Anne Nahm

After five days languishing in the fluffy, warm, snuggly incubator known as the Ultram-Vicodin Happy Place, I realized (read: My husband’s freaky eyed glances my way suggested to me) that maybe it was time to lower the dosage and come play in the real world. Turns out? When I’m not going about my regularly scheduled activities of flitting around the house and chattering like a magpie, my family considers our house to be eerily quiet. My one word answers and slightly unfocused eye contact? Freaking everyone out. Wimps! I say.
Unfortunately, I then had to spend the next few days with Happy Place Hangover. I guess my body chemistry translates ‘hangover’ as playing Opposite Day. So, you know, happy-warm-snuggly evaporated into a big honking dose of insomnia and anxiety. Yay body chemistry! Eff you very much.

As you may or may not have surmised, I naturally tend towards bouts of anxiety. I don’t really mind anxiety per se. What pisses me off is a bout of irrational anxiety. I mean, not only is that totally useless? But it makes me feel kind of stupid. There is plenty of worthwhile stuff to freak out about instead of sleeping. But not sleeping because you are freaking out about stupid stuff? Quit insulting me, brain.

I can hear you anxiety advocates clearing your throats in the back there, ready to marshal up with those pat statements that all anxious thoughts are equally detrimental and I shouldn’t hound myself for the stupidity of my inner freak outedness. I suggest you choke that phlegm ball down and listen to these actual anxiety inducing thoughts I’ve had the last few days before going into you pat speech:

1. Fear that I! had! shaken! my! baby! When what was being shaken? Was a bottle of formula. To mix it. The baby was in the other room playing quietly.
2. That I will mix the baby some of mine and make myself some of the baby’s**:

3. And then the baby will realize that formula tastes like crap and will Bogart all the strawberry flavored slim fast.
4. And that I will have to drink the formula. What? I’m gonna throw it out? That stuff is expensive.
5. That I won’t be able to figure out one more stupid thing I’ve been anxious about the last twenty four hours. Does this count? Maybe. I’ve had a kind of generalized fear that I will never be able to write anything coherent again. Not really sure if this post is enhancing that fear or not.

Usually when I get anxious, the antidote is exercise. However, I’m restricted for two weeks due to blood clot concern. I don’t know if secretly exercising to reduce my anxiety would help if I had to be constantly fearing keeling over from some sort of exercise related embolism.

Anyway, at the end here are my head screws. They are very tiny:

And here is a link to the close up of one very blurry picture where the top of the screw looks filled in with toothpaste. Except the toothpaste is bone. It’s not really that gross, and kind of a bad picture as I don’t have a camera equipped to take super refined pictures of tiny things. But I said I’d post them, so there you go. Still haven’t heard back about the biopsy results which probably means there was nothing too dire found. Although rumour has it my doc is back to tooling around in his 911 porshe, so go figure.
More when my brain is out of detox.

** Am on liquid diet for 10 days post op because sutures inside my mouth. Again. Also helping in my brain not functioning quite right. Because there are only so many shakes a person can drink before they declare, “screw 800 calorie minimum! I ain’t chokin any more of that crap down.”