Well, it’s official. I have scheduled surgery for next Wednesday. Apparently the only time available was at 7:30am with check-in at 6, which means I have to get my tired, anxiety-ridden ass up and to the surgery center at an hour I like to pretend doesn’t exist.

This is a follow-up surgery to the incredibly painful ankle surgery I had 18 months ago. When my heels tried to kill me. Seriously, it wasn’t even a good story – I was wearing 5 inch wedges for a wedding, and rolled my ankle on loose carpet in my condo. Cracked my left ankle and subsequently FELL on it, breaking two bones, dislocating it and as they discovered in surgery, tearing every single freaking ligament.

Because I don’t go halfway on stuff, people. Go big or go home. So I literally destroyed my ankle and had surgery early last year to put it all back together with the help of a mental plate and 8 screws. Recovery sucked. I’m hoping it’s not quite as bad this time around – turns out somewhere over the course of “healing” in the last year and a half, I tore a major ligament again and some of the metal screws are coming loose. My screws are loose. Literally.

So I am hopeful this will alleviate the pain that never really went away, and make it easier to you know, walk. Live my life. Little stuff like that. You can expect some Percocet-induced posts once I have had a chance to get through the initial recovery.

Speaking of, I decided I wanted to share a little story with y’all today – the story of me and my Percocet adventures. Percocet and I have an interesting relationship. I would say Percocet is my frenemy. There were days when I didn’t know where I would be without it (like those first days after surgery when I couldn’t even see straight from the pain) and there were days when I hated it more than anything (like when I hadn’t pooped in 5 days).

It was a catch-22 actually – one of the things they stressed after surgery was the importance of managing the pain, but that meant high doses of painkillers, and let me tell you – there are trade-offs.

Because there was such extensive soft tissue damage (I’ll spare you the details – reading the surgery report made me throw up in my mouth), I was experiencing much more pain than I would have if it was just a bone break so I was in desperate need of the drugs. But taking high doses is not only hard on your liver, but it constipates the hell out of you, and makes you physically sick sometimes. Try getting to the toilet in time to puke when you just had major ankle surgery, are high on painkillers, and uncoordinated on your crutches. Keep in mind, I broke it in the first place because I’m so clumsy to begin with!

Anyway, a stressful situation like that could use some comic relief and it came in the form of my frenemy, Percocet. I was staying with my parents during that time, and my mom was usually the one who was home more often. Anyone who has taken painkillers knows that while they do help with pain, they make you a little loopy and loose-lipped as well.

So let me paint you a picture. I’m sitting on my parents’ couch, ankle elevated on their recliner. My mom is sitting across from me and we’re just chatting and hanging out. This was beyond that first horrible day or two so I was in a much better state for conversation. She had already had to help me with a makeshift shower situation, help me get my pants on and off those first couple times and help me to the bathroom the first time, so she’d probably seen more than she’d care to at that point, but hey, what are moms for?

We were essentially talking about that exact point, when my Percocet drenched brain decided to volunteer the following information. TO MY MOTHER.

You know, I’m not always like that. Down there. 

She just stared at me blankly. It could have been over then. But OH NO, Percocet and I weren’t done.

I’m talking about the hair. I don’t usually have a bush. It’s a new thing I’m trying. He (the guy I was dating) likes it… maybe it’s a generational thing, something older guys like more. He is in his forties after all. I used to go Brazilian but that shit hurts… so it’s better this way. It’s kind of nice. I think I like it. I feel all… womanly.

Let that sink in for a second. I just said that to my MOM. My thoughts just poured out of my mouth in one big rambling mess and I don’t even think I fully comprehended how awkward that could be for her, even after the words were hanging out there in the air, trapped in time like they were in a cartoon bubble.

My mom looked at me for a second, probably trying to process what had just happened. And then she just laughed. There are a lot of reasons my mom is awesome, not the least of which is that in this moment in time, she laughed.

Oh yeah? I can’t imagine ever doing that – what your generation does. I’ll just never understand it.

No? You’d never get a Brazilian, Mom?

<more laughter> Listen, I’m in my sixties, I’m not about to start something like that. Besides, I’ve never gotten any complaints.

Well, OK then. Go Mom.

I can’t tell you exactly how the rest of the conversation went, but it definitely continued. Me, laid up at my parents’ house just sitting with my mom and explaining that my boyfriend liked a full bush, and how convenient that was since I was in no position to get to the salon anytime soon.

Eventually the Percocet faded. That relationship disintegrated. My ankle started to heal. But that conversation with my mom? It’s burned into my brain FOREVER. We joke about it, and honestly, it’s probably one of the best things that could have happened at that point. We both needed a good laugh.

This time around, I won’t be staying with my parents. Since Gil and I live together, he will be able to help me out so I can actually stay in my own place. I’m pretty curious to see what comes out of my mouth this time, and even a little nervous – I mean, imagine all those crazy things you think but would NEVER say out loud to your significant other. I wonder what will make its way from my brain to my mouth. That Percocet, I tell you… she is a sneaky bitch. Stay tuned – it should be interesting.