An honest assessment

It's 6:30 on a beautiful Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week.  Just wanted to jot a note as it's fresh because sometimes we’ve strung a whole event together as we look back on it, not remembering the individual knots we’ve made.  We gloss over the details, forgetting the valleys or failing to acknowledge the peaks that have made our hearts soar.

I’ve cried every morning I’ve been home when I’ve woken up.  Maybe it’s because I remember, it all comes back to me that this is my reality for another day.  I know—I really do know—that today will be better and easier than yesterday, and I love that!  Because I made it through that and I keep collecting days that push me further and further to becoming “better.”  But I still cry.  Only for Todd.  Because it really doesn’t last long.  Just a few tears of acknowledgment that this stinks, that I hate it, I’m so very, very sore.  It’s not that I’m surprised.  I knew this was how it was going to be.  I anticipated it.  Not like I lingered over it, obsessing over it.  What does that do?  It’s fine, it’s life, it’s textbook.  It just stinks so much.  And it hurts the most in the morning after a night in the same position.  It stings and burns so much to sit up.  Try lying down from a bed and test your chest muscles and your back muscles as you get up.  There’s no really great way to get around it.  I feel like I’m ripping individual muscle fibers like a piece of beef, like I’m injuring my wounds to the point of no repair.  I’m stiff and without even meaning to, I just start to cry out of nowhere.  Maybe it’s normal.  I don’t know.

Believe it or not, I’m still trying to decide which one has been more painful: this or my emergency c-section.  I honestly think this is better.  Because I can walk and do stairs and move around so much easier.  Laughing stings no matter what.  But that can’t be helped.  Like I’m not going to laugh.

I’m also trying to decide if the mental anguish of not knowing was worse than this physical hurt.  I think almost yes.  It makes me think about Christ in the Garden of Gethsemene and how painful that part of the Atonement was, the mental and spiritual heaviness.  When I was younger I’d focused on the physical pain on the cross being the main Atonement.  But I’ve learned that was only part, that the Garden was where He really suffered.  And I wonder how I feel.  I think this is easier than the few days I spent alone with myself, in another dimension, wondering what would become of me.  If Heavenly Father really thought I would be better off helping Him over there.  So anguishing to come to terms with His terms.  Because I knew, even though I hated it, I knew His way would ultimately make us happiest.  And so I spent quiet days even though I’d be making copies and shelving books at school, helping my friend in her pretty new kitchen, making dinner like always, wondering if I could accept His plans.  I wondered if that really was going to be my Test.  And so it’s easy to see why this is easier.  I even have a little booklet, a stack of them actually, that tells me what exercises I can do and what successive days should feel like.  I have drainage we can measure, pills that are scheduled.  I spend some parts of my days resting, a lot of the time I’m just up but doing quiet activities.  It’s a pretty straight-forward process, the recovery will continue to get easier, and I’ve known others who have gone through it; it all is fairly routine and that gives me comfort.  I know most physical issues resolve themselves.  I just know that as hard as this week is for me and how painful it’s been, thinking about possibly leaving my family was more heart-wrenching than even this pain.

I’m the kind of person—maybe like you—who can handle something once I’m assured it’s normal.  I don’t want a concerned look to cross a doctor’s face.  I want his confirmation that the gauges on my back look completely great.  I want to know it’s normal to feel like I’m in a constant mammogram machine—both sides, all sides—all the time.  I can handle that.  Once I knew I’d be leaking blood and fluid by the cupful for days and maybe weeks, I could take it.  And so I continue to read along in my hymnal about all the recovery stages and rest assured that thousands of others have apparently been pushed to their outer physical limits and are doing fine now.

I’m trying to be a good patient.  Because I want to heal quickly and get on with life.  I don’t want to linger here.  I sleep my regular night hours, and can get up and bathe and get ready for the day.  Put away some things here and there.  I’ve eaten normally since the first morning after my surgery.  (I got into my room Tuesday night at 7 p.m.) I have a pretty hefty appetite, and so that hasn’t been an issue.  My mom was eating lunch beside me yesterday and she marveled.  “You eat a lot of food, Caren.”  I looked at her bowl of grapes and cottage cheese and didn’t think much of it.  I had minestrone soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a container of fruit, a completely normal lunch for me.  She just eats her calories in chocolates.  But it warmed my heart so much because my little nine-year old made it all for me.  She was also the one who helped me with my bath, taking off my sweatshirt, helping me with a new one, holding my four drains for me.  I can’t tell you how impressed I was with her kind service.  So sweet.  I lie down for maybe an hour and wake myself up snoring.  Repeatedly.  (I have a sleep study for apnea next month.  Good grief.)  I write thank you cards and look over recipe books.  I started a Pintrest account (!) and showed my sister a favorite blog, 100 Days of Real Food.  I’ve looked at fluff magazines and have rested again.  We watched Beezus and Ramona because my mom and sister had never seen it.  We watched Afterlife on Netflix (one of my favorite shows) and Ben Carson’s story, Gifted Hands, as a family last night.  Pretty low-key.  I haven’t washed a dish.  Or even filed.  The drawers are too heavy.  I’m being good.  Really.

I’ve started doing my exercises.  Well, not my exercises.  Theirs.  Resting with my hands high above my head.  Opening and closing my fists, moving my arms all around.  Reaching.  In the hospital it was excruciating to lift my arm for the blood pressure cuff.  I’m noting how easy this is in comparison.  I am a proactive kind of person.  If there’s something I can do to prevent a negative outcome in the future, I’m all over it.  Just tell me what to do.  So I rest with my little exercise booklet on my blankets, reminding me.  It feels good to have some say in my healing.

Yesterday was the first day I was without many visitors since the second I woke up Tuesday night.  I only had two the whole day, and one came bearing chocolate and the other one was one of my best friend’s families.   How I love them both.  It was almost strange to have it so quiet.  I have loved—absolutely loved—seeing all of you.  Even though I was so tired in the hospital, I was never, ever disappointed when someone peeked a head in.  From CNA to the Director (our bishop).  I just marvel—and start to cry (so this part has got to be short)—when I think about all the people who raked the leaves from their day to get in the car, to drive twenty minutes, find parking, take the elevator to the new part of the hospital, check to figure out where my room was, buy flowers and write a note somewhere along the way, and to mentally prepare themselves for rejection as they open the heavy door to my room.  What friendship!  What love!  I nearly flowed out of my watery bed with all the sweet tears I cried every time someone new would stop by.  I still can’t wrap my head around it.  And of course I’m crying now.  Mostly people stayed about 20 minutes.  I loved it because I love them.  So much.  I am not an errand girl.  And I’m not a quality time girl.  So it never occurs to me to go visit someone in the hospital.  I just send notes.  Because I’m lazy that way.  So I just couldn’t believe people would do that for me.

Two came Wednesday night after all the action of the day.  At different times.  One is a 24 year old friend who is like a little sister to me.  Wow, how I love her.  She brought a mason jar full of sunflowers and dried fall stems.  So like us.  And her.  She raises sheep.  She lost her card but brought me half a sheet of ripped scrap paper.  That I’ll always treasure.  She is one of the prettiest girls I know.  But she is the real thing.  We marvel all the time how beautiful she is on the inside.  She is amazing.  Todd helped her out and showed her where to put the flowers (since I couldn’t have them in my room) and he came back awhile later saying she’d broken down crying.  I had no idea what to make of that.  I didn’t understand one bit.  I just know she is one of my favorite people, and I love her so much.  A bit later we were walking around the floor (I’d been up a few times that day already on walks but they were concerned about me not passing gas.  Can you even imagine a good answer for that question.  The lady-like side of me was appalled, the patient side of me was concerned.  What a quandary!)  So we were making the rounds and ran into one of my favorite big brothers ever, bearing two pink roses.  Seeing him with his pink shirt woke up those dumb tears again.  I couldn’t believe he would take the time to come see us.  His flowers remain my favorite.  I think because they showcase his personality and remind me of something my dad would do.  His wife’s text made me laugh, and my love for them just soared.  He walked with us for awhile.  I liked his company.  It felt so good to see him.  He’s enough like family—as were all the visitors—that I couldn’t even care that I had on funny gowns (two so the back wouldn’t fly open) or what this particular mission was about.

Todd came early each morning before work and stayed late each night after a full days’ work, reminding me of college days when he’d stay late enough to tuck me in at night and then bundle himself into the dark wintry night to walk the 1-2 miles home to his apartment.  He has been a faithful supporter, trying to balance providing for us and attending to to his work responsibilities with wanting to be around for me while taking care of the kids and the home-front.  He has walked this tightrope splendidly, I’m in awe of his strength and gentleness.  My sisters have said my recovery has a lot to do with him and his support.  I completely agree.  I just can’t imagine having a different kind of husband.  Probably because I see the kind of men you all are, and I know you’d be exactly the same way.  Your wives are so blessed to have you, and I know you’ve had to be strong in some pretty trying situations.  This is what it means to be a man in my eyes.

I'm also indebted to my mom and sisters so  much I don't even know how to begin.  I can hardly believe they would take days, a week, out of their lives to come and just sit with me.  To strain blood and fluids out of my little hanging bulbs, to check stitches, to wash our clothes and cook for us.  To keep a schedule of pills and to get up early with me, to help me sit up, lie down, and get up.  They have run errands for me, bought treats and snacks.  Fielded phone calls and visitors.  Asked doctors questions, insisted I go get my rashes checked on.  Gave me a hard time about being up so much and gave me that look when I told them I was having a church meeting here on Friday.  They've made me laugh till I thought my stitches would burst.  They've brought me tissues when they saw my tears dripping down my eyes when I was lying on my back wounds that seem to hurt no matter where I put them.  Cheri has documented the whole thing, taking pictures of the sorry look of things as well as gallery-worthy photos of the kids.  Cheryl has validated me, she knows what it's like to be a mom in our family.  She is tender and nurturing in ways I just am not.  She just is.  My mom makes her home in the kitchen, dishes are efficiently and effortless whisked into their places by the time everyone is home from errands.  It's a well-oiled machine, these women of mine.  I just have no words for  how much I love them and appreciate them.

I left Thursday afternoon, after another morning of visits, beginning with our good friend (also  a doctor and bishopric member) who came bearing cinnamon rolls and juice.  How sweet!  So many doctors attend church with us, so they’d peep in throughout the days; I just couldn’t get over how thoughtful that was when they are busy well-known doctors with tight schedules.

My home had become a funeral parlor since I’d been gone and I was overcome again.  I told my sister I couldn’t even think about it without crying.  Every single time I started to mention something someone else had done, tears just started dribbling out like an old incontinent woman.  I was completely on edge, my emotions were so raw and I was so vulnerable, I just couldn’t—and can’t—get over how loving and generous and kind and thoughtful and creative everyone’s been.  I really, truly am overwhelmed.  A designer friend (that sounds weird, she’s a decorator/photographer) who I don’t always see showed up just after I arrived home with her daughter, carrying a tall skinny purple orchid that looked just like her.  And a bottle of fudge.  I couldn’t believe she would think to do that.  That is still so interesting to me.  Because it hasn’t been necessarily the people I always hang out with who have reached out to me.  Some of them have been more distant friends.  It’s just so mind-boggling.

I’ve gotten three fluffy blankets, luxurious, cloud-like varieties.  One anonymously.  It’s killing me.  Because how will they know how much it meant to me?  How will I ever be able to tell them it was perfect, that I’ve never felt so enveloped in love?  I ache to tell someone.  Two friends came over to wash my hair.  People keep asking me what they can do and so I’ve tried to really think what I need.  I knew I would like that, so I asked her before I even went in if she would be willing.  I loved how creative she was to bring her 18 gallon tote and have me lie on the bed!  She and another friend I don’t usually see brought over a HUGE basket overflowing with magazines and treats, movie rentals, popcorn, lipsticks, lotions, brand new books just for me (one is by Melissa Gilbert with old-fashioned recipes and stories about life on Little House!).  I was completely taken off-guard.  Who would spend all this time and money on me???  I just loved having them in my house though.  So much.

Another friend spent the morning with my sisters and me, I’d told her from the very beginning all I wanted was for her to come hang out and to keep laughing with me.  We share the most embarrassing stories—we have so many between us—and she is one of my easiest, most enduring friends, we go back to early college days twenty years ago.  A breakfast casserole.  Lotions, a gift card.  Random packages in the mail with robe and thank you cards?  A beautiful book of inspiring photographs and words.  Freezer meals.  And fresh meals.  A neighbor bearing a package of fluffy socks and nightgown (which I haven’t worn since I was about 12—I’m so excited!  If I can ever get my arms to work like that again).  Who thinks to be so nice?

I could write a paragraph about each of you.  I’ve kept a list.  I just hate that all I have is notecards.  How can a little piece of paper ever convey the love I feel for you in my heart?  Gratitude, indebtedness, awe, I need another language.  English isn’t doing it for me.

I’m still embarrassed to say I’m not sure I’m doing that great when I pray.  I get stuck from the very beginning.  All I can think about is how grateful I am.   But He is foremost on my mind when I’m lying quietly.  Because I want these same blessings for my friends.  I’m embarrassed that I haven’t been more spiritually in-tune.  I feel like I’ve missed out on some inspiration because I’ve been distracted.  I know I’m in a prime condition to receive something more, but I feel bad that I haven’t been receptive.  That honestly does kind of bother me.

I talked to my CNA one evening in the hospital.  I talked to everyone.  I see us as people, as potential friends.  Who cares what side of the bed we’re on or who’s been to school longer?  We’re all just here playing a little part.   Anyway, I know where all my helpers grew up, we’ve discussed their families and their pets.  Where he’s going hunting this weekend, and why they were drawn to this line of work.  One CNA just five years older than me tentatively asked me what kind of surgery I’d had done, and of course I told her all about it without hesitation.  She confessed she’d been diagnosed just three weeks ago with breast cancer.  All I could think about was how hard it must be to continue on with her regular work while carrying this burden inside of her.  She told me everything.  I empathized deeply.  Because now I can.  I assured her that her case wouldn’t hurt this much.  She would just be having one side done.  She wouldn’t be doing reconstruction at the same time.  She would do just fine.  She pulled up a seat and we talked and talked some more.  I felt a deep love and concern for her, so sad that she’d been living a similar uncertain kind of walking nightmare.  But I was more saddened because I knew in a way it would be harder for her.  She has a job, for starters.  I’ve been so spoiled.  I just didn’t know for sure if she’d have a network, a similar kind of support at home.  I wondered if her faith strengthened her and gave her power to draw on.  My heart reached out to hers, and, again I felt how easy I have it compared to so many.

Not to say it’s exactly dreamy.  Just that I’m not in the burn unit, being scrubbed twice a day.  I’m not tentatively holding onto life by my toenails.  I’m not anguishing over my kids and our severed relationship.  Or scared for my life, running from an abusive husband.  This is surface pain (well, and some muscle pain) that is slowly (like cold molasses slow) healing.  But I’ve loved feeling good enough for visitors and even a little trip to the airport to get my mom (my sisters assured me that lots of people wear pajamas in airports these days).  Another funny (and squeemish) part was Friday night when I realized my pain pumps that were connected to my back and front were empty.  (Those are the two black bags I was holding up in my picture.)  Meaning I could get rid of them.  My husband, being a vet and all, was elected to do the surgery.  It was soooo funny!  Ripping tape off even a relatively furless back is so sore.  And I yelped in pain with each tape fiber release.  Because it’s meant to stick.  Then tubing was wrapped up in more of it all over my tummy.  (I tried to up my ab workouts in the weeks preceding this surgery just in case of exposures such as these but I’m afraid to say there is just more virgin white residual baby fat skin than tight, tanned, toned muscle.)  Then he had to pull out tubes from each of my four quadrants.  Long tubes about 12-15 inches each.  Talk about a weird and icky sensation, feeling them uncoil themselves from being embedded within me.  SO gross.  But progress.  I only have four drains left.  They’re sewn into me.  Can’t wait to see what that’s all about.

I’m sorry this is so long, imagine if I’d tried to handwrite it in my journal.  I just think it’s valuable to have these memories logged somewhere so I can access them down the road.  And know that they’ll be accurate.  I’m doing fine.  Really.  Not awesome.  Not dying.  I don’t know that I’d be brave enough do this again, which is part of the reason I opted to do both at once, or that I’d do it just so I could buy a bigger bra.  I did it to hold onto life a little longer.  So with that motivation rattling beside these strange wires inside me, I’m making it.  Even though it hurts like the outer edges of hell, I’ve never felt so good.