The more days that pass after finding my hernia, the more annoying it becomes. I’m trying to be smart. I do not want to push myself and cause an emergency or a greater issue. I’m not fucking with my life. I’ll cut splinters out with a knife. I’ll climb up on ladders higher than I feel is safe. I’ll get myself in questionable situations, but all of those rely on me fucking up to have a bad outcome. I’m not going to risk my bowels popping through my muscles more than I have to.

The family is freaking out a little. They are used to me doing everything. Now, they have to do more and more. I’m currently wearing an abdominal binder with a sock rolled up to press against the hernia, so I don’t have to hold it in like I did earlier today. Yes, people gave me some weird looks. What really got me is I didn’t want to lift something heavy. The wife said, “Oh, so we’re starting this right now?” I replied, “I’m holding my fucking intestines in as I walk, so yeah!” It was quickly followed by a phrase, “I guess you’re going to treat us like slaves.” WHAT? Not wanting to damage my body before I have the opportunity to get it fixed has nothing to do with someone other than me feeding the animals or taking out the trash.

Seriously! How does taking responsibility that you should have been taking all along make you a slave? I’m not cracking a whip. I’m not yelling. I just don’t want to fucking die before I turn 42. Did I flip out when you had your breast biopsy? No! I was supportive. I watched the downward spiral, but not without trying to help. I think the one big difference is that the breast biopsy was to see if something more sinister was lurking. There was a possibility of yes or no. With my intestines poking through my groin, there is not possibility of it not. The biopsy ended up being fine. My intestines are still poking through my muscles.

Enough of this bitching rant. I thought maybe I’d understand something if I wrote it out. Nope! I’m still flabbergasted by the entire exchange.