Surgery Drugs you are supposed to get to enjoy--especially with big honking glasses of wine, some gin and tonics and, of course my favorite: Pomegranate Martinis. But, noooooo! They, the Really Big Ass Drugs, not the booze, made me throw up even more.

I managed to sleep a little bit on Thursday night (4/17 the date of surgery) sitting upright in a La-Z-Boy chair. Friday I just cannot get to sleep and at 3am (which technically makes it Saturday so it's not a work day for Mr. Pansy) I went in and woke Mr. Pansy up. Because he gave me permission to do this years ago whenever I have this problem. I demanded he fuck me until I could get some fucking decent sleep. The crazed look in my eyes and the fact my hair was all in a spikey standing up scary everywhere way (and it was fucking 3am!) convinced him, yet again, that I probably had a knife somewhere to back up my demands. One long fucking hour later, Ta Da!!! I slept like a woman who had been, well, fucked good and hard and long! YOU try finding a comfortable position when YOU have had your chest all stabbed up to hell and back AND you are going cold turkey since the surgery because the pain pills only made you throw up even more. Believe you me, it is HARD to find a good fucking position under those conditions. But Mr. Pansy bravely persevered.

I am still going cold turkey over here and in a fair amount of pain. For "regular" people (that would be big assed gay pussies like YOU) the pain is about an 8. For me it's only 4 or so. And then on 4/24 I got my first chemo with the new port. Boy, did I really need major blinders on my eyes. Those beast nurses and the satanic doctor just shoved all over the port LIKE IT DIDN'T HURT THEM A BIT to do so. What shits. Makes me extra glad that check I gave them today is going to
bounce.

A cute response I got re this story was this: "wow! sex therapy for chest stab wounds?!? That Mr. Pansy is one lucky sumbitch! Now, did he have to go to medical school to learn that or what? and if so, which school and was there much homework? And do they accept 51 year old first year students?" The answers to ALL your questions, Slow Moe (see? I can keep TWO names secret!) is: NO. Especially when it comes to YOU.

Now, this therapy began at 3am and each dose is only good, apparently, for 12 hours. Mr. Pansy is getting very worn out. Like I give a fuck. I WANT a fuck. Hey! Is it almost 3 o'clock? Anywhere? Mr. Pansy! Get over here, Now! Some people have reacted to my story like this is not what usually happens after surgery. I have not had enough surgeries to know one way or the other. But evidently nothing gets in the way of my needing some of that Mr. Pansy Rousting Rodeo Riding. I am beginning to think they spiked my anesthesia! hahahahahhahaha!

Oh, and lest you stupidly think I may not, after all, be the Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe........72 hours after surgery I went for a bike ride. With the usual caveat: "Let's just see how far I might be able to manage to ride, honey." THIRTY FUCKING MILES later we finally went home. Okay. We did NOT fuck during the 30 miles. That was done AFTER the 30 miles.