Surgery was successful, I guess.
Hard to tell - the fucking surgeon didn't even bother to talk to me afterwards. He talked to Carol while I was still out, then he picked up a bottle of bourbon and a hooker and took off to settle his nerves.
Fuckers told me I did not need crutches. What? Everything I read about the surgery told me 1 week to 2 or 3 months on crutches. Of course I did not want crutches, did not want to deal with them. But I also read a couple of times that the worse thing you can do is walk on the knee before it is ready, before it has recuperated from surgery.
But I believed them because I wanted to believe them. They said the type of surgery I had, bore no risk of damage by walking normally afterwards. Then, as I was getting ready to be wheeled out of the fucking place, they fucking offered me crutches if I wanted them. This was after they made a big deal out of not needing them.
Cavalierly, I said no. Bear in mind, I had just come out of general anesthesia and knee surgery, after getting 3 hours of sleep the night before, and fasting for 9 hours.
Big mistake. Got home and instantaneously found out that walking on the fucking leg was very painful.
But I was exhausted. Hit the recliner and turned into vegetable lasagna. Like a drug addict in an OD induced coma.
Of course I had to get up to go to the bathroom, get food - you know, do the things human beings do to fucking survive. And every time I walked, that motherfucker hurt. And pounded incessantly when I sat down.
But they gave me a t-shirt. So it was worth it.
Advil, Tylenol and ice, ice, baby. Surprisingly they wrote a prescription for Oxycodone. Are you kidding me? Do they know who I am? Christmas comes early.
I am kidding. I have no intention of using that shit and have resisted it so far.
I went to bed last night hoping that a night off the leg would turn things in the right direction. Of course I could not find a pain-free position in bed so I had to go back downstairs to sleep in the recliner. Woke up at 4:30 to go to the bathroom - instantaneous pain. Fuck me.
Carol went out a while ago and picked up crutches. I just used them to walk around a bit and get up here. Crutches are work, man. I am out of breath. Of course it doesn't help that I am a 475 pound tub of lard. A jiggling mass of gelatinous goo.
But the crutches are making a big difference already. No pain. Which is good because I already gobbled 4 Advil and 4 Tylenol, starting at 4:30 am. And consumed a sip or two of whiskey.
What are you gonna do?
The follow up with Surgeon-Fuck isn't until 4/20. He fucking sneaks out with his bourbon and his hooker after talking to Carol and avoiding me? And I have to wait 12 days to talk to him? I don't even know what he did to me surgically. He owed me that information. He fucking owes me.
I never liked the guy and I'm dumping him from any future consideration. He fucking mumbles and talks at faster miles an hour. I have to keep stopping him to say "What? What did you say?" Christ, after the MRI a while back, when he called to tell me I should probably have surgery, I heard the word cancer amongst his super-speed mumbling.
I said "WHAT did you just say?" He said the MRI didn't reveal any cancer in the knee. Then why bring it up? Fuck-tard.
Anyway, the surgery is over. If I am not pain free soon I will be a very, angry man.
And surgeon-fuck will pay the price.
I am going to torture him on 4/20. Stop him after every fucking word until he breaks down and cries.
Then I'm going to kick him in the balls.
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