Patience, patient

This won’t be an epic, long post as my last few have been. Believe me, there’s still plenty to ponder and process, but with my bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction complete, I am breathing a big sigh of relief and looking ahead.

But first… there’s that pesky healing process.

I have had no illusions this would be an easy or quick thing to jump back from. A double mastectomy and reconstruction are major surgeries. A week prior, I got a port put in. I’m off from my part-time job until, at minimum, the end of November.

So am I being patient?

Mostly, yes.

I’ve definitely checked myself, curbed many of my nervous instincts to do-do-do, and am A-OK with asking for help. (Sometimes with a qualifier of, “Not trying to be annoying, but … could you [fill in the blank]?”… Oh dont’cha know, those Midwest polite habits die hard.)

We’ll see how it goes next week, when Tim isn’t off to wait on me hand and foot.

What’s tricky will be continuing to navigate my limits with the kids, as the “needing mom” tendency never quite lets up.

The physical therapist I met with a week before surgery advised getting used to doing things like a T-rex with tiny arms. To limit grabbing out, reaching up, opening containers, etc. I’ve noticed that even overdoing the t-rex arms can lead to pain under the arms. Thank goodness for slim fitting ice packs!

My 4yo has *definitely* taken advantage of the fact that I can’t run him down or grab things out of his hand – Halloween treats, his brother’s toys, my freaking PHONE – when he tears off with them.

So the itch to get past this stage of limited dexterity is strong, but I hold no illusions that it too is a process.

I haven’t written about it, but outside this diagnosis and treatment process beginning, there’s a LOT of other … upside down … happening in my life right now.

It affects our community, our friendships, and where our family of 6 will live in the next 6 months.

Where my anxiety was all over the map before, coming from every direction – being post-surgery means it is a little more localized.

It looms.

Unknowns, looking for solutions.

And very often, where there aren’t any.

But it is still ever present. There’s, like… actual legitimate stuff to worry about, make sense of, and if we can, actions to take.

That is where I need to be patient.

Believe me, when I get keyed up and don’t know what to do with my anxiety, it feels good (well better than nothing) to jump into action. Why sit still with the pain and panic when you could pack a box or two (for an unknown future home) or to attack the ever-present mountain of laundry or to make a list or to well, haphazardly do do do the things things things and to, at least momentarily, overcome the discomfort?

But.

I am going to try my hardest to take a cue from my physical body.

Slowly healing, but bruised. Stiff. Scars still fresh, adhesive glue and wrapping still on my torso and chest. Protective bras. Drain bulbs still filling with blood and fluid that need to be emptied two times a day.

Cuddling with the ice pack. Taking my anti-biotics. Taking pain meds, when needed.

Moving intentionally, slowly. Being gentler than needed. Treating myself with compassion, and asking for the help I need.

We aren’t meant to go through life alone, doing everything ourselves.

And yet we’re often espoused to somehow be a personal success story. To overcome. To defy the odds. To shine, even when it’s dark and daunting.

But there is time to be the patient. And to take the time to heal.

I’m going to let this bruised up body be my teacher, and remind me that healing takes time.

And to be a more-patient patient.