speaking of disjointed and cranky

I was told there would be no math. I was also told that I could go back to "work" within two weeks after surgery. Please explain to me how I can effectively carry out my duties as house manager when I cannot carry heavy objects nor lift my arms over my head? Hello? Grocery bags? Rakes and spring cleaning? Laundry baskets that need to go up and down the stairs? Do these baskets have wings at your house? Do your dogs walk themselves?

Speaking of math, my house contains a puzzle geometry has yet to solve: how do you fold sheets without lifting your arms over your head?

Speaking of puzzles, there are three young adult-ish people in my house who produced three dramatic incidents in an hour. I think a truce has been called. Now there are three bags of jelly beans sitting on the kitchen counter, unopened, calling my name. What problems in my world would NOT be solved by three bags of jelly beans? If there are any, perhaps a chaser of Peeps and a soupcon of chocolate bunny would clean up any loose ends . . . .

And speaking of small things, why is the font on either of my monitors so small that I have to tip my head up in a useless attempt to view said screens from the very bottoms of my progressive reading glasses? Thank goodness the evil Google empire lets me adjust the font on this page. I don't give a rip what information they are storing up about me as long as I can read my email without getting a stiff neck.

Harumph.

Liz

Two Medium Length Things

Thing One. In real life, you can't take things back. In our minds and hearts and memories, we edit freely, changing history as we meant it to be, have learned it ought to have been, or wished it were. Nothing changes what we have done, or what we have left undone.

Life changes, though. People change, thoughts evolve. If we're lucky, understanding grows and deepens. The lens through which we--and others--view our actions or inactions is constantly shifting, growing more acute, or less interested or seeing with a different perspective than it did a few short years before.

Still what's done is done. Scurry as we might, we can't control what happens next and next and next. This helplessness gets scary, at times. Oh, ok. All of the time. I'd really like to come up with some pithy aphorism right here, demonstrating that I know where to place all of these f*&^%$ growth experiences, how to manage them, how to live through them.

Surprise. Not so much. My goal is continued breathing, intentionally with loving kindness toward all. Most moments, just breathing is a worthy accomplishment.

Thing Two. Two parts of my anatomy have recently been declared "pink and sensate." This would be a positive thing, as operated-on breasts go. Yes, I did have breast reduction surgery last week. Didn't anticipate how much it would hurt to have stuff removed.

I think I had this vision of simple liposuction with a tiny Dirt Devil. Zip, zip, suck, suck, tidy little hem all around, maybe some darts for shaping--viola! Instead, we're talking 4 hours of sharp implements making a 12 inch long slice across. Ouch--and I wasn't even present for the occasion. Sort of.

As if I needed further daily proof that people are different, there are those stellar constitutions that apparently rise from such surgery already healed. Upon arriving home, they wrangle chubby toddlers through endless mall halls and take power walks, with arms akimbo, pumping away any errant cellulite that may have crept in during the two days they gave up exercise for this minor procedure.

Then, there's the rest of us. We provide hours of endless amusement for our family and friends, saying absolutely ridiculous things, completely and hopefully endearingly out of touch with reality from the results of anesthesia and pain meds. When one asks about this 94 plus hours post surgery, caring co-conspiritors who have fed and kept one from harm's way exchange knowing grins and say little.

Is it post-operative paranoia to fear that they might be writing a book?

We, the proud, the possessors of constitutions of custard, 10 days post op are still a bit wobbly. We have rejected actions like folding sheets for now, abdicated responsibility for carrying laundry baskets downstairs to those without modified mammary glands. We have not even seen our favorite toddler in 10 days, let alone cared for one.

As for that arms-akimbo power walk? Tehra and I took the Maggie puppy-pie for a walk yesterday. Block and a half, with Tehra womanhandling the pooch, it became clear that

1. my healthy but sore pink sensate parts were willing to go for a very short and slow stroll. Think escorting great grandma down the block and back. Gingerly. With her walker. Maybe I should get one of those, with a festive bag to carry my kleenex and water bottle.
   
2. I'm going to have to heed my doctor's orders (possibly a first) regarding exercise. The rather adorable Dr. V (sorry, hon--he's got a beard) says no roller skiing for another 4 weeks, lest I fall and injure the previously mentioned parts. After my brief adventure, I am pretty happy with these new parts and inclined to listen for once.
   
3. Maggie may sense my emotional and physical needs post-op, staying constantly by my side, gently nudging me. But put her on a leash and she doesn't give a crap about how I feel, she just wants to run. :-) Atta girl!

From the couch,
etg