One of the many reasons I have not been riding on the Medic Unit with our local fire station lately is that I have a Ventral Hernia. (collective “EWWWWWWWWW”) Easy there, Kimosabes, it’s not that gross. At least, not unless I make you touch it.
Then it’s fabulously disgusting. (ask my daughter.)
I’m not going to regale you with nasty details and anatomical descriptions. All it means is part of my intestines are coming though the scar in my belly from a previous surgery last spring. Until we can go in and fix it surgically, in a month or so, I mustn’t lift enormously heavy things (like patients on medic unit cots), bear down too hard when I’m, er….YOU KNOW, or do sit-ups. (Oooooo. Like that last one is a sacrifice.)
And I’m no hero. I have been using this baby to get me out of as much as possible. Did you know I can’t lift laundry baskets or large grocery bags or any other thing that might be remotely displeasing to me? Whatever is inconvenient, I can’t lift. Just ask my husband, Troy.
So its been this family joke for a little while as we wait for the surgery to happen. “Mommy can’t, guys, she might bust a gut.”
And today, during one of the two basketball games I attended for my kids, I learned something else about Ventral Hernias.
You can’t scream maniacally, jump up and down, and do victory dances with one. …or you actually WILL Bust a Gut. Literally.
My son scored the only basket during his game today. My son, the littlest one. My son, the one most often treated with disdain and impatience and basically ostracized by his peers because of his crazy impulsivity, came into a moment of glory during his team’s crushing defeat. I saw his little form steal the ball, zip in and out and under the other, bigger, more talented players, take a chance, shoot, and score and I LITERALLY turned inside out for him. I mean, I was the quintessential embarrassment to my children. The parent that makes everyone feel sorry for the kid. That was me.
And then, I felt a pop, a burning, and I thought….either I just made my hernia worse, or I am gestating an Alien. Or I need to ease up on the Taco Bell.
Needless to say, I spent the entire time during my daughter Gwendolyn’s game on the bleachers, with one hand holding my belly. But I was prepared! I knew that when and if Gwen had a moment of glory, I would be willing to blow out the rest of my intestines for her as I turned inside out again.
If that isn’t motherly love, I just don’t know what is.