Starting to Heal

My surgery was successful - turns out the belly fat I've been carting around all these years is good for something after all.

Recovery, as advertised, has not been a cakewalk. The first 24 hours after surgery, they woke me up every hour to check on my new boobs. The whoosh, whoosh of healthy blood flow soon became a reassuring sound. All is well, all is well. 

The next day, it was every two hours. Needless to say, I was happy to get released to home the third day, where I could begin to think about getting some decent sleep (in between doses of pain meds). 

The drains were a bit less painful than I remembered from 13 years ago - medicine has figured out better ways to anchor the tails in place, and if they don't move, they don't hurt as much. Still, I was thankful for the assistance of modern pharmaceuticals the ten days they were in place. 

The last one came out last Thursday - which meant I was free to go back to sleeping on my side, where I normally sleep. I came home, and immediately fell onto my bed and into the sweetest 90 minute restorative nap I can remember. I woke up thinking I might make it through this after all. 

Julia, my sister, stayed with me the past two weeks; her presence made everything easier. She took care of dog walking and dishes, floor cleaning and laundry. All I had to do was to work on figuring out how to heal. 

She's gone home now, but the neighbors have taken over dog-walking duty, and I'm able to do dishes and laundry on my own again. The floors are just going to have to be dirty. 

The Meal Train has been oh-so-reliable, and oh-so-helpful. It'll be another month before I can lift more than 10 lbs, and having dinner show up every other night saves me from trying to figure out what I can safely cook. (On the off nights, leftovers rule!)

The surgery left me hurting in odd places. I expected the pain in my lower stomach, the fat donor site, and my chest, where whatever portion of it was grafted into place. What I wasn't expecting was the tightness across my mid-section. Everything from my ribs down is drum-tight. There are odd points of pain as my body attempts to sort out just what happened; my nerve endings don't know how to interpret the sensations. Today is two weeks out, and I am just now *almost* able to stand up straight. 

I am off the prescription pain meds, just need the occasional dose of Tylenol or Advil to quiet my poor jangled nerves when I've coughed too hard or moved wrong (still figuring out what that means!). My energy is limited, but that is to be expected.

I miss moving, I miss yoga. But I can walk, as long as I don't sweat - so am grateful I didn't have the surgery in July - and walking is better than nothing.

I'm not yet quite past "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" phase of the healing process, but I'm getting there. Already breathing is easier; my chest can move more freely without the implants stretching my pec muscles 24x7. That, in itself, is huge. 

If I squint, I can almost see the "this was a GREAT idea" phase on the horizon. Assuming I can keep from messing up the surgeon's good work for the next month, I'll be left with warm, living breasts - belly boobs someone called them. I like that. 

One step at a time. I'll get there.

Goodbye, Dennis

Back in the day, I struggled to find a good hairdresser. Even after I started shelling out real money for my haircuts, the results were... variable (is the kindest word I can muster up).

Nancy, at work, always had nice looking hair, so I asked her for a reference, and she led me to Dennis.

I made an appointment, sat down in his chair, and he set to work. This was sometime back in the late eighties, and until last month when he retired, I can count on one hand the times my hair was cut by someone other than him between then and now.

It helped that I just wanted my hair to look presentable; I left the exact cut and styling to him, which worked because he had definite opinions. Together, we worked our way through poodle cuts and a sleek 90's bob. When I hit menopause and my hair decided it was time to be curly, he switched my cut to the mop I've worn for the past two decades.

That's a lot of one-on-one time in a chair in front of a mirror, and over the years, we became friends. We shared decorating ideas and paint swatches. We talked about politics and family. He watched my kids grow up - has been cutting Joe's hair for years. 

I understood when, a couple of months ago, he told me he was retiring. He had gone to Colorado for a month's vacation, and came back looking a decade older. His feet hurt. But I worried for him - without the anchor of conversation and care from his clients, I was concerned he'd lose his bearings. 

I talked to him, but he would hear none of it. He started packing up his life. He organized his things, put his house on the market, and then set up an estate sale for virtually everything he owned, to be held as soon as the house sold. Two weeks ago he climbed into his van and headed back west.

Yesterday, the news came - he'd ended his life's journey on his own terms. He had seen the ravages of age heading his direction, and decided he wanted none of it. I know the voice of depression - am sorry to know it spoke so loudly to him that he could no longer hear the voices of those who loved him.

Dennis - I hope, where you are, your energy has returned. I hope you are presiding over as beautiful a reunion feast as I can imagine, once again happily fussing over details of decorating and table linens, seating arrangements and centerpieces. 

I hope you are at Peace.

Such Love

I've been terrified of coming down with a something anything all week, but surgery is tomorrow, and I'm still healthy. (Don't jinx it! Don't jinx it!)

I've been diligently checking things off my to-do list all week. I've managed to get the 'musts' done and even a few of the 'it would be nice ifs'. Bonus.

It's a weird feeling, knowing I feel just fine today, but tomorrow around this time, I'll be waking up in quite some pain with a number of rearranged body parts. So grateful for modern painkillers - they'll make it much easier to get down this part of the road.

Aside: What kind of world do we live in that I can schedule when pain will begin? Amazing, when you think about it. As soon as I can also schedule when it will end, I'll be totally impressed.

As promised, radiation tightened up the scar pockets around my implants -  the closest I can come to describing it is that it feels like a tight bra I can't take off. While not looking forward to the recovery process, I AM looking forward to the part where the tightness in my chest will ease.

The biggest feeling I'm carrying into this complex and scary surgery tomorrow? I am loved.

One of my longtime friends came from out of town to be here for surgery. My sister is on her way; she will stay for the first two weeks, to get me back on my feet. If things calm down at her place, my college roommate will be in the following week.

I set up a Meal Train - food will be coming throughout the six week recovery period.

I won't have to worry about walking Sylvester - my neighbors are on it!

My people, near and far, are reaching out to me - you are in our thoughts and in our prayers and please let us know how we can help.

I don't have to do this alone. Not at all. Not for one minute.

I can let go of my delusions of control, release all the pieces to fall where they may, and still breathe easily. My people have my back.

*she sighs contentedly*

Good Is.

Running in Circles

When in trouble, 
When in doubt,
Run in circles, 
Scream and shout!

This old refrain has often been popping to mind this past week.

You see, while on one level I've been busy nesting, another part of me was in denial about the whole surgery thing - I was afraid it wasn't going to happen because I couldn't get healthy.

To summarize, the radiation gave me extensive burns. As those cleared up, I developed a case of cellulitis. Antibiotics cleared up that issue, but left me susceptible to fungal infections, and I developed a persistent ringworm infection, all over my keister. (Who ever heard of athlete's butt???) As advised, I tried to fix it with over-the-counter lotions for a good month, but I was playing whack-a-mole. It would clear in one spot and pop up in another. I finally got on oral medication two weeks ago. 

The meds seemed to be working, things were about clear, then a whole bunch more red spots showed up. Arrgh! In a panic, I called my dermatologist, and they were able to fit me in later that afternoon with the Nurse Practitioner. She listened carefully to my tale of woe, took a close look at the spots, then, puzzled, said, "there's no fungal infection here. This is eczema."

I had been doing the belt and suspenders things, still using the lotions while taking the meds. Turns out, once the fungus load dropped below whatever level, the lotions started to irritate rather than cure. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

I was SO relieved. They won't do surgery if you have a fungal infection, but they don't care about eczema.

It's been an emotion-filled week. 

Another of my good friends has packed up her life here and headed back to her hometown. I heard one of my younger cousins is in hospice care. Another close friend's mother died unexpectedly. So many goodbyes. Goodbyes are HARD!

And. 

A friend's husband came over yesterday and spent much of the day building a rock ring around my tree, so I can put mulch down. People have been calling - "surgery is coming soon. How can I help?" I followed the dermatologist's instructions, and the eczema is almost cleared up. I was finally able to get in to see my massage therapist, and she took my locked up shoulder personally - an hour of hard work later, it now moves much more normally.

The wrenching and the heartwarming, interwoven with the ordinary moments of my week.

I've been working to hold to both truths. Life is hard and life is beautiful, all at the same time.

"But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars"

- Martin Luther King, Jr.