Daily Blog Posts

So, one of my brothers let me know yesterday that he'd noticed I'd fallen down on the job.  He knew I'd spent the last week or so at home, so he asked where the "daily blog posts" were.  He may be my biggest fan.

My life has been interesting this past month--maybe both too interesting and too mundane to share.

Maybe it involved travel.  Maybe a move at work.  Maybe transportation problems.  Maybe health problems.  Maybe all or none of the above.

Maybe my brother really did just wonder if I was really okay following my surgery.  My husband had told him I was, and he was mostly accurate in his reports.  But my brother had searched for--and not found--me.  Maybe he's not so much a fan of my blog as he is of me.  That would be fine.

After all, I haven't really been home a whole week.  I spent some of it in the hospital.  And oh! What a hospital!  I'd tell you where it is, but you would all flock to it, volunteering to give up body parts just to get inside.  It's as nice inside as a good hotel.  The staff were all great--no Hitler nurses, like when I'd had my babies.  And the food!!!!

Anyone who reads me much knows that I am completely spoiled when it comes to the level of gourmet food I eat on a regular basis.  My husband could be a chef, but he's not, because, well, then he wouldn't cook for us.

My first mouthful of food at this hospital was divine!  Tomato basil soup.  To die for.  Well, to have one's thyroid out for, anyway.  My first spoonful filled me with the warm, heart-pounding, guilty feeling that I was cheating on my husband.  And the knowledge that he would probably forgive me, because he would probably consent to having something removed just so he could taste it, too.

How could a hospital soup be better than Paul's?  I didn't care.  I just savored each hot, sensuous mouthful until it was devoured.

And then ordered another one.

Yes!  You could order whatever you wanted!  Of course, you pay for it three days later when your bowel wakes up from the general.

But I digress.

So, I came through my surgery and early days of recovery like a rock star.  I told myself that my being in pretty good shape for a woman my age who needed her thyroid removed because it may or may not have had cancer in it was partly responsible.  I pat myself on the back whenever I can.

Then, Saturday afternoon, I suddenly became extremely ill.  I was home alone.  The family had gone to see a movie in order to be out of my hair.  After I'd cleaned up the bathroom and myself, I wondered just how much time I had left to live.  I immediately stopped all my extra medications, including those for pain and whatever was supposed to be "helping" my GI tract but wasn't.

Sometime in the next day or two, I decided living was still an option for me.

Yesterday, it was a big deal for me to just drive my children to school.  But I knew that if I was going to put my life back up on my back this week, I had to make myself start somewhere.  I wore my pajamas to do it, though.

And, today, I think I am "back."  Yes, I'm still somewhat weak and I have a lovely piece of dirty white tape across my neck--too high for my clothes to hide it and too low for my chin to hide it.  I've decided--I think--not to worry about it.  Stuff happens. I had my thyroid out.  So what?

Today, I put on actual gym clothes and actually went to my actual gym.  It was later than my usual workout hour, so I didn't see anyone I knew.  No one commented on the tape across my neck. My nephew's wife brought me some lovely scarves--which I will wear.  But, to the gym?  No. I did a few minutes of easy movement and went back home.

Today, I got on the scale.  No weight gain.  Woot!

Today, I picked up an orange out of the box and ate my usual breakfast for the first time in a week. 

Tomorrow, I will take on a bit more.  By next week, it should be business as usual.  I love scarves, but I hate stuff tight around my neck.  I may not even try very hard to hide my scar.  Or my tape.  I intend to go forward from here, and, well, just keep moving forward.

Next week, I will see my brothers.

And, maybe, someday, now, a doctor's report won't contain the sentence "She has a wide neck" randomly stuck somewhere in the notes.  Maybe it won't say, "She appears to be her stated age," which hurt even more.

And, maybe, someday, there will even be daily blog posts.