I’m not.
When the doctor says it takes six weeks to recover from colon surgery, he means every day of the entire six weeks. As in, over forty days. As in, you will feel uncomfortable and swollen and tired and completely unlike yourself for a whole month and a half no matter how many times you pray to feel better.
Today, I’m almost four weeks into my six weeks of recovery, and so far, I HATE my new
semicolon.
Three hours of
surgery is a lot. I guess I get
that. Six incisions is a lot. I totally get that. Trust me, every time I try to move even an
inch in any direction, I get that.
I’ve gotten used to
the dull ache in my lower abdomen and not wearing anything but pajama and workout pants
because my jeans still won’t fit. I now
know the nausea comes and goes, and when I stand up, I should always brace myself for
a wave of lightheadedness. I’ve even
given up on staying awake past my children or sleeping in past 4:30 am, because
when you can’t keep your eyes open for one second longer and have to go to bed
before eight o’clock every night, your body tells you to wake up hours before
the sun every morning. You know, so you
don’t get bedsores. At least the night
sweats have stopped . . . most of the time.
I feel quite certain
God wants me to use this period of recovery for some purpose I won’t understand
for a very long time, if ever. I can
hear him calling me to be still, and friends, it isn’t hard to obey when my
body is saying it can’t budge from the chair to do anything. Besides, 'Property Brothers' is on and this
body needs to see the finished renovations Drew and Jonathan made to that horrible house with that couple's generous budget.
The problem with
being still is . . . I HATE being still.
Inactivity and me have never gotten along. I’m not a napper, not even a rester. I never used to watch TV during the day. Ever.
Usually, I stand up to eat meals and read emails because, hey, I might
need to rush off to do something in between bites and replies and you can’t
rush when you’re sitting down. Stillness
feels stifling to me. I’m not made to be
sedentary. I miss my workouts. I miss bounding up the stairs and running
around in the backyard with the puppy and driving my kids all over town for
their activities.
I miss my
productivity.
And while I am
making progress, and my almost healed incisions have allowed for increased
mobility that has done wonders for my mental state this week, I have had many
moments of dark in this time of recovery.
I have felt depression lurking, its blackness silently creeping up behind
me, threatening to settle in all around.
Thankfully, I know
the One who drives away all the dark with His light. And I know those who love Him, and who have
loved me because of it.
I have not caught
up on my reading during my recovery, as I hoped. I
have not watched every episode of 'Downton Abbey,' as suggested. I haven’t learned
to appreciate an entire afternoon spent relaxing in front of the television, even if a 'Love It or List It' marathon is on.
No, I have not
discovered the joys of rest and stillness. But I
have witnessed a community of people serving Christ through serving me, and I
WILL NEVER FORGET IT.
I will never forget
the calls and texts and cards and emails they sent. I will never forget the flowers and gifts and
games and goodies they brought. I will
never forget their visits – the way they uplifted me with hugs and smiles and
kind words when the pain was constant and the dark was closing in. I will never forget the support they provided
– hosting my children for play dates and driving them where they needed to
go. I will never forget the meals they
prepared. They have fed my family . . .
for weeks they have fed my family when I could not . . . and in turn, they have
fed my soul.
My semicolon totally
stinks, but my people . . .
My people are
AMAZING!!! They are Jesus at work and faith
in action and love in the world. And for
me, they are light. They are the
brightest lights of hope and comfort and friendship, and their choice to be the
hands and feet of Christ for me and my family have kept the dark away. I will be forever grateful.
