Category Archives: The Wound Cronicles

Ouch.

Pain is dark.

It’s quiet and lonely and heavy and it throbs.  It sure can take your breath away. It’s a hard thing to explain to somebody even when they are desperately trying to understand how much it hurts. There is not a lot of sound here.  I can hear the ceiling fan and a random giggle from downstairs that feels good and also a little sad. Even now, I am lying on my side and I’m staring at a picture of my kids, trying to cope with every joint in my body hurting.  I want to scream the F bomb.

Here is my view:

There are some interesting things in this picture..Thor’s unmade side of the bed, Cracker’s lost boot: the reason she had a 34 minute before-school tantrum on Friday morning…Whoop, dere it is!  Found it, you little brat. (That’s OK, mommy loves you.)

I know you want to know about the camera. (Insert 70’s porn music here). TOO BAD!!! No kinky shenanigans.  Just my pals trying to bring music to ME while in confinement…we made a little music video. If you have an extra 14 minutes and 36 seconds just lying around, check it out.  It’s a sweet examination into the compassionate world of friends who will do anything to make you feel better.  But wear your low expectations hat because I was trying to sing sick in bed with a vacuum attached to my belly.  Vacuum belly!!! It’s mission? To suck out Ghostbusters slime grossness out of my wound.   That Vac was a constant companion….I called it “my little friend.” But you have to say it out loud with the Tony Montana Scarface accent. You try it.  Say it:”my little friend.”  Say it again.  “My little friend.” So fun, huh?  That vac went everywhere with me.  It was like carrying around the grossest purse in the world.  But I couldn’t go anywhere for long because of it.  I could only run around in social circles and with gangs that had a lot of outlets handy…here’s the video!

The Sick Sessions with Gritman&Moran
But seriously.  Go back to the above photo and look at that picture of my kids, taken on our favorite beach in Naples.  Omg.  It’s precious to me and I’ll never forget that moment. That picture in itself is an anti-inflammatory for the soul; it’s OxyContin for my heart; it’s a Kleenex, stopping the trail of my tears. I have been staring at it in pain for a over a month. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten….a beautiful soul had it blown up for me.  Thank you, my sweet, red-headed friend. 

At this point, I am not really feeling any pain from the surgery. My wound is kind of closing up and I am just weak from being laid up so long. I was able to scrounge my way through a couple of gigs and run a few errands but now I’m back in bed jail. And it’s not even really from the earlier craziness.  It’s due to a medical condition I have had for about 6 years.  Most of the time you would never even know I have it.  It’s called Rheumatoid Disease aka Rheumatoid Arthritis aka RA aka Evil Bitch From Hell. They changed the name from RA to add the word “disease” because it’s a nightmare of an auto-immune disorder. And frankly, the RA powers that be were probably sick of people not understanding it.  Like every time they mentioned that they had rheumatoid arthritis to the person talking to them, the other person would inevitably start complaining about how their knuckles hurt when it rains. Not the same thing. Weather has nothing to do with this.  Here is what it is, deftly illustrated by a select chosen lot of drunk people dancing:

Immune system broken….like going all crazy on itself…like THIS…but instead of flouncy dancing at your joints, it’s punching them…like THIS. Humira, a miracle drug that I shoot in my thigh every week, calms my immune system down so it’s like THIS. You get the idea. Dance like no one’s watching.  (But we are.). (And we’re laughing.)

Th whole mess happened because sometimes when I’m on the drug, my immune system can’t fight anything. So if I get, let’s say a random chest cold or a stupid little bug bite, unlike most people, my body can’t fight it. It’s one of the more rare side effects of the drug, like I think it’s written near the bottom of side effects on the warning label, listed under “spontaneous eyeball bleeding.” It rarely happens, but this is how lucky I am! Weeeeee!!!

The hospital stories are coming next. But I’m grossed out.  I am a person who does not handle anything yucky well at all.  For instance, If you are walking with me on the street and you lean over and you spit, I will throw up.  When I clean a toilet, I do it while I am dry-heaving.  If you have an eye-related incident, you’re going to have to go to somebody else with it. And when my kids spurted any blood throughout their childhoods, I have been known to completely run the other way. There is also a very large unrelated issue with clowns.  So you can imagine how traumatizing it was for me to be in the hospital with a gaping, staph-infected hole in my stomach.  I was never able to even look at it.  But everyone else in the free world sure did!  And I was really good at reading everyone’s face when they were looking at it so I could tell how bad it really was.  I’m nothing if not painfully observant. My husband Thor tried to take pictures of it and I groggily threatened divorce.  A very good friend came to visit me and I was happy to see him until he (1) tried to plan with another visiting friend on how they could get their hands on my morphine and (2)tried to take a picture of my wound and start a public fan Facebook page. I know. Funny but awful.  

So I think tomorrow I will start writing about all those gross things but I just can’t bear to do it today. 

And here we are. I’m banned from Humira for another month and everything hurts. EV-ER-EE-THING. I’m sorry, but I’m whiny.  I have a whole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon, medical professionals keep sticking their fingers in it, my family has been through hell, my dream job fired me, I have missed countless gigs so I’m broke as hell and I have sunk so low trying to entertain myself, that I am currently binge-watching The Nanny. Do NOT tell anyone that.

But this is not how I’m going to play this. A pity party is not how I’m going to choose to handle this.  It’s beneath me.  It’s going to go down exactly like this:

I have a great bed. Cable has not been shut off yet. Look at my kids, please. They’re adorbs. My husband Alpha, the best man in the world, would definitely be Knighted by the Queen if we lived in Great Britain. My parents are incredible; all of them. I have this ridiculously fantastic nurse who came to my house and she healed me inside and out and she was so nice, she didn’t even try to tie wood chunks on my ankles and break them so I couldn’t run away. (Great movie) Voice text on my iPad is the BOMB. I have so many incredible friends who are so loving and giving, I could spaz out with love for them. And I get to sing, sing, sing with my homies and I get to sing, sing, sing for people that I love. I have a house, I drive the Blueberry and I live in the best town in the land.  Soon my gaping wound will be gone, “my little friend” The Vac will be returned, cleaned, sanitized and sent off to suck Ghostbusters slime out of some other poor bastard. I will be back on Humira and no one will know that I even have this stupid disease. I will get a new job, have a kick ass summer on Bangs Lake and watch a buttload of Alpha playing lacrosse.  And most importantly, I will always have the memories of the time when I desperately needed a village and the village came running. 

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It Takes An Open Wound…

…to get a girl back to blog land.

I have recently been through a life-threatening medical trauma.  But we will get to that in my next installation because I am a big fan of suspense. At my lowest moment, when I didn’t think I could take any more insanity, I stared up at the hospital ceiling and thought, “Jesus.  I need to blog this shit.”

Conveniently enough, that day my family visited me and brought me a bag of get-well goodies.  My favorite things were the roll of Rolos and an adult coloring book.  It sounds kind of pornographic, but it’s not.  It’s not pages filled with nasty bits, if thats what you had in mind.  Yucky on you.  They are filled with grown up and pretty and hard-to-stay-in-the-lines pictures.  I’ve seen these coloring books on The Facebook but I didn’t fully understand the hype.  Omg.  Best invention ever.  So calming…so calming…so calming…

The Wound Journal.


It might have been the continuous IV Morphine and Norco cocktail, but I decided that I needed to color the shit out of this thing and use it as a diary to write the greatest non-fictional novel ever known to man, entitled “The Wound Chronicles”.
Then I realized that it was just too soon. Way too soon to laugh about any of it.  I kept on trying to start talking about it, but much like me not being able to actually LOOK at the wound, I still couldn’t even really tell anybody much about it.  Until yesterday, when I went on an adventure to visit my infectious disease doctor – yes, I have one of those.  Don’t be jelly. 

As I was sitting in the waiting room and I was trying not to touch ANYTHING (seriously, I think I left my arms above the armrests for a full 47 minutes.)  I was side-staring at people, germ profiling them and worrying about how they were going to spread their tse-tse flu or Zika virus tainted cells into my healing wound.  I was being a germist form of a rascist and I was very ashamed.  And then I was worried that they might be grossed out by me, so I started to have a full-blown panic attack.  I began quiet Lamaze breathing.  That made me look weirder.  I totally started upper lip face-sweating.  WHY WAS THE COMPLIMENTARY TV OFF?  This was a torture chamber.  They had to know that an episode of “House Hunter: International” would have calmed all of us freaks down.   I was a shell of a woman.  They finally called my name and I hobbled faster than a turtle to get away from everyone. I am quite sure they were equally glad to get rid of the sweaty, strange woman puffing her breath and leering at all of them with her arms up in the air.

The nurse made me lie down and she removed my dressing.  She didn’t even put anything over it. Exposed naked wound in room 4!  She left me and the gaping hole and all of the whole mess just out there, exposed for the world to see and ripe for a brand new strain of MRSA.  I had to wait way too long for the doctor in that vulnerable state.  As every minute passed, I realized that now my wound was on display to the open air and to the WHOLE PLANET and anyone even walking by the window. I was distraught that I left my phone in my purse so I couldn’t be distracted from the crazed images of invisible flying death germs stealthily dive-bombing directly into my healing cavity.  At this point, I was absolutely sure that I was going to get the conga flu in the hole or rickets or polio and I really, really hoped that it wasn’t going to turn black.  I started to hum the theme to the movie “Tootsie” for absolutely no other reason than that I was coming completely unhinged.

There it was.  That was the Oprah “aha” moment.  It was while I humming “somethings telling me it might be you” that I laughed very loudly at myself and my mental instability and I realized…yep.  It’s time.  It’s time to share the epic story of the wound.

For now, I have to wrap this up because I’m so tired.  I still get weak.  Doing nothing throws me into nappy time.  It’s so totally stupid.  Typing this has put me into a near coma and I’m already practically lying down.  But I look forward to going back to my notes and sharing some crazy wound crap with anyone who came stomach it enough to read it.  My goal is to post one a day but I have no follow-through.  See you tomorrow?  Or in 2019.  My last post on here was from 2012.  I wish me the best of luck. 

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