Recovering or Just Wasting Time

I talked to my boss the other day asking if there was something I should be doing while I'm at home. "Uh, recovering from surgery and chemo," she responded. I suppose that's an option. But somehow reading crime novels, sleeping, and watching mostly sitcoms on TV seems like a waste of my time. I should be working, or writing journal articles, or at least writing my own great American novel, but truth be told, I haven't felt like it.

And that bothers me.

It seems like I have been given this "gift" of all the free time I want, and all I want to do is rest and make my hair grow back by continuously rubbing my fingers through my head in search of new signs of fuzz. After her comment, however, it dawned on me that when you have chunks of your body removed maybe you need to recuperate. So I am trying to embrace the concept of recovery and convince myself that it is a legitimate pasttime in itself. I would write more, but it's time for repeats of "Everybody Loves Raymond." Sigh.

Post Surgery

I made it. I made it with flying colors. It was just how I wanted it to be. I went to sleep and woke wide awake in recovery. Pain has been minimal. No nausea. No extended stay in the hospital. Everything went well.

My sister was with me the whole time. She even spent the night with me in the hospital on a roll-away bed stuffed up in a corner of my room. Tomorrow she goes back to Tennessee and turns over my care to our mother. It has been nice having a personal nurse and companion, but she has a job, children, home in Chattanooga so I have to let her go. Unfortunately, I can't afford to pay her a salary and it's against the law to chain her in the basement. I am left with a caring mother and loads of friends who support me through every step. Not too bad.

Fear of the Unknown

I've never had surgery before unless you count the wisdom teeth that were removed 20 years ago, and I don't. Next Monday I am going to have the lymph nodes cut from my left arm and frankly I am scared. I know thousands of people have this surgery every year and it is probably routine but it doesn't stop me from feeling afraid. I have even had graphic nightmares.

Last Monday I had my pre-op visit and a colleague had hinted that due to my pulmonary embolisms that they might be reluctant to put me under and instead do a local or even postpone. I was livid. I had a schedule and postponement did not fit into my plans. And oh yeah, I really want to sleep through the whole thing. However, though they did question me thoroughly, I was approved apparently based on three factors: my EKG, the ability to open my mouth really wide, and the ability to walk around the mall. As luck would have it I went shoe shopping on Saturday, at the mall. I knew buying shoes was the ultimate in mental health, now apparently it has been proven to address physical health as well.

MRI

On Friday I had my second MRI since this whole thing began. It was at a different facility than my previous one and the experience was just as bizarre. Even more so. The MRI was in a trailer out back which you got to by a lift in a big cement warehouse. Then to get to the machine you had to climb a step ladder and maneuver your breasts into a basket while stretching your arms forward. You also had to go into the machine feet first. At least this one had music coming through the fairly useless headphones.

Towards the end of the test when my nerves were just about shot from the banging and the straining not to move, they played Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor. The prelude has a special meaning for me. During my youth, I tried for years to master the piece until I finally acknowledged that my fingers were just not long enough. In this instance I was transported back to my piano and imagined struggling with each of the notes that, unlike my feeble attempts, were played so expertly in the headphones that did little to block the crashing sounds of the MRI.

The tech's who had administered the test pulled me out and praised me for my patience and fortitude. I didn't want to admit that it wasn't me but Rachmaninoff and his prelude.