Two days after my surgery my friend sent me a text, after flowers and funny notes, which said simply this, “Prepare to be depressed.” It was around eight in the morning and already 90 degrees out. The heat was etching light through the windows. The air was gravid and still. I was moving as if I were a Vickie-and-a-half, moseying around wondering why everything was so quiet; and when my hyper, flitting, methods would return, or if I wanted them to.
There is a certain weightiness to recovery. An anchoring sensation that makes me feel at harbor in my body. I don’t know how else to describe it, I doesn’t feel like depression, it feels placid.
This post officially qualifies as intense navel gazing—something which my older siblings would heartily discourage—although my navel is now purple, and secured with superglue.
Do you remember a phrase from your childhood, something about being held together with chewing gum and rubber bands? That’s a little like what post-op feels like once all the meds have worn off.