Spaghetti-ng On With My Life!

There is only one way I like my spaghetti, and that is EATING it.

I am currently at home recovering from surgery to repair a possible spaghetti, err spigelian, hernia.  I was given a different diagnosis from my doctor and surgeon as to whether this bad boy even existed; however, I had to stop running in case it was a hernia, as the risk of it becoming incarcerated could have horrific consequences.  After trying to find answers some other way and procrastinating the inevitable, the only way to know for sure was through this "exploratory" surgery.  And finally, the verdict:  no hernia.  

Yay!  Good news!

Mmk, so raise your hand if you like having surgery for no reason.   Oh wait.  Your hand didn't go up.  Huh, whaddya know...mine didn't either!  I will stop whining eventually.  But not yet.  Maybe tomorrow.  Nah, let's go with next week.  Yeah, that's better.  Two weeks.

So, what was discovered:  my diastasis recti (a condition where your abs split in half during pregnancy) has not healed, there is evidence of other tearing and strains, and I have a small hole in my groin.  What?  Apparently none of this is causing my pain though.  Oh.  Wait!  What?  ...hence "exploratory" being in quotes.  No real conclusions.

So, my takeaway.  I plan to start working with a PT to restrengthen all this mess and start spaghetti-ng on with my life, eh hem, running.  According to the surgeon, I'll need about three weeks to heal until I can attempt running again.  I have been so good for the better part of a year now.  Following directions.  Resting when told.  Playing it safe.  I feel like none of that has worked?  So, time to revolt.  Ima get my a$$ off this couch today, rip off my steri tape, and go for a run!  Okay, no, no I'm not.  But I want to.  But this incision f*%^ing hurts.  And I refuse pain medicine.  Pain medicine is for wussies.  I'll probably be a wussy by the end of the day...

Don't you love how dogs have this ridiculous sense of when something is wrong with you?  Okay, total side note here, but all Zoe wants to do is put her head on my belly and stare at me with these oh-so-sad eyes as if she is saying, "Seriously, fix your sh*t, Mom!"  It's like, she knows.  Perhaps DOGS should be the diagnostic experts?  Now, only if dogs could talk.  We have all these technological advances today, yet, we can't figure out how to make dogs talk?!  Yes, I am bored and will probably come up with many more of these philosophical revelations by the end of the weekend.

 Mmk, back to sitting still.  To at least celebrate the good news of no hernia (cuz really, it is VERY good news), I think I'll have spaghetti for dinner.  With a big glass of whine of course.  ;)