Monday, August 10, 2015

the much anticipated first post from Yamhill

While I have switched seats in blogland, they are still cheap and the sky is so so blue. I am no longer reporting from my bay window overlooking the wilds of Clinton street, but out my three living room windows that overlook the back porch from which I survey the rolling hills that make Yamhill. I don't know the reason for the name. A mystery to solve. We lived here -- my family did -- before I was born. There is a road called Kinney road, my maiden name, and I wonder who the road is for, if anyone I know or am related to. Another mystery to unravel. So it is a homecoming, of sorts. Not much happens here. By design. According to our neighbor, Jim, Yamhill doesn't want commerce.

As is typical of very small towns, everybody already knows we're from Portland. What they don't know is that we are really from Ruch which is not much different than Yamhill: a post office and Zippy's Pizza. Two big junk stores, one sells milk for five thousand dollars, so I guess it serves as the general store.There are no democrats, no hipsters and no organic food. Just space and space and space.



So, we moved, I got breast reconstruction, I'm almost healed and friday night, one of my new boobs blows up.

No, I didn't have silicone; those of you who know me know I have enough personal tissue to make three nice sets of tits, but I only made one and threw away the rest. The boobs are adorable. Cute little things that sit on my chest where boobs are allegedly supposed to begin life. Everything was going along fine. I went to bed Friday night, restless and painful, and oh, about 3 a.m., I felt the tiniest of tugs, a sharp pain -- nothing new -- and went back to sleep. By 5:30 when I woke up to get ready for a huge marketing event at work, a rare Saturday of work, I found myself lying in a puddle of blood. My blood. Soaked through two quilts, sheets and into the mattress. I was covered in blood. A serial killer novel of blood. Psycho.

I told my husband, "I think I have a bad problem."
He doesn't have the medical background that I do so was pretty much freaking out. While I was on the phone with my surgeon, he did laundry, bless his soul. It really saved the quilts.

So it was off to the ER where they checked me in and out. The surgeon says, "Well, this happens from time to time."

Ah. That helps. I'm common.

But this is what had happened: my right breast, the one that endured the lumpectomy and radiation and, oh yeah, cancer, the tissue in that breast is much slower to heal. The sutures, designed to dissolve, did what they were supposed to do, but the skin hadn't healed yet. My left breast is fine.

So, while my husband is howling that I should be in the  hospital (gaping wound, six inches long, deep, under my boob), I try to explain that the hospital is the last place I want to hang out while I await the next quilting session on my boobs. mrsa. enough said.

So I'll go in tomorrow morning and get put back together. Again. Again. In the meantime, wet dressings and a surgical bra that should be sold in the construction section at Home Depot keep me from falling apart. Whew.

I love our new house. I just wish I could unpack. Sheesh.

The work thing went fine. They don't even need me.