Anne SG and the Big C

I’d been warned by several people in the hospital not to rush getting well, not to take on too much. Just Tuesday I was telling the plastic surgeon’s nurse how great I felt, and she told me that there would be good days, and there would be bad. Well, today is bad. It is one of the days that my scars and pain and the tubing running out of my sides are more Frankenstein than signs of healing. I got ready to shower this morning and wanted to cry. Where was my optimism? My hope? My strength? Instead of looking ahead, I was looking at a piece of damaged goods, a body scarred and sick and carved up. Damaged.

But not ruined. It’s been a tough couple of days because the drains in my side prevent me from sleeping any other way than on my back. So there’s not much sleep, and when I do sleep, I end up with back and neck pain. The pain meds cause nausea. Whine, whine, whine. I treated my horrible mood after my shower to a lunch of water (my conscience speaking) and a slice of chocolate cheesecake (my self-pity). I’m getting tired of getting well. I’m not a patient person. Not by a long shot. My kids, especially Arden, are not managing all that well, and would be really happy if I could start taking them to school again and just get well enough to get life back to normal.

Serenity now. Breathe. One day at a time. Well, I’m trying. I still insist on looking at the glass as half full, and ready to be filled a bit more. This disease is an opportunity for me to reexamine life and redetermine what I want to do with it. Today I might just wallow a bit, eat some salty carbs, whine, and sigh dramatically.