Yesterday marked three weeks post-op. Every single day I have little moments of frustration and discouragement that I'm not already at 100%. In consulting with the doctor, I'm actually exactly where I should be. My oft-repeated phrase over the last week is "Patience is a virtue, but it's not mine." I'm not really in any pain, except for moments when I'm laying down and then go to get up by using my stomach muscles instead of rolling to the side and using my arms. Ouch. I'm taking it very, very easy and I confess that I'm feeling quite restless and bored (shh, don't tell the boys, bored is a dirty word in our household). We've had a crazy record-breaking high heat streak here in Shanghai, so I've not gone outside in daylight at all. Each night after the boys are in bed, Michael and I take the dog for a stroll around the garden downstairs to gently build up my strength. Last night it cooled all the way down to 99F (that's sarcasm folks), so we cut our walk short when I started feeling dizzy.
I'm normally a voracious reader, and in anticipation of this time of recovery, I filled up my Kindle with dozens of books. Unfortunately, not a single one of them is keeping my interest! My mind wanders or I doze off, something that has so rarely happened that I can actually recall each and every time I've experienced it in the past! Instead, I've been filling the hours by watching documentaries on Netflix. I can't watch my normal favorite genre of comedies, as a good belly laugh is actually painful in my current state. So, bland documentaries it is. I've also watched 2.5 seasons of Say Yes to the Dress on TLC, before getting completely burned out on it (I can't identify with any of the indecisive brides who have to try on a dozen dresses to find "the one." As a costume design student at the time, I designed every element of my own gown down to the lace, and my expert seamstress mama made my sketches come to life. Seventeen years later, there's nothing about it I would change).
Speaking of "sewing"... my incisions are all but invisible three weeks after surgery. I commented on Facebook yesterday that my surgeon must have had a career as a haute couture seamstress prior to going into medicine. I wish she'd been the one to stitch me up from C-sections, gallbladder surgery, and another laparoscopy procedure I had done years ago, all of which have left my abdomen peppered with distinctive scars. Though actually I don't mind them... each one has a story, and I was born to tell stories.
Before I head off to finish watching my latest documentary (about Woody Allen, which borders on a little-too-much-comedy post-surgery), I'll leave you with some comedy of my own making. Last night just before turning out the lights for bed, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I heard a noise in the boys' bedroom, so I opened their door. At the exact same moment, Nathan, who had heard my noises in the kitchen, opened the same door. It was late, and so unexpected, and seeing a tall figure in the dark where I expected to see nothing at all, I screamed and screamed and screamed like I was auditioning for the lead in a teenage horror film. Of course this frightened sleepy Nathan, so he screamed and screamed right back at me. Michael, who'd been gently drifting into slumberland, jumped from his bed to see what all the screaming was about. My brain had caught up with the fact that it was just Nathan (when did he get so tall? He looks like a man!) but the screams in my throat were lagging behind, and all I could do was start laughing while tears started rolling down my cheeks. After Michael calmed him down, Nathan confessed he thought someone broke into our house and he was going to check it out. Last time he'll ever do that.