It’s been 72 hours since my last surgery. I can feel my body trying. Having a go (we’ve been watching Mary Poppins a lot lately) at healing from the inside out.
My skin stretches. It feels tight across my chest matched with a sharp tinge over the incision with every breath I take. The pressure on my ribs ache. I look down and expect to see blues and yellows spreading across my torso. Instead I see the attempt of a bosom masked by surgical tape and gauze. A slight bosom but an attempt nonetheless.
I didn’t know what “pain” felt like before now. Even though I’ve threatened my children with the notion of adoption rest assured both turds sprang from my loins. I felt pain during birth but that was different. Firstly I received an epidural so that masked most of the misery and secondly once they arrived any semblance of discomfort was forgotten and replaced with a living, breathing, majestic distraction.
I’ve felt emotional pain not knowing if Steve was going to make it through the night when he was battling necrotizing pancreatitis. But this… THIS type of pain I was not privy to.
This irritation is large, stabbing, sharp, all encompassing, intrusive. And there are no spanking new, sparkley babies to divert me.
This pain has changed me. My innocence has been sprung from ignorance.
I’m shocked into the reality of pondering HOW people living with pain live their lives on a daily basis. The experience of dealing with pain while attempting to “live my life” has been a mother fucking JOURNEY.
Which leads me to ruminate, what is our role here? How do we define our journey? Do we set our own standards and strive to uphold? Or do we look to the left and attempt to mimic?
Having cancer while being a mom to two young kids has forced me to look inward. Cancer has given me the opportunity to prove to that even if we have blockages in the road the journey must resume.
Pick yourself up, dust yourself and start all over again. Repeat.
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