Superbabe September took a slight detour back into Achey Breaky August and Jesus-F%#@ing-Christ June/July. Really, this summer has been such a roller coaster and I am absolutely exhausted. I am also considering bailing on Facebook and Myspace; those “newsfeed” things were not made for freaks like me who have a crisis every other day. I feel like such a jerk when I have to come back the next day and be like, “Just kidding! Everything’s cool! LOL.”
SIDENOTE: I am way too tired to spellcheck, proofread, or look for a picture I haven’t already used. You’ve been warned.
So on Tuesday my dad went in for that pinkie toe (that’s TOE mom, T-O-E) amputation, and the doctors told him that his arteries were so bad that they would have to amputate his leg. What’s more, his body isn’t strong enough to walk with a prosthetic. So that would be it. No more walking ever.
There was a tiny chance that they could work a Moses-ish miracle with his artery and get the blood flowing through his leg. Like, a 20% chance. But in this type of situation, amputation is inevitable. Most people opt to go ahead with it rather than facing countless operations, massive pain and intense nonstop recovery time.
So Wednesday I’m all “la la la”, still relieved about the pinkie “incident” and back to whining about boys and other nonsense, and my mom calls me and tells me that he decided to do it. “Do… what?” I asked. “Amputate his leg.”
CUT TO: me freaking out, worrying about my dad, worring for my mom, obsessive hula hooping, driving over to Jen and Ron’s, drinking, sneaking a cigarette, worrying some more, surprisingly little crying, sneaking another cigarette, drinking beers with my brother over the phone, basically passing out, leaving work early yesterday, calling friends all sad, racing over to the hospital, et cetera.
So I get to the hospital and my mom tells me that at the last second, my dad decided to do it. “Do… what?” I asked. “Try to save his leg.”
CUT TO: waiting room. 6 hours. LOTS of CSI.
And they did it. They actually saved his leg, at least for now. They have no idea if it will hold and we might be back in a week for all I know, but he’ll wake up tomorrow knowing that he can walk for a little while longer.
My dad knows damn well that he’ll have to go through about 3 more of these surgeries, but he doesn’t care. He fights so hard to stay alive and make life worth living no matter what and he amazes me so much. Don’t even get me started on how awesome my mom is; I’ll probably cry.
Me, on the other hand? I am ridiculous and a mess. You guys, I miss the Year of Awesome. The Year of Yay is a bust. I hate calling my friends with these emergencies and dumb-ass drama and all that stuff. I feel like such a tool. I wish I wanted a boyfriend so I could just call some dude freaking out, but it’s Superbabe September! You guys are stuck with me. But honestly, I don’t know what I would do without you.
I’m also on a rollercoaster healthwise. When it comes to situations with my dad, I waver between being too stressed to care (chainsmoking, drinking, Taco Bell fourth meals) and trying to appreciate my health for all that it is worth.
For now at least, I can go back to not smoking and eating the veggies and SLEEPING and stuff. I took the stairs at the hospital and walked up 5 flights, over and over. When you’re faced with someone losing the ability to walk, slumming around on the elevator feels sort of dickish.