Norco. I am high as a kite on Norco. And it's thanks to last night's festivities.
Wretching pain. Like worse than I have ever felt in childbirth. It was unrelenting. I wriggled in pain, unable to stop moving. Ethan was so bewildered about what he should do. I started crying, but praying my cries wouldn't wake the children. "Who can come be with the kids so I can take you to the hospital?" We couldn't come up with anybody. So Ethan called 911 and they took me instead.
On the ride to the hospital, the pain increased and I cried some more. The paramedic gave me an IV and then something to make me not barf, for the pain was so great that I was sure I would throw up the brownies I had a few hours prior.
Once in the ER, they put me in a private room so other people wouldn't see me shaking and crying. That seems to make people nervous and uncomfortable. Morphine came along and didn't do too much. The doctor poked around my midsection, occasionally making me wince and wimper. A nurse pokes her head in, "Do you want a visitor?" And then there was Mallory. Glorious, beautiful sister Mallory. The sight of her in the doorway brought more tears to my eyes. She swooped in and held my hand tight.
After an ultrasound, it turns out I have a big, fat ovarian cyst. 4 centimeters. It hates me and I hate it. I pray for it's disappearance.
Amid my drugged, drunken stupor, I had one clear, clever thought. Since Mallory came to be with me, she is my "cyst"er. Get it? Sister- cyster. Maybe the drugs make me more clever.
Now I am home, in my bed. And Van just poked his head in and said, "Mama, get dessed!" I must look like such a slob. Two more cysters are coming over to help me with the children today. And Ethan is going to get me a vegetarian sandwich from Kneaders. I might be okay after all.