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As I woke up in the post-op recovery area, the first thing I heard was a nurse discussing my surgeon’s youth; she commented I was really young and healthy too. In my groggy, medicated state, I replied yes, I had just turned forty, but I had aged a lot since losing our son last summer. The reaction to my spontaneous announcement was immediate: tears, hers and mine… I suppose this confirms what I already knew; it never really leaves my mind, no matter what the circumstances…
Due to the location of my incision, it is wrapped in a pressure bandage and I must spend several days on bed rest; no lifting or twisting is allowed for several weeks. I dislike having to ask John and the girls to look after me and do the things I generally take care of. I haven’t spent this much time flat on my back since my surgery in February 2008, prior to Brian’s accident… While I know it’s a necessary part of my recovery, I feel antsy, like I should be doing something, anything other than laying here, thinking so much. Maybe I have a case of anesthesia blues… Today I realized I’ve been too scared to rest and too tired to run… When you’re fighting for your family’s survival, you will do what you have to, for as long as necessary.
But does any of it matter anyway? I cannot right what is wrong, fix what is broken, or change what has happened… Everything I’ve said and done thus far has been a tiny band-aid slapped over a gaping wound; there is no solution, remedy or shortcut through this valley of shadows and sorrow. Grieving is hard work; hurting all the time gets really old, as does feeling confused, angry, messed up, depressed, crazy, upset, sad, broken, lost, all of the above and none of it… In the end, each of us must find our own way along the loneliest path I’ve ever known…
Wishing you sunshine and hope…tg
Tammy will update her blog on Mondays and Thursdays. -- Jen, site administrator