It’s been quite some time now, but I’m finally ready to share an extremely personal piece. I wrote when I was at my worst, after my recent surgery and feeling very vulnerable. I’ve since published it at least 3 times and each time I delete it within 5 minutes.
I’ve been completely off all my pain meds now for about a month and I think I’m back 110%.
I went back and forth with myself about sharing this piece. I did. With one friend. She’s a new friend but I can’t explain why I chose her and not you. Or you. Or you.
I just did. Simple enough.
It’s been 6 months now.
I’m not sure I want to write about this or not. I know I do but I’m not sure I want to share it and at the same I know I DON’T want to. I’m just really confused. I think. I don’t know.
Isn’t sharing for the best? So I have support and don’t have to go at it alone? I need to record it so I have something to look back on in 10 years when people ask me what it was like. Will I remember the bad? or only the good? Will I remember any of it? or just that it happened and was over ? Or will it all be crystal clear because I still live the hell?
The last 3 weeks have definitely been hell. The worst of my life. I think. Losing my dad was hard. This is totally different. I can’t compare them.
When I was going into surgery I lost it. WHAT IF something happened and I didn’t wake up? Who would be there to help everyone pick up the pieces? My mom already lost one daughter. Would she survive losing another? How would Charlie cope? He’d be trapped with no wife and 3 kids he could not raise alone. Or could he? What about my boys? Nathan would NEVER remember me. Lucas might. For a while. What about Will? I might even become fuzzy for him in a decade. How would the boys do in the meantime? You know, before they forget? What if this was goodbye?
Why was I even having these thoughts? All they are doing is removing metal. It’s not like his hand was going to slip and paralyze me again. This time leaving me with no arm use. That coudln’t happen. Right? The rod wouldn’t slip and puncture my lung. NOT possible. Or was it?
None of these thoughts entered my mind until they took me back for surgery. So why all of a sudden the panic?
They gave me something to calm me down when they saw how anxious I was and that was it. The next thing I remember was asking when I could feed my baby.
The next week or so I was fine.
I had another breakdown when my drain pulled out and they had to do another MRI to make sure things were looking ok. Things were ok. Except me; the hours leading up to that MRI was brutual. I screamed and cried and begged charlie to tell them no. I couldn’t survive. Wouldn’t.
Then I was ok again. Until I came home and my mom left. I wanted her to go. She needed to go but I needed her close. I know she would have stayed if I’d asked but I said no. I would be fine. We have the sitter and she is amazing with the kids. She should go home. I’d be okay.
And I was. Until the next night. Charlie helped me into my chair and I hurt. A lot. My pain was supposed to be under control. It wasn’t perfect. In fact it was miserable. It was so miserable it triggered a hatred for everything I was going through. A hatred for all the pain. A hatred for how this stupid thing stole from me. Stole from my family. My babies. It made me less of a mom. All of a sudden I needed help and other people were doing MY job. It made me angry. I couldn’t stop crying.
It made me pissed at the doctor for selecting the wrong rods and at the manufacturer for making them defective. Titanium rods aren’t supposed to break. Why did mine? Why did I have to be the statistic? Why did my life have to stop again? Why did my kids have to go 3 weeks without me? Why? Why? Why? It’s beyond unfair and I can’t stop crying and feeling sorry for myself and hating this miserable intrusion.
I had a perfect life. Really. It was perfect and simple and sometimes boring but it was my life. I loved every bit of it. I even loved the parts that drove me batty.
What if I don’t get that back? WHat if the pain never goes away? What if I can’t be the mom I was before? The wife?
I slept it off and now don’t know what to do. I can’t cry all the time. It makes things better, but it doesn’t cure all.
I know I’ll be better when all this is done but I will still have lost all that time. I want everything to be the way it was. I don’t WANT help with my kids and I hate being forced to need it.
When I think everything might be okay, I’m reminded that I’m lucky. I AM still alive. My kids didn’t lose me forever. I will be myself again. I’m not like the woman that didn’t survive breast cancer.
Now I’m not ok again. I’m pissed that someone would compare me when all I need right now is comfort, not comparison. Not belittled.
Don’t you dare tell me I’m lucky. I’m alive.
I know that.
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