It's been a long time coming. Frankly, I didn't believe my doctors when they said, "six weeks for recovery." I mean really. Who takes 6 Weeks! to recover?
Me.
I went into this thinking I'd take no pain meds and be up and running... oh... maybe a week later. I didn't expect to do CrossFit the day after surgery or anything. I'm not stupid. I'd give myself a good 4-5 days to recover.
Then I woke up after surgery.
My first thought: Ow.
My second thought: Oh! Really OW!
My third thought: HOLY COW! Get me some morphine NOW!!!
I slammed the nurse call button and felt myself starting to cry-- which was NOT a good idea. Crying uses abdominal muscles. (A fact I'd never considered before) The more I hurt, the more I started to cry, the more I hurt, the more I cried... The worst (and fastest acting) vicious cycle I've ever been caught in.
The nurse- a short Asian woman- informed me in halting English that she couldn't give me anything more for pain because, "You ah sensitive to pain medicine."
Shocked stare from me. My thoughts: "I'm the one who told you that! And apparently I'm not THAT sensitive, because I am about to DIE from PAIN!"
What I actually did: Stare at the ceiling and try to remember some Lamaze breathing from my ancient past in order to live. Focus. Relax. Breathe.
When I could talk I told her to go get an anesthesiologist. She argued for a moment until I turned my head away from my focal point on the ceiling. We made eye contact and she saw the terror in my eyes. "I go wake him up."
Yes. Good idea.
I came home from the hospital with Tylenol 3 and a renewed appreciation for narcotics. But I still didn't take the whole recovery thing seriously. I mean, how hard could it be?
For the first two weeks my Mom was here and I was able to rest. And rest. And rest. And at the end of those 2 weeks, I was feeling pretty darn good! I was certain I was basically recovered. Isn't it amazing what Moms can do?
When she left, I figured the vacation was over and it was time to get back to real life.
And so I got up, walked around, drove all over town (which is what I do- did you know driving uses your abs?), went tutoring (we DO need the money), and generally refused to rest until my body gave me no choice. Thankfully, several people brought in dinner for us, so after I'd exhausted myself, I could collapse with dinner and not have to stand up to prepare food for my 3 teens. Can I even begin to tell you how wonderful these meals were?
Nope. I can't.
As I am nearing the end of my 6 weeks, I humbly acknowledge my former complete incomprehension of what recovering from major surgery meant. It means Rest. As in, lying down (fixed that grammar mistake for you Mom!), not getting up to answer the phone, let the dog in, or go to see daughter X's amazing Lego creation. It means Saying No to things like tutoring, driving to the grocery store, and taking kids to activities. It means Accepting Help from people who offer it. Even when you are a bit obsessively independent. And it manes accepting My Own Mortality and coming to grips with the fact that sheer will-power can't force damaged cells to regrow any faster. (Darn it all!)
I was asked to speak in church on Sunday. (As in- give the sermon- for those of you who are not LDS) I think people at church are afraid I've gone inactive and am dropping into apostasy. Who misses church for 6 weeks in a row?
People recovering from major abdominal surgery. That's who.
I told them I could do that, as long as I don't have to give a traditional Mother's Day talk. I hate going home from church on Mother's Day feeling depressed because I am apparently the only mother in the world not ready to be taken up to Heaven in a Chariot of Fire. But MOTHERING, as in taking care of people who need help-- THAT I can talk about.
And recovery.
