My surgery fell at an incredibly inconvenient yet convenient time. It happened to be smack dab in the middle of the week that some of my favorite people in the world would be visiting from California – my Aunt, Uncle, and two adorable cousins. They don’t get to visit often, and it was a week chock full of special occasions. My little sister and local cousin were both graduating from high school-
and my middle sister was turning 20 years old. Happy Birthday Ellen!
I considered canceling my surgery, but the more I thought about it the more perfect the whole thing seemed. For one thing, I didn’t want to be crabby endo lady while they were all here, and for another, it would be the perfect excuse to stay at my parents’ house instead of commuting to and from my apartment an hour away. I knew that slicing open my abdomen actually guaranteed the most possible family time. I’d be forced to enjoy their company and not go to work or do anything that was really, in the long run, less important.
Today is my last day at my parents’ house before going back home, aka, going back to the real world. I decided to take this opportunity to write about the very mixed emotions that come with any recovery.
Now, Mom and Dad, I know you’re reading this, so don’t take this the wrong way, but staying over is not always fun. It’s not your fault, I’ve just grown accustomed to different things. Like a taller shower. And a bigger bed. And not living with my sisters. But this time was totally different. Maybe it was because I stayed for more than just one night – which means I got nice and settled in. I also had my kitty with me, so I didn’t need to worry about her being all alone without me. It was also great having the house full to almost bursting. I love my little cousins running around and having the house full of laughter all the time. Being in recovery also helped. Let’s face it, I had lost my edge. I was tired and drugged up, I didn’t have the energy to fuss. Boy, that was therapeutic. Lets hope some of that stays with me.
Then there’s my husband. He took four days off to be with me 24/7 and help me get through that initial recovery phase. I loved having him with me all the time. I guess I got spoiled. Now we’re going to go home, and we’ll go back to the schedule where I get 2 or 3 hours a day with him if I’m lucky. His new job has been really rough, but that’s it’s own post I guess. It was really hard for him to even get time off. It’s the same old problem – I don’t look sick.
As nice as it was to get all that time with people I loved, it was hard too. I felt sad that I couldn’t get up and dance with little Cousinette whenever she asked, or play tickle monster, or anything like that. And even with all the meds, I felt pretty sick. I entered that dismal phase where you feel that you will never be well again. I slept a lot, but never felt rested.
Yet, when I would feel a little better, I’d feel sad too. As if getting well meant somehow loosing something. Attention? Time to rest? It’s true that when I get well, I’m going to have to go back to my house, go back to work, and take care of myself. Who wouldn’t be sad at the thought of leaving home? Who doesn’t want their mother and father fawning over them?
But at the same time, who doesn’t HATE being sick?
My little cousins and their parents have boarded their plane and are heading back to Cali. Before the night’s over, I’ll be home too. No, I’m not well really. I still can’t carry stuff very easily, or do a sit up, or do anything without pain meds in me. But I’m well enough to go home. I don’t want to. But I do.
I don’t want to get well.
I don’t want to be sick.