Sitting in Post-op Purgatory With Tom Petty

Somewhere around 4^th grade I discovered Tom Petty and have been in love with him ever since. Tom Petty is not only a handsome devil in that drug-dealing-ferris-wheel-running-carnival-worker kind of way, he is also my spirit guide. Long have Tom’s words come to me in times of need to give me a sense of well being. Back in the Turkey every time I’d successfully complete a solo trip to the bazaar, (A horror you will never fully understand until you’ve fought past vicious rotund women in floral headscarves and long coats for cheap eggplant and Hello Kitty undies in 150 degree heat.) the entire walk home I’d victoriously sing, “American Girl.” In our last home as we seemed to be a hotspot for the door-to-door sales of cable TV, roof repairs and numerous paths to Jesus, I always completed my hostile door slam with at least one verse of “Don’t Come Around Here No More.” No matter the situation, Tom provides the perfect soundtrack. This week, morning, noon and night my spirit guide Tom has been in my head, appropriately singing “The Waiting is the Hardest Part.”

Damn strait Tom, through everything with the Nugget the waiting really has been the hardest part. This week we hit a new height in waiting and even the wine isn’t helping this time. Let me catch you up to speed. Due to the reconstruction of his kidney and the swelling that would occur, a stent was placed to allow the kidney to drain through his side instead of the old fashioned way – though his little weinus. The plan was to cap the stent prior to us leaving the hospital, thus forcing the kidney to drain through his tiny man parts. Unfortunately, the Nugget’s kidney wasn’t interested in taking the natural path. Instead it backed up and made him hurl like a drunken frat boy post homecoming formal. The doctors uncapped it and thought waiting a few days would help. They tried again last Monday to cap it and this time the descent into hell was slower. No frat boy barfs but instead a slowly deteriorating Nugget and a kidney that was so swollen it was totally visible on the outside of his body within twenty-four hours. After uncapping it again and being drenched in a kidney juice tidal wave, (Gross right? Sharing is caring.) the Nugget was better and more waiting began.

With an uncorked Nugget in my lap, I anxiously awaited a return call from the doctor’s office with instructions as to our next step. As luck would have it, the nurse assigned to walk me though this “highly uncommon” situation, was Becky-it’s-my-first-day-on-the-job-as-a-urology-nurse. After waiting 4 hours, Becky finally called me at 5 to tell me the office was closed and she’d been unable to get in touch with the doctor who’d been in surgery all day so she’d call me back tomorrow. Before I could throw out my well refined, class A profanity, Becky, nearly in tears, disclosed that this was her first day and apologized for not knowing protocol better. She assured me it was safe to leave him uncorked and promised to call me back first thing the next day. Like a fool, I believed her.

At 10-freaking-30 the next morning, (Seriously Becky, in what world is that first thing? For the love of God Becky, I had time to panic-clean my entire house and even wash the rugs before your ass got around to calling me back.) she finally called with instructions on what we would be doing with my clogged up Nugget. Unfortunately, I’d had a full night to develop my crazy by Googling myself nuts and knew that the options we were facing were not pleasant, ranging from the surgical insertion of an internal stent, to a kidney transplant. We are nowhere near a transplant as he has one perfectly fine kidney that drains like it is maintained by the TidyBowl man, but by this stage in the game my continuing stress has ratcheted my crazy up to level hard-core and there is no longer any room for sanity here. Becky said the doctor was concerned but wanted to let it heal a bit more before making any decisions so we’d leave him uncorked until this coming Wednesday when the doctor would see him and assess the situation. Becky failed to note that part of assessing the situation involved an invasive test where dye is shot through the Nug as he is held down again for 45 minutes so the drainage process can be captured on film in a very gross Kodak moment. There is no way this isn’t going to be ugly. There will be kicking, screaming and lots of sweating and that’s not even taking into consideration the Nugget’s reaction.

So we’ve spent the past week waiting. With the exception of the drainage tube coming out his side, the Nugget is feeling great. He’s a different guy than he was before the surgery. He’s no longer puffy like a dude with a stuffed up kidney. His life-long surliness seems to have diminished because after two years, he finally just feels better. He’s back to patrolling the house in an Incredible Hulk mask and giant foam fist, stopping occasionally to inflict punishment in the form of a colossal fart to his brother’s head. What more could a mother ask for? If his damn kidney would work we’d be well on the road to recovery but instead we are languishing away here in post-op purgatory. We can’t celebrate what we’ve come through because it’s looking like it might not have worked and we can’t plan ahead because we have no idea what is coming. My return to gainful daytime employment remains a pipe dream and the prospect of me turning to late-night pole dancing work in a truck stop catering towards those who get a woody from cellulite dimpled thighs and C-section scars is beginning to grow uncomfortably close.

In the meantime, Tom keeps singing. Yes Tom, I agree, the waiting is the hardest part. Hopefully Tom has more faith in my sanity than I do at this point and I won’t start hearing verses of “Breakdown” before we get through Wednesday. I just desperately hope that we are not facing another surgery and in that exam room tomorrow I will hear the vocal styling of Mr. Petty singing “You Got Lucky, Baby.” If not, I will look that doctor in the eye and say, “Don’t Do Me Like That,” before taking a day or so to regroup so I can fight with my Nugget because, “I Won’t Back Down.” (See what I did there? I just gave you a whole Tom Petty medley. You will now most likely want to head over to YouTube to take a listen to my boy Tom and relive those good old days when rock stars looked like carnival workers, not middle schoolers (I’m talking to you boy bands.) You’re welcome.)