Reflections - Princess Mode

Janet with her Princess Blanket

 

I’m a worker bee. Life trained me to finish what I start before taking a rest. This September, I picked up the pace. I washed the screens and windows, clearing a year's worth of road dust. I deep cleaned the porch and suffered the ire of resident spiders that left a trail of itchy, pink dots up my forearm to my elbow. Plus I crammed laundry, loft-to-basement house cleaning, litter box scrubbing, and worm compost drying, into the last weekend.

The urgency to get the work finished? Impending surgery by Dr. Ackenbom.

I had fallen in love with Dr. Ackenbom five minutes into our two hour consultation in June. She asked what I wanted, listened, and explained my options for repairing the vaginal prolapse.

While still healthy enough to undergo surgery, I chose it, the only choice that wasn’t a Band-Aid.

“Surgery is ninety-five to ninety-nine percent effective and will last forever.” Dr. Ackenbom’s lips curled into a cute pout. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you every three months.” She gave me a long list of pre and post op instructions ending with, “To heal properly, you’ll need to be in princess mode.” Her laugh rang out like a peal of country church bells.

I followed all her directions leading up to and including the day of the surgery, September 26, even though it meant waking at 3:00 a.m. to shower and drink twelve ounces of Gatorade. At 4:10 Spence drove me through the dark and rain to Erie—a different experience from a daytime drive, like landing in an airplane on a runway at night. I checked into the hospital at 5:30 and was whisked to pre-op where efficient and friendly nurses took great care of me despite giving me canary-yellow nonskid socks that clashed with the tarnished-gold crescent moons on the green and blue hospital gown.

Dr. Ackenbom visited pre-op, asked a couple questions, and grabbed both my hands giving each a squeeze. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Nodding, I couldn't stop my eyes from flooding. At least the tears didn’t spill down my cheeks.

Though Dr. Ackenbom operated on me for three hours, I didn’t see her again until she burst into the recovery room while I nibbled crackers, sipped water, and chatted with Spence.

I had to pass the pee test before Dr. Ackenbom would let me go home. So Amy, the nurse who walked through the revolving doors that morning the same time we had, set to work. She piled more saltine packages on my tray. “The salt in the crackers will help you pee.” She refilled  my water cup and added another IV fluid bag to the hook by the bed. She even pumped water into  my bladder before shoving a walker against the bed and making sure I didn’t fall while I shuffled to the bathroom.

“Put your hand in this.” She stuck a bowl of warm water beside me then turned on the faucet. Running water. Hand in warm water. Full bladder. Of course I peed.

An hour later, Dr. Ackenbom came back to give me the delirium screening. I bungled a few questions. I said Obama was the president before Biden—wishful thinking—and dozed off in the middle of subtracting three from twenty. “Seventeen, fourteen, eleven, zzzzzz.”

In a polite voice Dr. Ackenbom said, “I’m waiting.”

“Did I answer?” I remembered having to subtract three from twenty. “Um, seven. No, twenty, seventeen—”

“That’s fine. You can go home if you can get your clothes on.”

If.

The IV fluid bag might as well have been pumping concrete into my veins. I couldn’t sit up let alone struggle into the elastic top jeans and bulky sweatshirt I’d worn. I surrendered to another nap.

When I woke, I gulped some apple cranberry juice and gazed out the window at Presque Isle Bay. Waves rocked under pelting rain and menacing black clouds. Spence read me well wishing emails from my sister, brother, and brother’s girlfriend until Amy popped into the room and stared at me. “You look rested. Your eyes aren’t glazed. Are you hungry?”

“YES.”

She picked up the phone. “Can you send a dinner tray to room five twelve?”

After eating a grilled chicken breast (from a very young bird by the size), green beans, and applesauce plus taking in yet another bag of IV fluids, my arms and legs moved. I slipped into my clothes. Amy wheeled me out of the room, down the elevator, and out the revolving door to Spence’s Maverick.

Spence drove through spurts of rain. The Maverick rolled up and down hills, around green fields, and past orange construction cones. Spence chatted about the cats and the proposals he’d worked on during the day fueled by coffee from the nurses’ station and a breakfast gobbled at three while I took my pre-op shower. Balancing on the seat so as not to put pressure on my bottom parts, I considered him a superhero for continuing to function.

At 7:30, Charlie opened the front door for us. The sleeping cats awoke, stared as if they’d never seen us before, then went crazy chasing each other about the great room. A satisfying welcome indeed.

Princess mode began the next morning when Ande followed me to the bathroom waiting to be picked up as usual. He paced around my feet at the bottom of the porcelain throne.

I petted him, cooed “What a good boy you are,” but didn’t lift his sixteen pounds to my lap.

He circled the bathroom then put his paws on my knees.

I rubbed his whiskers.

He sat on his haunches and lifted his front paws to my shoulders.

I stroked his sides and bent my forehead to touch his.

He purred.

Rills and Gilbert sat on either side of the bathroom door waiting for their morning hugs. I didn’t lift them either.

Ande Guarding Janet

After morning ablutions, I’d worn myself out so, instead of sitting at my secretary desk to write my morning journal, crawled back into bed. Pamper yourself, I whispered to no one in particular, and read to distract my thoughts, easing the pain. 

Three cats swarmed into the bedroom. Ande jumped onto the bed and walked around my legs. Gilbert pranced over me. He didn’t stay long enough for a cuddle. Rills contented himself by putting his paws on the foot of the bed and surveying the scene. When the small cats left, Ande snuggled against my leg and napped.

The cats had adjusted.

My other fellas did too. In fact, Charlie had prepared for princess mode at the end of August during Sunday breakfast. “Would you like to see Hamilton?”

“You mean drive to New York?”

He chuckled. “No. On Disney channel.” He subscribed to Disney at the beginning of September, and I lugged my laptop to the loft to cast the movie onto our wide screen TV. Charlie shook his head, put the app on my tablet, and made the sign-in a simple one click.

The first day after surgery, he climbed and I trudged upstairs before and after lunch to watch princess movies—though I did hear him snore through part of the second one. He’d gone to bed before I made the trip for my evening princess fix. I would watch five more princess features—some with Charlie, some alone, all sitting on a pillow or two in the lime green lounge chair, another of Dr. Ackenbom’s directives.

Charlie teased. “You need a pea under the pillows.”

Spence didn’t tease. He provided practical help with a plus. After the exertion of brushing my teeth and washing my face had me dragging back to bed, Spence dashed ahead to smooth the sheets and place pillows—three behind my back and two under my knees. “Are they at the right angle?” He tucked the cozy princess blanket, which my friend Maggie had sent, around my legs. “Sparkle side up.” He grinned and placed a green afghan beside my legs.

Gilbert hopped on the afghan and kneaded the yarn. Purring, the cat settled while Spence arranged a wood tray beside my torso.

On the tray Spence set a cup of steaming herbal tea, a journal, pens, and a brass cow bell. Clutching earphones he’d hung around his neck, he said, “I’ll be listening to news. Ring if you need me.” His footsteps faded down the hall. Water splashed in the kitchen sink. Pots clanked. Spence was washing the dishes—one of the many chores I’d abandoned.

The rest of the week fell into a routine: morning writing, meals at the table, strolls on the deck, photo processing, and evening princess movies.

My worker bee mode has dissipated. A dependent princess reigns, but she’s temporary. I may never whack villains with an iron skillet like Disney’s Rapunzel, but I’ll recover from surgery, put the pampering behind me, and help others. 

 

Janet Watching Princess Movies