The long story, made longer

 

I have received several emails and notes asking how my recovery from surgery has gone. I thought I’d write a massively tacky response about it, and instead of emailing it back, post it publically. Some call that laziness, I call it keeping up the 411.

Surgery was an experience in and of itself. I had to submit my body to people who were trained to fix it, after having submitted my body to someone who wasn’t supposed to break it. I resisted. However, my friend who was helping me dress, feed and shower myself wasn’t so resistant. Apparently I am a hard person to take care of. Remember this for later in the story.

I had to do physical therapy for two weeks before the surgery, to relearn to walk. And strengthen my muscles.

The impending day of doom was upcoming and I looked at my two and half year son who needed full time care. Crap. He didn’t like that hamster like bottle of water I left him last time, so someone was going to have to take care of him. And this is where I know God gave me mercy, because people I have known all my life stepped up, and said “we can take him for a couple of weeks, or months..depending on what you need. Let us.” Across country, five states away. The other option was to have someone come to my house, and take care of him there. While I wasn’t at home. I shipped him off UPS. What, I paid for a private truck to take him.

The thought of not taking care of my child bothered me. And that is all I can say about that.

I woke up the day of the scheduled event at 2:30 AM. Praying I could walk on my own. Asking God for one more favor, if he had the wont. I tried walking to the kitchen by myself to get a Coke Zero, and fell. Well what did I expect, I hadn’t been walking on my own since December. I am stubborn though. I thought I could do it. And then my friend came into the kitchen, saw my graceless body on the floor and said nothing. Picking me up, putting me in the vehicle and taking me to the hospital, saying nothing. The sound of silence is truly heavy. What could I even say to make this better? Nothing.

I was x-rayed to see if I broke anything. I had not. I was prepped for surgery. I was wheeled into a huge room, with lots of technology, and a doctor who didn’t find humor in my recent mopping of the floor, but did find humor in my tattoo’s and arrow’s I had drawn up my leg telling where the boo-boo was.

Six hours later, 3.5 pints of transfused blood, I was in recovery. Where apparently I was channeling a princess in the recovery room, asking where my tiara was. I only wish I was making that up.

I had surgery on Thursday. I demanded to get out of bed Saturday. Since this was not just a hip replacement, but a pelvic bone replacement as well, I was told to wait till Monday. Yet, I have a loud voice, and was getting out of bed Saturday. I only walked to the door of my room, and had to go back. But I knew my body was not paralyzed. I could deal with this mentally.

Physically therapy sucked. And I might have been a difficult patient, so I am told.

Now I am walking by myself, and done with physical therapy. And with most people, that would be the end of the story. I however like life complicated. A couple of weeks ago, I fell again, after my leg went numb. I sustained a minor concussion. I saw a doctor who confirmed what I adamantly have denied. I need back surgery. The hip/pelvic reconstruction was phase one. Much needed, but not the end of the story. I have six herniated disks in my back that I have been walking around on for eight years. The bottom disk has shrunk. Two of the disks have fused them together.

I have had mental therapy for this thing that has happened to my body, and to my spirit. I am dealing better with it. What I am not reconciled with is the thought of back surgery yet. I didn’t have Joshman for almost two months. I wouldn’t have him again for another two months, at least.

Looking at the long term of this? I don’t know. I haven’t been able too think that far ahead.

The sweetness factor times two

Hunter, my friend’s baby. My ovaries exploded after a night of cuddling.

Too cute

I gave up one for the other

Twelve years ago, I stopped smoking, much to the delight of many friends (Hi Lisa!). I enjoyed smoking. Every chance I got. I also have a touch of OCD, so whenever I would smoke I would spray body spray and brush my teeth so I wouldn’t smell. So my quiting was a relieve to all involved because now I could have conversations without something sticking out of my mouth, be it a cigarette or toothbrush.

And then something happened along the way and I picked up a love of coffee. I have a slightly addictive personality, and that became my weapon of choice.

Then I rediscovered cigarettes. And only flirted with them once in a while. Until this past year with a few thousand moves in the picture, a new job, and surgery.

If you want a mental picture, I look like a hyped up Chihuahua when I have consumed too much coffee and smokes.

The point of this? I quit smoking again this January when Joshua had bronchitis. And I don’t want to pick it up again so he can breath easier.

And once again coffee and I have made friends.