Update from the Heart of Hess 2

6/21/16, 8:55 AM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay, FB peeps: Hess is going to be wheeled into the OR area shortly. Cardiologist just popped in all preppy in his pink buttondown, saying he’s “hoping for a good result,” and I think that dude might want to bone up on his pre-surgery pep-talk skills.

6/21/16, 11:19 AM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Hmmm. The hospital in FL is VERY different than in Indy where there was a big screen on every wall with surgery patient updates like airport flight boards. Here, there is, like, a 100-year-old town crier who gave me this update on Hess after the first hour in surgery: “She’s doing great.” So. Yeah.

6/21/16, 11:20 AM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

I haven’t chewed off my finger nails in decades, and now. Now, I have ten little bloody stumps.

6/21/16, 11:22 AM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Ohhh. There is a super chatty woman here in the cardiac unit waiting room who just found out that I’m deaf, and she somehow got the idea that I communicate by finger spelling. Which she is now doing. Verrrrrrry slowly. Annnnnnnnd, that’s NOT a “g.” Dear God.

6/21/16, 11:29 AM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

So, since I can only imagine what’s happening in the OR, I’m pretty sure that the vein-harvesting part is over. Hess is going to be so MAULED. Poor baby.

6/21/16, 12:43 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Here in the Waiting Room. #lazyplacenames

6/21/16, 8:57 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay, so at about 1:00 this afternoon when the big-toothed doctor explained that Hess did really well in surgery and that I could go see him soon in recovery, I think, first, that the doctor doesn’t have a clear handle on what “soon” means (which is NOT two hours, Toothy), and that he might have been comparing how much agony Hess would be in if he were thrown into a wood chipper v. the reality that is “after one’s chest has been split open.” He is in the Cardiac ICU where they strongly encourage family/friends “not to feel obligated” to take advantage of the visiting hours (although screw that; I went twice anyway.) And I’m glad that I did because large amounts of morphine are not—not—helping my sweetie. He kept trying to tell me something, but A) he has a tube shoved down his throat; B) I’m deaf and really, really need to be able to read his lips; and C) he has a lisp anyway, so combine that with A & B, and you can see the problem, can’t you?? I couldn’t figure out what the heck word started with “th,” and I thought he might be thirsty.

Finally, FINALLY, I semi-hollered, “Gah, I think he’s saying he’s ‘sick!’ Is that right, Darling? Are you nauseated??” Vigorous-ish head nodding ensued, followed by immediate IV anti-nausea medicine, followed by a much-too smug pat on my own back for my wicked lip-reading skills. But, the baby is SICK, dadgummit, and what if I hadn’t gone back down there?? That nurse with her “Now, we don’t want you to talk with the tube in your throat, Mr….Mr. Yulritch.” would never in a million years have noticed that he was feeling vomity!!! Is he supposed to do charades or something? Pictionary? They don’t even HAVE markers. I’m not allowed back in until 11:00 AM, but you can bet your sweet ass that I’ll have mine jiggling at the door at 10. Maybe 9.

6/21/16, 9:31 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Lord, really? Really? It has been a DAY, and I do not think that now is the time for the puppy to hump his much, much larger stuffed animal with such…house-shaking passion. #myeyesmyeyes

Update from the Heart of Hess 1

6/17/16
Update from the Heart of Hess:

I have been remiss in my Updates from the Heart of Hess over the last day or so while waiting for some news — ANY news — from the surgeon. (I apologize Morar, Liz, Barb, Dara, Shari, Nadine (Ned), & Jim, Sean, and Lisa for not being on top of the messages.) At last, today, the doc popped in to confirm surgery is on for Monday morning. Let the full-body shave commence!!! (Ouch.)

6/18/16
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Never, ever announce with conviction the date of surgery because until the patient is in the OR, anesthetized into physical insensibility, and the first scalpel line is drawn, the plan is about as certain as Khloe Kardashian’s paternity.

From the Heart of Hess

6/14/16, 12:46 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay, peeps! The husband is going in for a heart cath in mere minutes. No stent! No stent! No stent! (Doesn’t it work if I say it three times and click my heels or something?)

6/14/16, 1:46 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Mother of God. THAT didn’t go well. Holy crappppp. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

6/14/16, 3:26 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay. So, the doc said that the heart cath could take between 15-60 minutes, so I was all excited when they came out pretty shortly because I thought it meant Hess didn’t need a stent. Which was true…but only because he will be having open-chest surgery instead. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!! I panicked a little, but gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!! He’s going to another hospital where we’ll get more details, which I’ll then pass on here since it’s the only way for me to communicate en masse. He’s a little groggy, pretty alert though, and a whole lot scared.

Never, EVER Leave Home Without It.

Remember Karl Malden’s commercials back in the 70’s for American Express Traveler’s Cheques? “Never leave home without them!” Remember? (Shut up, you fuckers who weren’t even alive in the 70’s. Youth is entirely overvalued. A smooth forehead cannot make up for missing cool shit like Tony Orlando and Dawn, Pong and disco balls. No, disco balls are not the bedazzled testicles of gay men. Although that would be kinda cool. But probably painful.)

If you don’t remember Karl, titleholder of one monumental schnoz—in which there existed a small, underdeveloped country with poor water quality and mud for dinner, or maybe a ball field—then you can look him up on YouTube. He touted traveler’s checks in a time before debit cards made them obsolete; but his message was that in case of “unexpected” emergency, there are certain fundamentals one should never leave at home. (Is there ever really any other kind of emergency? Planned amputation? Tornado on purpose? I don’t know.)

For example, a woman should always tote an extra feminine product for those unforeseen red tsunamis, which invariably occur before Labor Day when she is wearing white. Unless you are trashy and wear white after Labor Day. But then you are not reading this because you are not my friend.

One should never leave home without a granola bar (unexpected hunger), a cell phone (unexpected abduction), a pair of tweezers (unexpected chin hair), and a surgical clamp (unexpected birth when you thought you had just been eating too many KitKats lately or other medical surprise). Here’s the MOST important thing never, ever to leave at home for any reason. Ever: Your freaking computer. If you are a writer, you never know when an opportunity for readership may arise. Take yesterday, for instance. I went out of town and left my everloving laptop behind. When it became apparent that I would not make it back home in time to write my blog for the day, I could’ve beaten the bloody shit out of myself. I didn’t, though, because I wasn’t carrying an extra pad.

P. S.- Dear tens of readers, I promise not to miss a day again.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chins

My poor daughters. If they are anything like me, they will realize one day while in the middle of watching some cleverly penned half-hour of workplace comedy that they have multiple facial hairs that did not get proper permission before sprouting from their secret lairs. I discovered my chin-buddies because of the following conversation:

My grandmother, Kitty, to my mother, Charlotte: “Chaaaaahlotte, pull this hay-uh fuh me. I cain’t see up under thay-uh.” She juts out her chin for better viewing.

My mother: “Pull mine first.”

Holy shitballs. If both of them have one…My twenty-year-old self hightailed it to the nearest mirror and strained to see what lurked beneath my jiggly jaw line. And there it was! The fucker had been there so long it was spiraling. Spiraling, people. I almost puked. I snatched that sumbitch out of my fatty flesh faster than a naked toddler wandering in traffic ends up at DFACS.

I have a right to know, and I want to know NOW. Why, why, why if hair has to go away as we age, why can’t all the hair in my legs fall out? Or the mustache hair? Why can’t that go? Shit. I can donate the hair on my face to Locks of Love, but I look like a seventy-year-old man at the crown. There are only so many ways a girl can pull off a comb-over.

You know what adds insult to injury? I have to lift and separate my chins to find those little follicle-fucking bastards these days. God forbid anyone catches me laughing in a picture. I tend to pull back my head so that there’s no neck within 500 yards. The only discernible features are teeth and eye slits floating in a puddle of flesh, barely visible. They are eclipsed by the shadow of my monster chin hair.