Oh come ON.

Last Friday, I finally had my Nissen fundoplication.  I spent the night in the hospital and came home Saturday.  I was catheterized during the procedure as I was under general anesthetic, and developed a bladder infection by Sunday morning.  It's disturbing to urinate blood, even when you're half expecting it.

After calling the clinic which houses my surgeon and his residents and fellows and being ordered by the nurse to bring my sorry sad self down within a half hour, I was driven down my Mom, gave them a sample and waited two hours in uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room only to have the initial orders given to me on the phone contradicted by the front desk staff, who told me that, despite the initial assurance that I would be squeezed in by 10:30 am, my appointment with the resident was not, in fact, until noon. This was at 11:30, and I just couldn't wait anymore.  

After waiting three hours at home, I called the office, received a call back at 4:30 and was told my sample was full of unfortunate substances and a prescription had been called in for me.  But what did they call in?  Not your average, run of the mill Sulfa drug, no.  They called in anthrax-busting Cipro.  What the hell was in my pee?  

As I can't swallow pills yet, I took the first pill in ground form and hoped for few if any of the myriad of terrifying side effects listed in the pharmacy handout.  When I awoke this morning, my throat felt full and sore, and upon investigation, I saw the normally pink roof of my mouth covered with white patches from candida.  The ground pills wiped all of the good bacteria out of mouth and now I'm reduced to gargling tea tree oil twice a day, because the three types of ground pills I'm taking in addition to the antibiotic aren't foul enough.  However, the narcotic pain pills are giving me fun dreams, even though they're keeping me from knitting as I can't focus my eyes.  I'll take it where I can get it.