Prelude to a Stitch

Here's my advice: When your doctor prescribes drugs, take them. All day Sunday I went from one extreme to another. (Keep in mind I was hungry and recovering from tequila withdrawals.)

I deserve this tummy tuck and breast reduction.

No, I don't.

Yes, I do.

No, I don't.

And so on and so on. A delight to be around.

Sunday night, I took the sleeping pill and immediately felt at ease. I believe my exact words were, "F*ck it. If Sharon Osbourne can do this, so can I."

Monday morning, I popped more pills and verbally fantasized about tuna subs with extra pickles, onion rings and Big Macs. Walked into the hospital and they said,

"You must be Berger's patient."

"Either that or I'm hung over," I said.

Everyone laughed. I'm a riot when I'm wasted.

After that, things get fuzzy. I vaguely remember my good doctor drawing on me with a Sharpie, listening to the nurses gossip about "business plans" and the epidural cramping my legs. Then my nurse said, "We're going to sedate you now."

Didn't open my eyes again until around 2:30pm. I sang some Hebrew prayer and told stories about my silly family as I made it back from La La Land. By 3pm I was smiling and making jokes about suppositories.

Don't get me wrong. This hurts like a b*tch. I've got two drains coming out of me and comparing my coif to Medusa is too kind. Wait'll the muscle relaxants kick in and then I'll really tell you what I think about you and the fact that you didn't send flowers.

I'm almost back. Pray for a healthy bowel movement and I might get through this after all.