Today, I am tired. After several days of "I feel better than I have in SO long," I am flipping tired. And I am uncomfortable. I have *no* idea how chronic pain people do it. This recovery hasn't so much "painful" as it has been consciously, continually, unavoidably uncomfortable. Before I went to my first post-surgery check-up, I had started stepping myself down off of the oxycontin. I felt like 10 mg every 3 hours was a bit much after the first couple of days. I expected my doctor to step it down even more to Vicadin, but to my surprise, he was pretty insistent that I stay on this until he would see me again. He wrote another script for 5-10 mg every four hours and sent me on my way. I've never had a doctor react like that. I didn't know what to think. They've *always* started stepping it down by now. Am I magically feeling less pain than everyone else? I've always claimed a high pain tolerance, but seriously... My surgeon is one of the best in the region; there's no way he would be careless with something as strong as oxycontin. Then I thought... here's this lady who just had her entire breast amputated and lymph nodes removed. If I were a doctor, looking at what she's already gone through and what may be coming, oxycontin withdrawal might be the least of my concerns for her. That realization was a bit sobering.
But today, I think I was just... naive. Or hopeful. I am 12 days post-surgery, and today, the *only* thing that has allowed me comfort and rest is my pain medication. I don't know why this is different from my partial hysterectomy or my tummy tuck. I don't remember feeling like this 12 days after surgery, and both of those surgeries were WAY more invasive. Maybe it's because of the physical location and impact of this particular procedure. Maybe it's the fact that I am a bit older than I was for either of those. Maybe it's the fact that I went into this surgery with weeks of stress build-up, and this surgery is just the first step of treatment over the next year and the first weeks of fear of reoccurance, which will last the rest of my life. Maybe it's the psychology of this recovery that is the key factor. Maybe I think too much. Maybe I'm just tired. It's not like it's been the most usual of months.
I do know that I feel differently today about "wake me up when it's all over." The next line in the song is "when I'm wiser and I'm older." That song has always grated on me. If you sleep through "it," whatever "it" is, you won't be wiser when you wake up, just older. I am an experience whore. I crave new experiences, and I *love* learning from them. I have traveled halfway around the world to find them. I've driven thousands and thousands of miles guided by the flip of a quarter to find them. "I am the happiest when I am in unfamiliar territory. When everything is new and different and unknown. When I am nervous and bit scared. I am so *alive* then." Welp, I got what I asked for. And right now, I get the song a bit better. Please. Wake me up when it's all over. I don't give a sh!t if I'm wiser or older, just let me sleep through this. I am so tired.
And the worst part? The piece of all of this that *really* sucks, but ultimately doesn't? I got lucky. I got *so* lucky. Contained cancer, no radiation, no chemo, I mean, really. Herceptin might give me the flu for a year, but I get to keep my dreadlocks and some semblance of what my life used to be. And that is one major reality (of several) that keeps me from sleeping through this. Who am I to waste this opportunity? What would I do if my prognosis were worse? I don't know. All indications point to me never knowing... if I'm lucky. I have been, so far. So I won't sleep through this. I may b!tch and moan about it sometimes. I may sit and cry because I miss 44-year-old-never-had-malignant-cancer Stacy. But I won't sleep through it. That's what I keep telling myself. Today, I am just so tired, it's harder to form the words, that's all.
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