I got a disappointing call from my surgeon’s nurse practitioner today, and it’s looking possible that we're entering a “worst-case scenario” territory.
I continue to keep in mind my pathology report came back clean, everything benign. I continue to remind myself that my health is intact. These are big deals. Not to be ignored or neglected.
But if I were to tell you I’m feeling just fine about the probability of extra surgeries and the possible outcomes of these complications, it would be untrue. And part of the whole point of this recovery fashion of the day project is to be honest about the process.
So I’ll be true, and I’ll tell you I’m spending the day in bed. That I have no appetite. That I’m feeling achy (both physically and mentally), grumpy, and scared. That I’m withdrawing from most communication so that I can mull over what needs mulling over and cope thoughtfully. Sometimes solitude helps me with that.
(Fun fact: I’m exactly half introvert, half extrovert on the Myers-Briggs type indicator test.)
But I’m also grateful to have the company of good books, the resonant voices of people who can’t be here in this very room with me right now (aka the authors), and works that may not only distract but also expand, challenge, and deepen me as a person.
I’m grateful to all of you who have sent me these books—and others, which just happen to not be pictured in this spread—as gifts. You get me! All of your care packages (those with and without books!) have really, truly been living up to their names and making me feel cared for. On days like this above all I turn to the poems, the silly cards, the secret garden of bouquets in my bedroom, the cookie tins hilariously collaged, the cheerful slippers, the cozy pjs, the giant pillow that feels like a hug. And the books, of course. Thank you.