"When you say 'we' do you mean 'me'?

So my mom called me last night and had decided that she was indeed going to survive so I can blog again.

As some of you may or may not remember Mom had her left kidney removed two weeks ago today and boy what a long, strange trip it's been.

Here is a synopsis of the past two weeks from my point-of-view:

Mom, get back in the bed. No Mom, you need to stay in the bed. Stay in the bed. STAY IN THE BED. I am not yelling at you. NO I am Not yelling. I AM NOT YELLING AT YOU. GET BACK IN THE BED. STAY IN THE BED! Will you please eat something? Wake up Mom. Eat this. Please? Will you please eat this? Eat this. You need to eat. YES YOU DO. EAT THIS! Mom, please get back in the bed. Yes I am sure that the Duke Power man does indeed mind that you don't have on pants. Mom, it is 2 PM, you cannot go outside without pants on. Mom, come back here. MOM GET BACK IN THE BED. GET BACK IN THE BED! Mother, please, you cannot go to jail with only one kidney. You'll get shanked in general population and then you'll need my kidney and I'm kind of partial to it. MOTHER! MOTHER, GET BACK IN THE BED! I AM NOT YELLING AT YOU, I JUST WANT YOU TO GET BACK IN THE BED. WHY DO I WANT YOU BACK IN THE BED? SO YOU DONT DIE! Please, get back in the bed? Please? FINE! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU DO. Are you cooking? Did you make something? YOU CANNOT COOK IF YOU'RE TAKING THOSE PAIN PILLS! YOU ALMOST BURNED DOWN THE DAMN HOUSE! GET BACK IN THE BED! 

On and on ad nauseum.

Here is a hint: Do not let pretty people operate on you or your loved ones. Seriously, if your surgeon walks in the room and you have to restrain yourself from launching yourself at said surgeon, genitals first, tell them to go ahead and put the scalpel down. I'm not saying that Mother's surgeon wasn't capable. She survived her surgery which I suppose is their number one goal. He also removed her kidney, which was the number two goal. I think he quit after two goals because it's only been two weeks and we've been back to his office twice, he's called in no less than 6 prescriptions and I am now confident that I could stand shoulder to shoulder with any wound-care technician in the area and do just as well.

My Mother is now the proud owner of a gaping, 6-inch hole in her gut. She popped her stitches and rather than sew it right back up he declares yesterday 'We're going to pack it twice a day for the next 4 weeks and re-assess then.' We, he says. We. I'm sorry but I didn't see him this morning bright and early when I was standing over my mother with gauze, sterile saline and a pair of forceps because if I had I'm reasonably sure that I would have launched myself at him, genitals first, but only so that my vagina could beat him up and then I would have taken advantage of him, but totally beat him up first. Only because my vagina is crying on the inside because I'm reasonably sure that my sex life is dying a long, slow, withering death. I now get to spend no less than an hour a day with my mother and I'm reasonably sure that won't work in the whole 'Hey, you wanna go to my place?' 'I'm sorry, I can't. I have to get up in the morning and go pack my mother's gaping wound in her gut. Maybe next time?' dialogue. Riiiiiiiight. That's my mojo working.

Not to mention that in 4 weeks after seeing my mother twice a day repeatedly I'll be ready for the funny farm and no one likes a crazy girl. No one. I mean I have enough issues as it is, I'm not sure that prolonged exposure to my parental unit will help any of that.

I, not we, am suffering this burden because I'm happy to do it. Because I love my mother. I swear I do. I just don't think it's fair for Dr. Pretty-Surgeon-Pants to say 'we' when he means 'me.'