And the hard parts

I've been so happy and grateful and focused on the positive that you may have the false impression there aren't things that suck about this.

I'll be happy to take a little detour down this-is-pretty-shitty lane today because I am aware that it, too, has a place in the story.

First off, I still haven't *really* looked at my scar.  I have gotten a peek via peripheral vision, but haven't yet  inspected it full-on as my new reality.  I told Sawyer I would need a few days, and he's indulged me by helping to change dressings and "strip" my drain lines in our smaller bathroom, where I can avoid the mirror.

Last night, after my parents had left, he sweetly but firmly encouraged my having a shower. I was willing to put it off for one more day.  For those of you who are about to retch - I have these giant sanitizing towelettes from the hospital for the serious parts and was going to try to wash my greasy hair in the sink.  Anyway, it's not like you stink when all you've been doing is laying around being high on painkillers. Mostly what was bugging me was the iodine paint they put all over the surgical site (aka from neck to belly button) which was really starting to itch.

Though I tried to cavalierly demur, Sawyer persisted.  He said it would make me feel better and that he would help.

Help. 

 It is one thing to be helped with car doors and bags and such during the recovery, but getting help bathing was something I didn't wrap my head around until it was imminent.

And, I'll admit that help is needed when one arm's mobility is severely challenged. Currently, I can get it to about 90 degrees straight out from body, but no higher. It also takes umbrage to bearing any weight, or going too far behind my body. Besides this, there are long plastic drainage tubes dangling out of a wound in my armpit that need to be threaded through clothes gingerly and kept from flopping around. I have awkwardly made it through the past 48 hours with a combination of will and stretchy yoga clothes, but it was time to face the proverbial music.

He prepared the bathroom with clean clothes for me to change into, and sweetly pinned an old curtain up over the mirror. I felt like a total wimp about that, but admit that having my hair shampooed and body gently rinsed by him wasn't terrible. It was also a great opening for many jokes, especially about newlyweds. And honeymoons.


Like a five year old, I allowed him to pat me dry and wrap me in a clean towel and I felt grateful, sad, hopeful, and resigned about my situation.  Intimacy is ground gained in the rougher terrain of love. 

I made the intermediate step of looking at myself in the mirror wearing a tight yoga top - scar clearly visible underneath and new (temporary) shape evident.  Impression: hamburger bun top with diagonal slash. Not exactly even with the unaltered side but certainly not as jarring as I had prepared myself for.  When things are less tender, I will be able to get temporary inserts (including a knitted one coming from one of my handiest ladyfriends) to shore things up to approximate symmetry. And subsequent (smaller) surgeries (more about this to come  - as this will be greatly impacted by pathology) will eventually restore me to as much of a visual semblance of my former self as I care to approximate.

For now, one day at a time.

A shower yesterday.

 Perhaps a full  mirror inspection today.  Or tomorrow. 

I know I will look back on these words from down this road and laugh, having moved sooo far beyond this moment. I really look forward to that time.  And I know the only way from here to there is to just keep going.