Recovering

S. has taken off work and driven up to help me through my hernia repair surgery and the first few days of recovery.

At the hospital after they have put in my IV and after all the nurses leave and we are waiting, I say to S. in a quivering voice “I’m scared of dying.” My voice has an intensity that I’ve never known.

“But you’ll be dead and won’t even know,” she replies, “What exactly are you scared about?”

 I admire S. because she genuinely is not scared of dying.

“I still need to finish hiking the PCT,” I say earnestly, “I don’t want to die yet.”

I can feel the fear rising up in my throat and S. must see it on my face because she pulls out her iphone and opens up Gaia GPS and starts asking me questions about map layers and topo maps and trails. It calms me down and I can feel the hope creep back into my heart. And then they come in and wheel me into surgery.

***
I wake up with a giant wound in my core. I am completely helpless the first few days. I sleep more than I am awake. The surgeon told me there would be a lot of pain but I couldn't have imagined this. Like a mountain lion ripped out my insides.

Getting out of bed to go to the bathroom is a major endevor and I can barely manage it. My brain is a fog from the anasesia and then the pain killers. I hate not feeling like myself so I try to come off them too early and my body reels from the pain, shaking.

S. brings me ice packs and food to take with the pain meds, waking up at at midnight and again at 4 AM.  Then all day she is making food, bringing more ice, making reassuring sounds to calm my fears.

S.

It feels strange to be so vulnerable and completely dependent. But also strangely comforting to be completely taken care of too. I know there is some deep life lesson here. One that I think might change me, if I pay attention and don’t allow myself to forget.

***
After four days of not leaving the house, S. gently reminds me that the surgeon says I need to walk. So I ask if we can go watch the sunset at the park. Getting out of bed still requires a huge struggle. Once I am finally upright I look down at my feet and they are so far away. My leg hovers a few inches above the ground but I can’t will it up any further.  “S. can you put on my socks for me?” I whimper.

Up at the overlook, I take slow, unsteady steps on the pavement in the parking area while S. walks across the slickrock. Then I have to go back to rest in the truck and watch the the pink sunset glowing on the La Sals through the windshield while tears trickle down my cheek. It is the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen.

 (Even though you probably think I say that about every sunset.)

***
My supervisor brings over flowers and I position them in my room across from my bed. I can’t manage enough brainpower to watch a movie so when I am awake I stare at the red-orange blossoms and broad green leaves. Keeping my heavy eyelids open is difficult. Like postholing in deep snow with a backpack going uphill difficult.


After living such an active life, it is mind-boggling to not even be able to even put on pants and socks, or to walk the few steps from bed to bathroom without major effort. I am reminded of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Waking up to find you’ve been transformed into a body that is not your own. Only this is my body. I'm stuck with it and must learn basic movements all over again.

***
I finally attempt an excursions down the street. My legs wobble as I weave down the driveway. I clutch the incision. My gait is tentative, my legs don’t respond properly, I feel like I may topple over. Finally at the junction of the driveway and the sidewalk, I pause to rest, before turning up the street. Each step is a major endevour. I make it to the next-door neighbors driveway, then the next house.

The epic adventure of the sidewalk.

 I turn around and gaze back to my house and the distance seems impossibly far. Full concentration is required for every single step. Like when you are climbing a mountain and you’ve gone up a several thousand feet of switchbacks but you still have a few more hundred feed of slippery scree left to go. Only this is two houses down, not even two blocks. Using all my willpower, I make it back again up driveway then across the living room and finally collapse back into bed.

***

I think about how glad I am to live in an era of modern medicine, antibiotics, anesthesia, and good surgeons. I try to imagine what it would have been like to get a hernia 100 years ago or a thousand years ago.

I think about how fragile and vulnerable we are as humans. It makes me realize how much I used to believe that if I take good care of my body and exercise that I will have good health. But I know that isn’t true. Things still happen no matter how much we exercise and try our best to be healthy. The surgeon told me repeatedly that there was nothing I could have done to prevent getting this hernia. Nothing except maybe staying on the couch or maybe picking parents better (my dad had one too). This is just part of being alive.

Maybe the most important lesson I am learning is how caring the people around me are. S. driving down here to be with me. My coworkers checking in on me. Friends from across the country sending me cheerful, reassuring messages. Thank you all. It means everything.

Thank you S.

More information

Here is a great informational video about hernias. The video explains how there are different kinds of hernias and also what it's like to have one. (Mine was indirect inguinal). Skip all the WebMD articles they are too scary. This pretty much explains it all.

https://youtu.be/X8Ow1nlafOg
"Living With a Hernia" by "Weird Al" Yankovic