The Pot Hole

After surgery, there is a time of recovery that... well, it can't be skipped. Some moments you feel pretty good and say things like "Oh, I'll just mow the lawn..." or "I'll go shopping real quick." And you're off to the races... if you get that far. 

    No. Sorry. You are a patient, and it requires patience. Your body has been wounded (even if they use really good anesthetics.) It knows what you did. So whenever I have a "procedure" on my calendar, I always take a moment to apologize in advance. I talk it over with my body, I discuss what needs to happen, and I lay in a supply of soup and crackers (potato chips), whatever gets me through. And then I climb aboard for the journey.

    And I hate it. I hate the loss of control, the surrender of freedoms, the time spent laying down because I just can't do anything else until I start feeling better. I take it out on the people around me until they signal that they've hand enough of that nonsense. I spend some time in gloom, feeling sorry for myself. I watch tv to pass the hours, take my pills when it's time, go to follow-up appointments, etc. I become "Mister Bland" and my life seems to lose whatever identity it might have possessed. It's a pot-hole. I fall in. 

    So far, I've always recovered, regained, replaced whatever I surrendered and basically returned to normal. But each time I gain a little perspective, mostly about the fragility of life. A sudden turn, getting out of a chair the wrong way, a spot on an xray, a bip on a cardiogram. I'm not perfect. I'm not Superman. Time is my kryptonite. Everything is pushing toward the edge...

    Nobody likes to talk about this stuff, and as a topic for a blog, it's risky. But for a journal, it's important because you have to say, Yes, I was there. That was the year they found the cancer. That was the summer I couldn't travel, or eat bacon, or climb mountains. 

    And I found I was still there, weaker, drabber, less fun, less interesting, less in control. "The time is coming when they will tie your hands and lead you places you do not want to go." How will you handle it? Will you rise to the best quality of your personhood? Will you laugh with the staff at the hospital, the surgeons in their masks and gowns, the fine nurses who can make the beds just zoom along the millrace hallways, you the log, primed for cutting? Will they stitch you up into a fine cabinet, or a pine box...? Even this stuff has its interesting side. 

    I'm just glad that I don't have to go through this alone. When I'm over it, and all recovered, I'll be watching among my friends who live alone and maybe just ask them if they ever need someone to ride along with theme, would they feel comfortable asking me...?