It's been over a week since the surgery and the really gross stuff is probably over. The incision is healing even though the staples aren't out; it's been nearly a week since my stomach behaved like it belonged to a sorority girl a few hours after a barn dance; and even though it still takes me 30 minutes to heroin-shuffle around the block in my workout clothes, my pain is decreasing and my nap-to-walking ratio is probably down to 2:1.
The problem is, however, that I'm settling into what is arguably the hardest part of having surgery, at least for me: the boring part. The "trying to decide between a re-run of a show that explores the complex world of Minneapolis 20-somethings trying to buy a house they can't afford and a re-run of a show that explores that complex world of a 30-something couple from Dallas trying to re-landscape their garden" part. The "being in the same position on the same bed with the same view wearing the same workout clothes for weeks at a time" part. The "having to rely on people to bring you every glass of water, spoon, or carrot stick and, when you're home alone, having to weigh whether it's better to stay hungry or drag your ass downstairs to find food that you can consume in the kitchen since you can't carry anything upstairs" part. The "having to take shuffle steps to close the door behind you in the bathroom because hip restrictions prevent you from twisting" part. The "not being able to sleep because I spend all day in bed and my so-called 'sleep hygiene' is poor" part.
Yeah, I better develop a fondness for wry British murder mysteries on PBS because I suspect that this is how it feels to be old. I know. Whiny, right? Anyhow, the point is that nothing that happens for the next 3 months will likely make it in the highlight reel when they make an action-packed movie of my life and that's a weird state to be in. I guess the good part is that at least I've gone through this once. The ass indentation in my bed in pre-indented. I am so adept at working the grabber it's like a Go-Go-Gadget arm. More importantly, however, I know that it will eventually pass. Eventually. In theory.
Ok, time to pack up the pity party. Tomorrow's my first day of physio and I need to be firing on all systems to deal with being out-run by 90-year-olds