the road to recovery
They released me from the hospital at exactly 9am on Friday, January 26.
My doctor had told me I could go home after my 10am round of antibiotics, and I had requested that my wonderful nurse have all the discharge papers ready to go--I was going to get my meds, and literally run out the door.
She was amazing.
She walked in at 9--an hour early--meds in hand, discharge papers signed...and she sent me on my way.
When does that ever happen!?
Being home since then has been...exhausting. Lol.
I have re-assumed the "mom" role to a 10-year-old and a 5-year-old.
The 10-year-old has been incredible. He's patient, and helpful, and protective. He is constantly two steps ahead of me, and he sees my every move before I even make it.
Carries my things.
Opens my doors.
Cleans my dishes.
Pours me a glass of water.
Yells at the dog when he starts to get too rowdy around me.
I have asked him to do none of it.
So in those times when I am fearful that all of my hard work and effort has gone into one ear and out the other, he steps up in my true time of need and I realize that we are doing a pretty damn good job, after all.
And then there is the five-year-old.
Bless her heart. Isn't that what they would say in the south?
She expected me to come home, guns a'blazon, right back to the person I was before, except even better.
She has a hard time understanding that I'm not quite healed.
That I can't quite sing to her at bedtime.
That I get tired very easily.
That I'm not quite ready to go ice skating and sledding.
And at the same time, she plays with my hair. She rubs my back, and puts blankets on me when I am feeling tired. She tells me I am beautiful as she looks at the scar across my neck. She asks me how I am feeling, and holds my hand a little more than she used to.
Truly, I have wonderful children.
I am just going to need some more time to heal.
Because quite honestly, this recovery has been harder than I expected.
I was absolutely certain that I would be requesting a lift on my disability at least two weeks early from my doctor, but now I am not so sure.
I have read stories of people who have been through this surgery and have literally battled PTSD, afterward.
And I get it.
It's hard. I can't really explain what about it that has been so hard, I just know that it has been.
I look back and I truly cannot believe I had my chin tied to my chest for eight days. How in the fuck did I survive that!? I don't even remember most of it, to be honest, so I think it was literally so mentally taxing, that I have blocked much of it from my brain.
Like when you go through something really tragic, and you just put a mental block around it.
While I remember the finer points in my dad's final days, I don't remember those 11 days in the hospital as a whole.
And I am pretty sure that is what I did for those first eight days after I woke up from surgery.
While my airway is now wide open, my first night at home was miserable.
The air was so dry, that I couldn't breathe. I spent the entire night nearly hyperventilating, until I finally got into a hot shower at 4am and just sat there...until the hot water ran out. It helped immensely.
Since then, I have been overly-diligent about remaining hydrated, making sure all of the humidifiers in the house are on, starting my day off with a hot shower, etc.
It's almost become a form of anxiety.
Driving scares the shit out of me.
Any time I am in the car, I am terrified that we will be hit by oncoming traffic, rear-ended, or end up sliding off a mountain--anything that would make an airbag deploy, and destroy my brand new wind pipe.
Getting up and showered for the day is enough to warrant a two-hour nap.
After I went to the post office and the car wash the other day, I pulled over to rest in my car.
I mean, this recovery is no joke. Lol.
But I am allowing myself this time.
Since I was 12, I have worked. And not just worked, but worked my ass off.
Forty hour weeks. Holidays. Weekends.
And this is literally the first time someone has looked me in the eye and said, "You can't do that. You need time for you."
And I am listening.
I lay down when I am tired.
I sit when I can no longer stand.
I still pack lunches, make dinner, help with baths, and do the mom thing...but I tell myself it's ok to lay down when I am done.
To put emails on the back burner.
To lay in bed with the dog and watch Fixer Upper.
To go to bed when the kids do.
Because I am determined.
I am determined to heal fully and completely.
To never go back to the life I lived for the 13 years prior to this major surgery.
It's going to continue to be hard. I know that.
But it's also going to get easier.
One day, these days will be behind me.
But until then, I will take it one day at a time.
My doctor had told me I could go home after my 10am round of antibiotics, and I had requested that my wonderful nurse have all the discharge papers ready to go--I was going to get my meds, and literally run out the door.
She was amazing.
She walked in at 9--an hour early--meds in hand, discharge papers signed...and she sent me on my way.
When does that ever happen!?
Being home since then has been...exhausting. Lol.
I have re-assumed the "mom" role to a 10-year-old and a 5-year-old.
The 10-year-old has been incredible. He's patient, and helpful, and protective. He is constantly two steps ahead of me, and he sees my every move before I even make it.
Carries my things.
Opens my doors.
Cleans my dishes.
Pours me a glass of water.
Yells at the dog when he starts to get too rowdy around me.
I have asked him to do none of it.
So in those times when I am fearful that all of my hard work and effort has gone into one ear and out the other, he steps up in my true time of need and I realize that we are doing a pretty damn good job, after all.
And then there is the five-year-old.
Bless her heart. Isn't that what they would say in the south?
She expected me to come home, guns a'blazon, right back to the person I was before, except even better.
She has a hard time understanding that I'm not quite healed.
That I can't quite sing to her at bedtime.
That I get tired very easily.
That I'm not quite ready to go ice skating and sledding.
And at the same time, she plays with my hair. She rubs my back, and puts blankets on me when I am feeling tired. She tells me I am beautiful as she looks at the scar across my neck. She asks me how I am feeling, and holds my hand a little more than she used to.
Truly, I have wonderful children.
I am just going to need some more time to heal.
Because quite honestly, this recovery has been harder than I expected.
I was absolutely certain that I would be requesting a lift on my disability at least two weeks early from my doctor, but now I am not so sure.
I have read stories of people who have been through this surgery and have literally battled PTSD, afterward.
And I get it.
It's hard. I can't really explain what about it that has been so hard, I just know that it has been.
I look back and I truly cannot believe I had my chin tied to my chest for eight days. How in the fuck did I survive that!? I don't even remember most of it, to be honest, so I think it was literally so mentally taxing, that I have blocked much of it from my brain.
Like when you go through something really tragic, and you just put a mental block around it.
While I remember the finer points in my dad's final days, I don't remember those 11 days in the hospital as a whole.
And I am pretty sure that is what I did for those first eight days after I woke up from surgery.
While my airway is now wide open, my first night at home was miserable.
The air was so dry, that I couldn't breathe. I spent the entire night nearly hyperventilating, until I finally got into a hot shower at 4am and just sat there...until the hot water ran out. It helped immensely.
Since then, I have been overly-diligent about remaining hydrated, making sure all of the humidifiers in the house are on, starting my day off with a hot shower, etc.
It's almost become a form of anxiety.
Driving scares the shit out of me.
Any time I am in the car, I am terrified that we will be hit by oncoming traffic, rear-ended, or end up sliding off a mountain--anything that would make an airbag deploy, and destroy my brand new wind pipe.
Getting up and showered for the day is enough to warrant a two-hour nap.
After I went to the post office and the car wash the other day, I pulled over to rest in my car.
I mean, this recovery is no joke. Lol.
But I am allowing myself this time.
Since I was 12, I have worked. And not just worked, but worked my ass off.
Forty hour weeks. Holidays. Weekends.
And this is literally the first time someone has looked me in the eye and said, "You can't do that. You need time for you."
And I am listening.
I lay down when I am tired.
I sit when I can no longer stand.
I still pack lunches, make dinner, help with baths, and do the mom thing...but I tell myself it's ok to lay down when I am done.
To put emails on the back burner.
To lay in bed with the dog and watch Fixer Upper.
To go to bed when the kids do.
Because I am determined.
I am determined to heal fully and completely.
To never go back to the life I lived for the 13 years prior to this major surgery.
It's going to continue to be hard. I know that.
But it's also going to get easier.
One day, these days will be behind me.
But until then, I will take it one day at a time.
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