I wrote a blog post about my family's treatment of me post surgery and the whiny, angry girls didn't post it, enen though they advertised on the blog that it would be next. Now that I'm out of my splint and can actually type using my right hand, it all seems useless to relive the nightmare.
My mother-in-law flew up from Arizona to take care of me
I spent a month hiding my pain pills. Everyone wanted me to share. I could barely open a drawer, but I took the pills out of the bottle and put them in a jewelry bag and hid them underneath my hand therapy exercise papers. If I had left the pills in the bottle, they would have been gone!
After about 2 weeks I was strong enough to begin fooling around in the kitchen, however using a knife was a challenge. So Brock cheerfully volunteered to be my sous chef. After 5 minutes of chopping veggies for dinner, Brock said,"this is a lot of work. My hand is tired. How much more of this do I have to do?"
So much for cheerful.
I said, "Honey, this is what I do every time I make dinner."
Brock replied, "Wow, I didn't know."
How does he not notice?!
A side note: Lindsay and Jesse were house-sitting and not around on a regular basis to help out, or Lindsay would have stepped up to the plate. Sara is 22 and too worried about where her next drink is coming from to care...also she was one of the people trying to pilfer my pain pills. I think she has a problem.
I couldn't open a bottle of wine. Neither could anyone else unless I asked 18 times. And then after much eye rolling and "do I have to do it now?", I would get an open bottle of wine. And we all know how important that is. It enhances the pain meds.
Another irritation: I had about 25 stitches in my hand for 14 days. When the stitches were removed the incision in my palm split open and I literally had a hole in my hand, which was quite gross and I became the new circus attraction. When friends, mailman, UPS delivery person, etc. came to the house, my caring and nurturing family would say to the poor person who came over, "Want to see my Mom's/wife's hand? It's really gross! Mom/Kathy, show them your hand!" The person at the house clearly doesn't want to see and I don't want to show, but they keep insisting until I take the dressing off and the person looks at it, and then turns green, turns away, and you can hear their stomach turn in disgust.
I'm so glad the hole in my hand is nearly healed. I can't make a fist yet and will need some more therapy, but I'm cooking dinner, making soups for the winter, and as usual, taking care of my incredibly dysfunctional family. My last hope is that Brock doesn't post the pictures he took of my hand on Facebook.