The Walk-er of Shame

The surgery I got this time is the reconstruction part. I think I might have referred to it at one point in a past blog as “the fun part”. I trust the fun part is coming (i.e., The end result. The summit.), but right now there is nothing fun about it.

It reminds me of the first time we took the kids on a very hard hike, with several thousand feet elevation gains, in the Dolomites. As we loaded up our packs for a days-long adventure, I gave them a little pep talk and told them “When it hurts, you need to be aware of the things that run through your mind. And you must learn how to say nice things to yourselves in your own heads. Because otherwise hiking kind of sucks.” They both seemed to take this to heart because surprisingly, there was no complaining. At one point about ⅔ of the way up a steep ascent, we took a break and Adi asked, “Mom, do you like hiking, while you’re doing it?”

I LOVED this question. So much.

Hahahahah. “No. Not always. But I like the view a the top!”

That’s kind of how this feels. I know I’ll like the view from the summit, and the burning quads will be worth it, but right now it feels like holy hell.

The surgery I am healing from is called DIEP flap surgery. It’s where fat, skin, and blood vessels are cut from the wall of the lower belly and moved up to your chest to rebuild your breasts. The surgery leaves a long horizontal incision scar –from hipbone to hipbone — a few inches below the navel.

Let me translate that for you…

It was an epic surgery. A long hospital stay. Incisions are no joke. And, the drains are back. Four rather than two this time. Yipee-eye-aye.

For those of you who read my earlier blogs, I was not great friends with my drains. In fact, we went from acquaintances to bitter enemies in five weeks flat. Then, one day when they could no longer tolerate my abusive language, they literally fell out of my body on Christmas eve while I was playing Yahtzee. We laughed HARD about that. I took it as proof that even the worst relationships leave you with a few fun/funny memories.

So, this time I’ve been trying to keep my expectations low. The wise words of one of my grad school professors have been ringing in my ears, “expectations are nothing more than premeditated resentment”. Dang. Seems like that fits here. And maybe for anyone going through health stuff, who is swimming in a pool of unknowns, and needing to take things as they come.

Speaking of taking things as they come…

The “walker of shame” is currently part of my life, begrudgingly, until I can stand up straight. I hate it. My back and belly hurt if I don’t use it. My ego hurts if I do.

So, I use the walker.

Using a walker feels a little bit like what I imagine Gilly must feel when forced to wear the “cone of shame” after this procedure or that. Everyone can see it, and it’s embarrassing.

As someone who has gone through battered skin & hair loss from chemo, and a double mastectomy (where I had no boobs at all for a while), and umpteen doctors and nurses touching my body as if they own it, it has surprised me that I feel embarrassed about this.

A walker. I mean, who cares, right?

Through this whole process, embarrassment is not something I have felt much of. Lots of other things but not embarrassed. Even when I looked my very worst. Although now that I think about it, that “very worst” might be right about now, given the completely horrible grow-out stage that my hair is in, combined with my walker accessory. It’s a good look for me.

Then I realized, what’s the root of this? Walking around with a walker challenges an aspect of my identity that I hold near and dear, that I take pride in: my physical strength and endurance. My sense of being an adventurous outdoorsy person.

Never too fast at any particular thing, but strong and able to take on most any challenge. Hiking, swimming backpacking, and — back in the day — spending weeks at a time with a backpack on, climbing mountains, and running rivers. And now…to get tired after walking around the block for 5–10 minutes. It’s depressing.

I know it is temporary, but it just feels so humiliating.

Then, Friday, my post-operative appt…

The good news is, she removed half the drains (only two remain now! Whoohoo!) As she removed them I literally sang her the chorus of one of my favorite Taylor Swift songs (because I love to make Dr. Wei laugh), We-eee are never ever everrr getting back together.

The bad news is, that she discovered three separate infections….at three out of four drain sites. Drains and I just don’t get along. That’s all there is to it. I suspected something was wrong because I had been on the rebound (it felt like) and then I started waking up stiff, slow, sore, and in markedly more pain again.

The doctor immediately started me on two different types of antibiotics and informed me that I could end up in the hospital on IV antibiotics if this doesn’t take hold quickly. (It seems like the medicine is working already, FYI)

Then the news went from bad to worse, when she told me, NO GILLY!

Wait, what? What kind of new fresh hell is THIS?

She explained that because dogs carry dirt and bacteria I cannot be exposed to any up-close-and-cuddly contact with Gilly. No spooning. No Gilly on the bed. No couch snuggle parties.

Gilly is my emotional support dog. And I am her emotional support human. So this has been rough on both of us.

Yesterday, Ben tried to get her off my bedroom floor, to walk her because her resting-sad-face was killing my heart (and she also actually needed a walk). He tried to get her to move, and she put all of her weight into it and refused to. Even treats didn’t work. He couldn’t even drag her away. It was like trying to leave my toddlers at a daycare back in the day. I would do the handoff and they would reach out with both of their arms, crying for me. Every parent knows this excruciating feeling. It broke my heart (then and now).

Today, Gilly tried to lunge up onto the bed, in a nanosecond as soon as Brad opened the bedroom door. He caught her just in time before she made it up, but she had this very sad face like she had been scolded. She doesn’t get it. She’s been my companion through so much. The only one who has the time and the patience to lie with me ALL DAY EVERY DAY, and never get bored ;-). I bawled like a baby.

When I’m sad or hurt or feeling impatient with all this bullshit, there is one thing that is getting pretty old…

People telling me (ad nauseam) how it’s going to be better really soon. You would think that I would love that. I love encouraging words from friends and family. They have been my rocks through all of this and a major source of strength for me. And if I had a friend going through this, I would probably say the EXACT same thing.

The problem is….I already know that. I already know that things will be better soon. I know that no feeling is permanent. I know that this too shall pass. I know that this will all just be a blip on my radar someday. THANK GOD it’s all true.

But right now, I’m in the middle of this slog–right here, feeling as if there is one false summit after another. And that is getting old too. Right now, January/February (when it’s really over) does not feel “really soon” to me. So, these days it feels a bit like nails on a chalkboard.

These days it lands on me as “suck it up and be a more patient patient.”

That said, I have two mantras as I head into this next week:

Be a patient patient AND say nice things to yourself in your head.