I would like to be able to describe the experience just as it was. I don't know why it's so hard to do that. I can talk about the nighttime sounds, and about things like pain medication, but these things seem unreal. But when I start to talk about what my children's smiles have meant to me, what Van's constant care has meant to me, what it has been like to eat food prepared by people who don't even know me, I get all tangled up inside and I simply can't explain.
mom was there when I woke up and I know this was hard for her because she had just had foot surgery couple of days previous to this. But there she was -- a focus of familiarity in the echoing halls of hospital I had seen only once before. Coming out of general anesthesia, anything familiar is a life jacket.
Van drove me home, I think perhaps terrified that some car would hit us, just because it was the day of surgery.I carried in my lap an alien thing, my arm. It had weight and texture like a rubber chicken, but in no sense that it feel like my arm. it had been completely numbed for the surgery.
When the children came home I heard Van intercept them at the door and speak to them seriously before he would let them come and see me. He was really very afraid that I would break. I was touched, and touched more by the faces of my children when one by one, and rather shy, they came into the room to see how I was doing.Mikey wanted to curl up next to me, but he was afraid to. Instead, he went to the other bed. I asked him if he wanted to come and be on the same bed as I was on. He replied, "I'm used to snuggling up to you when were both on the bed. Since I can't snuggle up to you, I don't even want to get on the bed." So I pointed to a place next to my left side, away from my arm, and said here, there's room for you right here. You should have seen him smile, and you should have seen the alacrity with which he crossed the room and curled up like a little butterfly next to me.Danny had brought a book with him. He was ready to keep me company. He asked me if I needed anything. He seemed pleased that I looked basically the same as I had when he last said goodbye to me.
That first day I spent a lot of time being awake and alert. I had no pain, and I had already slept for half the day during the surgery. This surprised me though this wakefulness. During the night I went out and saw horses. They snuffled around my arm. Van ran defense -- and that was necessary, because some of them wanted to nudge me.
Running out of energy. The week has been a very sleepy, relaxing time. I have had much good food thanks to my wonderful neighbors and friends. At this point, I'm optimistic. I think recovery will go faster and better than I've been told. It's only been one week, but right now I feel like this is all something that I can handle: I can get better, I can rehabilitate my arm, I can ride horses sooner rather than later.
I have to remind myself not to be upset if, later, I feel more discouraged. It's only been one week, and I have had so much help, I don't think the worst has happened yet. The doctor said that maybe about two months later, I mean, two months after the surgery, people often wonder why they ever did it. But at the end of the year, he said, I may realize why.
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