Firstborn was released on Tuesday. After a quick happy dance, Mom promptly over-dosed on Tylenol Extra Strength because there were three flights of steps, down which I had to schlep the jumbo-sized luggage, bags of mostly protein drinks, soup, applesauce and assorted easy-to-eat goodies, two gallons of bottled water, and a partridge in a pear tree (dayyum but that mutha was heavy to lug out to the car).
Firstborn continues under a ban on lifting-moving-bending-twisting or otherwise irritating the bit I have yet to see, the work below the equator. Kiddo and I are close, but not *that* close, if you get my drift.
There’s some definition to the jaw line, the nose is mega-ouchy but she can breathe through it (hooray), the hairline isn’t nearly as bad as you’d expect after 200+ stitches, and the swelling in the throat region is easing so she can talk almost normally.
Today we returned to the surgeon’s office so Ro could have her hair restyled to cover the scar and to provide a more flattering profile for her new features. It made a huge difference. She even got talked into having a mani-pedi!
Little Miss Mayhem is very happy to have the family together again. We’ve been catching up on the shows we missed last week (no, I don’t think that Blacklist episode worked particularly well, and WTF is going on with Orphan Black, huh… huh?). I forgot to watch the season finale of Lucifer and am, like, totally pissed off at myself for that.
I’m thanking the turnpike gods I don’t have to drive that hell-on-asphalt for a couple weeks. Today’s trip required us diving off at the Conshohocken exit and going the scenic route to avoid the backup on the Surekill. It’s a nice drive through the old money mansion district, though when you drive you don’t get to gawk as much as you might like. Mercifully, the trip back wasn’t as bad, and we celebrated by going to Perkins for French toast.
I didn’t ask, although I was dying to… instead Ro volunteered it was going to be a looooong time before she considers going under the knife again. This phase of gender reassignment took its toll.
If anyone ever poo-poohs a trans’ choices, send him/her to me and I’ll be tickled to set that person straight. This is no frivolous make-over. It’s complicated, painful, and hideously expensive, and it never, never, ever is to be taken lightly.The recovery period is in terms of months, perhaps as long as a year before everything settles, before feeling returns to the bits that were worked on (and that’s not a given).
Those who choose this path do so out of commitment and sheer guts.
I. Am. In. Awe. And very proud.
Meantime, I owe yet another round of thank yous to the wonderful friends who responded to my whine I’d run out of KU “titles worth reading” and deluged me with a fantastic selection of books. I’m busy reading and reviewing when not tending to Ro and the critters.
The urge to write is slowly returning. I had a dream last night—the plot was mostly laid out, the characters arriving fully formed—and I jotted down a few things before it all disappeared like a puff of smoke. But before that, I really must get back to Alpha’s Last Stand and a character I’ve grown to love, one who goes completely against type (my favorite).
It’s raining and really chilly. Herself is on the back of the recliner, a paw on my shoulder, reminding me she’s there and available for a serving of Friskies pate. I think I’ll feed her early, then snuggle under a fleece throw, read, perchance to doze?
Until next time, peace and love to all of you who’ve been sending healing energy Ro’s way.