On my way back from my latest doctor’s appointment, Sean called and said “You should go out and not come home for a while. I’ve got the girls. You’ve been feeling like a bump on a log at home, so maybe you should go sit on a real log and rest.” So that’s what I did. And marked Reason #653,976 in my diary for why I love him.
The resting is harder than I anticipated. I’m not even trying to train for a marathon. I just want to be able to do more than sit in “the comfy spot” on the couch and get the passive aggressive “Are you still watching?” message from Netflix three times. So rude.
Almost five weeks after surgery, I still have the drains in. This is an abnormally long time compared to most, but it’s not alarming, apparently. For some people it just takes longer. I hate the drains. Like, with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. At the plastic surgeon’s office this week, the perky nurse said “Ooh, I like your fanny pack! It’s so cute.” (It, of course, holds the drains.) I just looked her straight in the eye and said, “I hate the fucking fanny pack.”
The best way to get to the output low enough to get the drains out is to move less. Less! The major life lesson here isn’t hard to parse out, but honesty, I’m just so over it.
So, I did go find a real log to be a bump on. And I closed my eyes. And listened to the waves. And breathed the wind. And lifted my face toward the sun. I added a few tears to the ocean too. I remind myself that I won’t always feel this way.
The road is so long and the Darkness likes to tell me that this feeling will last forever. But the wind and the sun and the earth tell me otherwise. I will trust them more.
