Lock Down

Recovery... It's so overrated. You would think that the most painful part of an operation is all the agony you endure in order to realise that you need to be opened up and examined. When I went under the knife, my surgeon informed me that he would be performing keyhole surgery. When I heard that term being used I immediately relaxed and was not fazed in the slightest.
Only when I was wheeled out of recovery and back into my room I realised they had mispronounced the surgery for it was not keyhole but rather a complete excavation by the way I felt.

A few dissolvable stitches felt like five big fish hooks ripping and dragging through my stomach every time I tried to sit up. Morphine, Endone, Tramadol, Dia-Gesic, Coda pane Forte, Voltaren... Nothing worked. The nurse marvelled at me with suspicion as she politely informed me that she could not administer any more drugs as I had already had twice the amount that is usually used to knock out a large man.

I then met with my surgeon who added to the nurse’s good news by letting me know that I had an extremely low pain threshhold and I shouldn't be experiencing so much pain. In conclusion I was to avoid all the painkillers as they weren't working for me anyway and to 'tough it out' over the next few days and get lots and lots of rest.

I didn't realise that in doing so I would be relinquishing my independence. Sure it was pretty fun having everything done for me as I couldn't walk, sit up, bend or reach. But soon after, I got over it. Even sleeping was the pits! For the first time ever I was being forced to lie on my back! Oh how I missed laying on my side, my hand neatly tucked under my pillow and legs stretched out as if I was mimicking the movements of a marathon runner. Now my nights were tainted with moments of insomnia.

I'd start my mornings feeling grumpy from my lack of sleep and hobble over to the loungeroom. Usually when I'm curled up on the couch and not feeling the best I can find comfort in an array of delicious treats to ease my boredom and alleviate my pain. Well something I forgot to mention was the tube that was put down my throat during the operation. I shudder to think of how rough they were because when I woke up my esophageus had been scraped to an inch of its life and I could not swallow a thing. My appetite had packed its bags and left me.

Pre-surgery I had envisioned my recovery to be one of great serenity. Completely commitment free and relaxed I would use the time to paint a bowl of fruit  on canvas while serenely sipping on herbal tea. Ha! Fat chance, I could barely focus on reading a book let alone recreate a Monet. Then came the realisation that I had practically committed social suicide. As Murphy’s Law would have it; parties that I had looked forward to for weeks coincided with my precious healing period. I had no choice but to reluctantly hit decline on every invitation that came my way but I couldn’t help clicking a tentative and a disillusioned ‘maybe attending’ when it came to the soirees I really, really wanted to attend. All the painkillers had zapped my energy, leaving me to sink further and further into the realm of reality TV. And so began the recovery of my body and in turn the hindrance of my social life and sanity…