Ouch...

Its fast approaching the 1 week anniversary of my procedure (again despite it being merely a number, it is amazing to note how quick time passes by you whilst you're having fun... or busily engrossed in dealing with low grade pain.), and I suspect my worse fears are coming through. I think the wound is fast becoming septic. Despite the constant love and care showered upon it, the wound doesn't feel right no more. It feels all achy and there is an apparent discharge from the stitching points (or whatever you call it). It usually takes a disaster for me to truly appreciate the nature of the initial problem and the simple solutions I could have turned to before letting the matter get all out of control. I should have taken my veggies and fruits... if only... :( Anyway, there simply isn't much point sobbing over spilt milk and infected wounds. I will be heading back to Mount Elizabeth tomorrow for a follow-up with the surgeon, hopefully it isn't as bad as what I think it is. My GP did mention briefly that small amounts of swelling and discharge is merely part and parcel of the healing process and there simply isn't much to go all edgy over. Easier said than done I tell you.

It is almost 12pm soon and upon the stroke of noon, I shall have to make that agonizing 247m journey to the food-court to purchase lunch for the matriarch and I. I really am in no position to make that long trying journey, but she simply doesn't give two hoot about the agony I am in. "Be a man, it is only a small slit so stop whining over it and get up and do something, I have been through worse" she says with an air of superiority. There simply isn't much to argue about there cause she has undergone much more drastic operations in comparison to mine, so mine is rather minor to her. "I wouldn't even consider it an operation" she smirks. I was under general anesthesia for two hours and it sure as hell is an operation to me. And the question to ponder about is not how large the slit is but WHERE the slit is. So there, I have made my stand. I do concur that my threshold for pain ranges between the values of 0.2 to 0.7 on a scale of a hundred but I do feel that that shouldn't make me any lesser of a man... right? The point to note here is that I admitted to having a rather miserable tolerance level for pain and that admission in its own right should warrant some form respect (in my humble opinion that is)

As I browsed through the blogs and Facebook profile pages of friends, and friends' acquaintances and those belonging to the in-laws of my friends' acquaintances, I realized that despite the "all-happy-to-be-a-solitary-anti-social-mountain-tortoise" exterior I do miss (just a teeny bit... Isaac, I ain't about to kill myself over it) the mindless nights out at the clubs or just chilling out with friends. I still don't take rather well to alcohol so its absence isn't cherished in anyway whatsoever. I do miss the long bike rides with JJ, the pain (good healthy ones that is) and the feeling of endorphins rushing through my blood after a good Triathlon training session. My couch potato days are soon drawing to a close and the thought of being up and about and busy to do anything again is simply exhilarating. Soon the conversations will evolve from "I am in too much pain to do anything or go anywhere with you" to "Sorry mate, I've got... and... and.... and... and.. and... blah blah blah... another time k?" Soon, soon... :)

"Half out time is spent trying to find something to do with the time we rushed through life trying to save." 

- Will Rogers (1879-1935) New York Times April 29, 1930

I guess Mr Rogers realized the problem a bit too late. Let us try not to be the ones quoting the same quote as we lying coughing on our death beds. :)