Update from the Heart of Hess 5

6/24/16
Update from the Heart of Hess:

And NOW, there is a fever. You know what? Just NO. Not having it. A doctor came this morning and said, “We might get you out of here this weekend!” He just didn’t say aloud that part about the extra-special parting gift of an infection. But that’s okay because Hess didn’t feel bad enough already, and sharing is so important.

***And them some crap happened when this person posted some negative shit and hurt my tender feelings, and then my brother launched an attack of rival-prison-gang-in-the-shower proportions, and a handful of my crew jumped in to assist. It took me a few days to recover.

Update from the Heart of Hess 3

6/22/16
Update from the Heart of Hess:

(Warning: Contains adult language, adult situations, and full-frontal nudity. And gluten.) 1) Don’t take this wrong: It’s NOT that things are BAD; it’s just that a couple of things are not good. 2) When Dr. Toothy told me that Hess did really well and only had two bypasses, the doctor’s shit-eating grin temporarily scrambled my processing ability, leading to the following misunderstandings: A) Hess only NEEDED two bypasses instead of four; B) Hess was “doing really well;” and C) The doctor was not REALLY a tiny turd, which makes him a cannibal because of that grin.

So, 3) Hess STILL NEEDS THE TWO OTHER @#$! veins fixed, but Doodie Chowser, M.D. failed to mention that tasty tidbit. “Oh, yeah, we got you all opened up there in the chestal area, but we couldn’t find enough suitable veins, so we just fixed the two worst ones, and let’s keep our fingers crossed that those other two hold out until we can get to it. ‘Kay? <<sucks something out of huge teeth>> (probably shit) Freaking kidding me??

And, then, THEN, 4) the night nurse in the cardiac ICU, whose FB profile I’m pretty sure lists “clubbing baby seals, especially the gimpy ones” under “hobbies,” didn’t have enough time to get my husband some food to take with his pain medication even though it clearly says right there on the label TAKE WITH FOOD TO AVOID AGONIZING NAUSEA, YOU HEARTLESS BITCH because she was way too busy being a heartless bitch. Oh, and she was annoyed when he pushed the nurse button after he got agonizing nausea, which makes perfect sense because that thing was only invented to alert nurses when a patient needs something, and how dare they have pain after open heart surgery and agonizing nausea after taking pain meds without food, the whiny, little fuckers. Man UP. Yeah. She should be careful I don’t track her down and pull that swingy ponytail of hers so tight she’ll be able to look both ways at the red light without moving her head. Because I so will.

5) After Hess was moved into a regular room late this afternoon – and BTW, I thought it was TUESDAY, but it’s freaking WEDNESDAY, which means I’ve lost an entire day!! Gaaaaaaaaaah!!! – I noticed that there were no little puff-up thingies on his legs; you know, those medical devices designed to prevent blood clots in patients who’ve had major surgery, especially when there’s a high risk of blood clots? Those things? Yeah, none of those on the potentially clotty legs. WTH? The admittedly nicer nurse said, “Oh, sure. He can have those if you want him to.” What? Was I finger-spelling too fast for you? Did you miss class the day y’all went over post-surgical procedures to prevent deadly blood clots and horrible, horrible lawsuits if anything happens to my husband??

Anyway, after an eternity, two nurses installed the anti-clot things, which look like thigh-high gladiator boots and would be all sexy and on trend if they weren’t Kelly green with Velcro closures. Half an eternity later after Hess noticed that only the right one was on, Nice Nurse plugged in the left one too (!) so both legs can be, you know, protected; and now Hess is hugging his big, red heart-shaped pillow to ease the pain of his incisions and injured ribs while he hacks and coughs to prevent pneumonia, another post-surgical concern. I’m honestly thankful for modern medicine and that Hess is alert and healing. Really, I am. One day, we’re going to look back on this and laugh. I just know it.

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 Murray-Hayes, Liz Phythian Dorfman, Barbara Lynn Ulrich, Dara Nikolic, Shari Ulrich, Ned Province, James Province, Sean Johnson, and Lisa Kerhin 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.

Happy Muthas’ Day

A darling friend of mine noted that I didn’t paste any warm and fuzzalicious words in honor of my mommy dearest this week on our social network. I love(d) my mother, but I used to have the hardest time finding a Mothers’ Day card because nothing quite said “Fuck you, bitch” the way I wanted it to.

Here’s the scoop: Sometimes moms are not Clair Huxtable or Carol Brady or June Cleaver. Sometimes moms have babies out of allegiance to some antiquated decree proclaiming a woman “not a real woman” if she doesn’t get married, get spermed, get swollen, get contractions, and then get her insides expelled out of her nether regions while LOVING the whole process AND the tiny tadpole who caused that nuclear pain.

My mom pledged that allegiance. She really would have rather birthed some stardom. Instead she despised most of her existence, most everything about me from my pre-adolescence to my own motherhood, and most of the attention NOT being on her. I jumped through all the flaming hoops I could to get her attention, pissed her off as often as possible, disappointed her in scandalous ways. We made up after she turned into a lonely and delusional grandmother who still passed for my sister. And then she fucking died.

I miss her laugh (of which I ADORED being the cause), her closets of enchanting evening wear and scrumptious shoes. And her cooking. Her better-than-Paula-Deen-in-her-dreams cooking. Her Oh, my GOD cooking; everything she created was pure gold, Southern-git-yer-diabeeteez-here, lick-the-plate, unbutton-your-waistband-until-the-misery-of-overstuffing-passed, gourmet grand. I’m sometimes morose with the realization that I’ll never experience her culinary creations again. I think about how it would be if she came back for just one dinner. Maybe on a Mothers’ Day. But then she’d bring her drama with her. And she’d have to go away again. And I still wouldn’t have just the right card.

C*nt Never Could

Holy shitwads, y’all! Gwenyth Paltrow appeared on Chelsea Lately—the only late, late night talk show with a woman behind the main desk—a couple of nights ago. This is, apparently, BIG news. Or the uproar could be that while on the show, Gwynnie called her grandmother a really, realllllly nasty name for the female genitalia. In case you are too chaste to know what the word is, then I’ll give you a hint, and perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck you’re doing reading this in the first place. Hm? Nothing? Mm-hmm.

For you sheltered mama’s boys, the word that Ms. Paltrow said begins with a “c.” It rhymes with “cunt.” Do you think you have it figured out? I’ll give you a sec. Thaaaaaat’s it. Yeah. Gwyn called her own grandmother that derogatory name because she was trying to riff off some stupid shit that Chelsea said about her grandma, which wasn’t even funny like 90% of what Chelsea says.

Well, my grandmother could kick both their grandmas’ asses in the kitchen; she smoked Marlboro Reds for sixty-five years; and she said things like, “Cain’t never could,” which means “Stop yer fucking bitching and whining and saying, ‘I can’t,’ and just do the goddamned thing I told you to do.” Whatever she told me to do generally concerned picking shit out of the garden in the Georgia heat and then shelling it for dinner as if I didn’t have better things to do in the air conditioned den where the t.v. was. “Peas cain’t shell themselves,” she’d bleat. To which I’d think, “Cain’t never could, you fucking peas.” I never said anything out loud, or I sure as shit wouldn’t be here whining today.

The thing that gets me about Gwyneth Paltrow’s c-word utterance is that every damned body is so shocked. Is there really anyone who still believes in the sparkling, studio-spun celebrity persona? Rock Hudson screwed boys, people. The jig’s been up for years. Gwyneth does not shit diamonds or have gold for blood. She isn’t immortal, as far as I know, and she calls her grandmother a cunt. She is one of the greatest actors I’ve ever seen, but since when does pretending well mean you’re better than everyone else? Shit. If that’s all it takes, where’s my fucking limo?  I’ve been married four previous times. Don’t tell me I cain’t act.

F***ing, C***sucking Cockroaches

The number one thing in the world I hate, despise, and abhor more than poverty, illiteracy, prejudice, torture and unwanted facial hair COMBINED: sonofabitching, buttfucking, asslicking cockroaches. How DARE there be a cutesy cartoon version in Wall-E!? I officially detest Pixar’s art department for implying that those godforsaken cretins could have any redeeming qualities.

It’s painful even to write about the motherfuckers. But! I was just fishing for topics, and the universe—bitch that she sometimes is—threw one my way. Literally. I went to my closet to find a cord for a hearing aid device, and I pulled down a box from the top shelf. I haven’t visited that box since we moved it here from Cucaracha Villa, the rental house we shared with four million roach bastards last year. When I retrieved the box, I knocked down an old make-up container, which had a partially opened zipper.

A millisecond later, I spied out of my eye corner a ginormous, black behemoth scurrying across the closet carpet. My usual spastic fit ensued, which my husband and daughter noted with the blithe expressions of flush septuagenarians nursing juleps on the fucking veranda. You know, they could have moved their asses because that cocksucker isn’t going to kill itself.