Post-Surgery Blues: My Mother, The Bitch

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As it turns out, having someone cut you open and fuck about with your insides tends to screw up certain bodily functions. And by that, I mean I've been having some "intestinal distress", which quite frankly just irritates me to no fucking end. To those of you who have never spent half an hour in the bathroom with a copy of Sarah Silverman's "The Bedwetter", waiting on something to happen that most people can do without so much as a second thought...Well, it's pretty much the most depressing thing ever.

This was in no way helped by my mother. Now, for those who don't know her, my mother is clinically insane, and sincerely enjoys fucking with us for her own amusement. It's called the bitch gene, and yes, it is genetic. Case in point: While I was in the bathroom praying for my insides to resume their regular functioning, she decided to hide in my bed until I got back, then scare the living shit out of me. For someone who just got out of abdominal surgery, this is what is known as a terrible fucking idea.

This didn't stop my mother from (A) doing exactly that, and (B) laughing hysterically while I was doubled-over on the floor, feeling like someone had just jabbed me in the stomach with a rusty screwdriver.

But in all seriousness, I love the crazy whore.

Speaking of my mother, in my efforts to return to normal, I decided to try and leave the house and go to the mall and pick up a gift for my mother. As it turns out, when you're bloated and stitched up, your jeans don't actually fit. Who knew? So of course, I spent a full hour and a half doing my best granny-shuffle through the suburbs of Pointe-Claire while feeling like someone in their third fucking trimester.

This wasn't made any better when I got home, showered, removed my bandage and looked down at my stitched-up stomach to discover that my belly button was now practically non-existant. As in the top half was still perfectly in tact, while the bottom half was completely gone. It wasn't so much a belly button as it was a tiny little dent in my stomach. Fantastic.

For now though, I need to go eat my feelings and self-medicate some more. Apparently, these painkillers don't treat emotional pain. Woohoo?