Mrs. Done by Forty and our friends were kind enough to carry my pack for me the rest of the trip. And my doctor said it wasn’t serious. As long as I didn’t lift heavy stuff, I could postpone the surgery until January in order to pick different insurance during open enrollment.
Waiting saved us over a thousand dollars, but came with the cost of not being able to play kickball in the fall.
After a few hoops with the insurance company were cleared, the day of the surgery finally came. Almost everyone at the surgical center was cool, but our anesthesiologist turned out to be a dick, opining as I was about to go under that, “The anesthesia drugs will sting going in, but only little girls complain about it.” I remember wanting to say something to the douche bag, but didn’t because I didn’t want to piss off the guy who’d be responsible for keeping me alive for the next hour.
I woke up and made a fool of myself in a drug filled haze, apparently trying to convince the staff that they should all watch Scrubs (“Have you seen it? It’s really good!”) and then, sigh, did impressions of JD and Turk. I’m not proud of it.
The next day, the anesthesia had worn off and the pain set in. I couldn’t get in or out of bed without a crazy sharp pain in my groin, and Mrs. Done by Forty had to help me get from one room to another. She prepared my food, brought me a Percocet and a glass of water every six hours, and laid extra