Semi Colon Life, Day 22: Still not there, yet.

We are now three weeks out from my surgery, and while I feel great, the doctor's office called today to see how I am doing, and to remind me that I am still to take it easy.

"Minimal bending, no twisting, no dancing, no lifting, no pushing, no pulling, and no whole grains, oatmeal or spicy food," said Dr. Alfredo.

"No dancing?"

"No.  AND stay on the bland, low waste food diet."

OH, DEAR GOD!  that means two more weeks of bananas, white rice, apple sauce, lean chicken, low fats, no fresh fruit and no fresh vegetables.  No nuts or seeds, no popcorn, yet.

As a result of all the things I can't eat, I am obsessed with them and crave them.  As of late, my dreams are filled with bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, slathered in rich, creamy mayonnaise.   Last night in a dream, I had sex with a ceasar salad, which I then ate.

I can eat eggs, I cannot have a thick tender fillet mignon, served on a small round of crispy toast and caramelized onions.

I cannot have a pork chop, but I can eat an all beef hot dog.  But unable to slather it in mustard, what's the point?

I can have milkshakes.  I cannot have liquor or beer, which is no problem, until you start dreaming of Rob Roys, Manhattans and vodka martinis.

In these dreams, sometimes the food chases me, while other times I chase it.  And then there is the eating of the dream food, which is always wonderful, until you wake up hungry.

The most vicious of the dreams involves Taco Bell.  In one, there was a table loaded with shells, meat, beans, sour cream, lettuce and tomatoes and I just licked the table top clean after eating all of it.  I left the restaurant looking like Mr. Topogrosso.

As a result of this, my stomach has shrunk and I have lost twenty five pounds.   I should be losing more, but the high caloric count of my dreams interferes with this.

On the rare occasion that we do go out, I find myself wondering if they will let me order from the senior menu, where the food is all soft and easily digested.

In some restaurants, where the portions are beyond anything a reasonable person could eat, I can get through a quarter of the meal before the server, or worse still - the manager, comes over and asks if there was something wrong with the meal.

"No, it was great, I just can't eat what I used to," is often met with a tale about someone in their family having gastric bypass, too, and how wonderful they are doing.   Then you have to weigh your options, as in do I clarify that it wasn't gastric bypass, but a partial colonectomy, or is it just better to leave well enough alone.  I usually leave it alone, but if the server is an ass, then I don't mind going into the details until the color drains from their faces.

"Well, thats the last we'll see of that server.  Did you need to tell her about the condition of your delicate starfish?" says my husband.

And because of the condition of my delicate starfish, a low waste diet is for the best.

What I didn't know about the surgery was that in order to reattach the two ends of the new and improve colon together, they send a good sized instrument up your pooper to finish the surgery.  And since my tight starfish is outtie, not an innie, it - how do I say this - came out of this surgery looking very used and sloppy.

I asked my husband, who normally enjoys my delicate starfish, to take a look and his first words were "Whoa!" followed by "it's a little inflamed."

What it felt like was the mouth of giant octopus mouth from 30,000 Leagues Under the Sea had taken up residence down there following the surgery and for the first week afterward.

And it is just now, regaining is tone.  So pooping isn't the joyful experience that it once was, but I am told that it soon will be.

So I am watching the clock and calendar- November 22nd is our friends moving away party, so we are hoping that real food, or at least one glass of wine is within my reach in the real world instead of the dream world where it is served with a nice thick burger, coleslaw and side of fries...