I have been avoiding this blog kind of, because I don’t have any cohesive thoughts to put down.
People ask how I am all the time and I never know how to answer. I say “okay,” because it feels like the right kind of neutral. I don’t feel bad, it could be worse, but it also could be better. Physically, I am okay for the most part aside from occasional piercing pain that doesn’t last (I imagine it’s the nerve endings and the muscle trying to heal, but I don’t know) and the drainage that is still weeping from the incision site. Sometimes I move my arm just so and it’s enough to pull those hideous external stitches, that’s definitely an attention grabber, like, don’t do that. It hurts. And I think everything is healing well, but the way everything is folded and tucked in and concave, I can’t confidently tell you one way or another.
Emotionally, that’s where I’m struggling. Two weeks later I’m just getting to a place where I can think about it and sometimes talk about it without crying (as long as you do not show me an ounce of compassion or empathy, that is. As soon as you make a sympathetic face/noise/movement/gesture, all bets are off). It’s still a struggle to look at and keep my composure but I think I get a little bit better every day.
I have wanted to write, desperately, to spew whatever it is that has been floating around my head but when I sit down to do it, there’s nothing. I don’t really feel much except sadness and bit of hopelessness. I have fought so hard to remain positive and to keep my chin up when things sucked, but it no longer feels like I am winning the war. Limping through a battle, maybe, but just barely getting by. I have thrown myself back into work, happy to take on additional clients because it’ll keep me busy. At night, I make jewelry or read or find something to do to take my mind off of it.
My friends, often referred to as Beavers, have been incredible. They text me just to say hello, that they’re thinking of me, asking how everything is going. They are women who empower other women and who shamelessly talk about uterine ablation just to make their husbands uncomfortable.
One of them sent me a wonderful text the afternoon of my first post-op (from Surgery 3). Well, there had been a few texts back and forth, this one was the last one. It was long and I’m only posting a snippet of it:
“I’m just gonna keep reminding you that you’re strong and amazing and inspiring. My girls ask about you all the time. I told the, about your courageous choice and they always ask if I know how you’re doing and feeling. #inspirer”
And it made me cry. It made me cry so much that I couldn’t even respond to it because a.) it was touching and b.) because I was ashamed. I didn’t feel inspiring (I’m still not convinced that I am), I didn’t feel strong. I felt cowardly. In my deeply upset state in the hospital, when I was struggling with everything and crying at the drop of a hat, I blubbered out that I regretted doing this, that I was stupid and should’ve just taken my chances. I didn’t mean it, it was just a build up of the frustration, the desperation to be nearing the end of this ordeal, the jealousy of people who sail through this without complication, the unfairness of it all. People who have more faith than I do have said that God has a plan for me, or has a different path for me, that things will work out in due time but not in the time frame I wanted.
It all sounds good and I wish I had a stronger attachment to faith and God sometimes, but I don’t and so I take these statements quietly and gratefully, then go back to trying to figure out how to cope with it on my own.