I roll on my side wanting to sleep a little while longer, ignoring the fact that I’ve been in bed for days, and relish that it’s Sunday of Memorial Day weekend and I have no plans to speak of, but my bladder doesn’t care one bit. I stumble to the bathroom, pull down my panties and sit on the toilet in one motion, then look out the window at the newly ensconced trees and pee a little river. After wiping, I look into the bowl; it’s dark yellow. I’m dehydrated again. Maybe that’s why I have a headache, and not the surgery. Too much coffee, vodka, and wine, and not enough water, I know.
I glance into the mirror over the sink stained with chalky white toothpaste, blue-green spit from my antibiotic mouth rinse, and bits of dried blood. I’m still puffy and the soiled tape on my nose has begun to pull away from my face, but I think I look a little better I convince myself. My black eye, which had turned yellow yesterday, was now hardly noticeable. I turn away from the mirror and step on my scale wedged between the vanity and the tub. You have step on it to get it to activate, step off, then on again. I usually step off again to bend down and read the number, as I’m usually not wearing my glasses. But with my head in pain, I squat instead. The first try I miss, and the blue numbers disappear before I can read them. I try again. 132! No, that’s not right, really? I think to myself, getting excited. Then do it again. 134.6. That’s probably right, and even though its not a big difference, I’m disappointed nonetheless.