bic(kering) moment

You know what’s the most miserably annoying and frustrating part about this recent knee procedure I went through?

It most definitely is:

  • NOT the cold sterile OT with me being the most undressed of the entire lot, who are all comfortably swathed in layers of envious cloths called scrubs.
  • NOT the prick of the IV as I turn my browns helplessly into the man’s own blue eyes.
  • NOT the feeling that right lower half of my body does not exist as I recover through movie-style fog.
  • NOT the painful hauling of my dead heavy parts into the back seat of our van.
  • NOT the excruciating hobble from the garage, navigating perceived and real levels of the ground.
  • NOT the lowering of myself into the couch and the sinking feeling that the right leg can’t move no matter how hard I try.
  • NOT the swinging into and out of consciousness causing blurs of different intensities, visions and voices.
  • NOT the losing of my balance as I navigate crutches and almost crashing onto the floor, and thus ensuring that the knee cracks further.
  • NOT the dizziness that threatened to swoop me into a spiraling path down onto the hard floor.
  • NOT the helplessness that drowns the voice and me altogether as I ask for the basics.
  • NOT the compression stockings that not only LOOK ugly but also squeeze the breath out of my comfortably rounded fat thighs and legs.
  • NOT the seamlessly endless hours stuck to bed with a book, whose pages almost always draw a parallel in life.
  • NOT the checking of a thousand boring emails and wait for the one that makes sense. (Of course I mean all of your comments as mails and not just aeropostale, dsw and kohl’s sales!)
  • NOT being able to sleep despite popping in the recommended dose for humans of the drug promethazine.
  • NOT being able to take a shower for two days until the daughter brilliantly came upon the idea of cling wrapping the area!
  • NOT the pain that still shoots through both directions of the leg every time I move it.
  • NOT the thick cloth knee band wound tight across, that I strongly believe is liberally doused with a nasty itch powder.
  • NOT having to get poor husband to leave work at odd hours to drive me to the therapy sessions.
  • NOT the icepack-electrical stimulation that accompanies the physical therapy.
  • NOT having to endure the grueling exercises during therapy sessions.
  • NOT having at least three new people gaze ( and certainly not in any flattering way) down at your bare bloated leg every single day.
  • NOT the feeling of amusement on everyone’s eyes as they see limited slow-mo me.
  • NOT being able to step out and drive on my own.




*Dramatic Pause*






ps: Am one disposable blade away from feeling sorry for the entire male population who go through this every single day!! :

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