It’s hard to believe an entire week has passed since my surgery. During my post-op doctor visit this morning, I got my staples removed and received news that my pathology report indicated no malignancy. The latter news alone should have me turning cartwheels, alas, it was my doctor’s instructions to continue with my current level of (very) restricted activity that caused a a funk to creep so cunningly into my spirit that I had my 1st post-op meltdown over dinner.
As meltdowns go, this was a mini. At least on the outside. But on the inside it feels like a volcano. A fiery hot dangerous volcano that would erupt and cover up hard all the love and softness and sweetness being sent my way.
M1 is caring for me like a pro. From advocating for me in the hospital to admonishing me when I all too frequently bend or stretch or do something that is yet restricted. She is kind, attentive, proactive, thoughtful, and because she knows me so well, accurate in her loving service to me. Worse yet, she is, gulp, nurturing. Nurturing like a loving mother.
God help her.
I came home from the hospital Wednesday, slept most of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, had a bit of company on Sunday, and by the time dinner came today, I could barely look at her.
The dreadful truth is that I feel like a frightened, needy little girl inside. My body hurts, I need help, and I feel profoundly vulnerable. What the little girl in me knows about receiving loving, sweet, kind care is not very much. What she knows about doing it herself and never asking for help is a lot. Remember, this is the little girl who collected knives in her bed. Life was scary and she was alone and unprotected.
A lot of really smart people have sided with my doctor. They tell me to rest, rest some more, and then take a nap. Need something to do? Read a book. Work a puzzle. Take a wee walk. Then take another nap. Let other people do your laundry, make your bed, drive your car, clean your kitchen, vacuum your rugs, scrub your toilets, even walk your dog. Scary stories abound about torn stitches and longer and ickier recovery for those who dare not heed these instructions.
What I know about resting, asking for help, and letting other people help me is not much. What I know about receiving nurturing, the kind of nurture a loving mother would provide, is even less.
God help me. My recovery is dependent upon my doing things – silly, simple things really – that I have no idea how to do.