Day 10 Post-Op: a Postcard Perfect Colorado Saturday (Mostly)
Yesterday was a postcard-perfect Colorado Saturday. The sky was a piercing blue, and the air had that crisp bite that always reminds me that there is no better place to live than CO. Looking out from my chair, there was not one piece of me that didn’t ache to be out walking, hiking, or hopping on an e-bike. My life is lived in constant, purposeful motion. Slowing down for mindfulness practices is one thing; being physically trapped in a chair, unable to lace up my own shoes while the world spins by, is an entirely different can of worms.
By late afternoon, the tension in the house was mounting, and I was desperate for fresh air. My grand ambition was to take a walk outside.
I didn’t even make it to the end of the street.
With every forward shuffle, an excruciating pain tore through my left torso, my ribs felt like they were being cut. I broke down as I shuffled back toward our driveway. Yes, it felt dramatic in the moment, but the physical boundary was absolute. I felt defeated, returning right back to my chair to lie there, drifting in and out of sleep, watching another gorgeous autumn day slip away.
Then, the doorbell rang, and we were so excited for the break in the day. Since our homecoming soups, this was our first official Meal Train delivery, brought by my lifelong friend, Jeannette.
I met Jeannette back in fifth grade at Peabody Elementary School. We fell in love from the get-go and have been close ever since. When high school boundaries sent us to separate high schools. Our bond was rooted in art, boundless creativity, and imagination. Jeannette is one of those forever friends who shows up to celebrate the great times, and is always there in the lowest moments with so much grace.
Yesterday was no exception. After cooking in her kitchen all day, she arrived on our doorstep with dinner piping hot and ready to eat: a hearty, homemade chicken cobbler casserole and a pot of bright lemon broccoli orzo soup – comforting autumn food that was so delicious.
The sweetest layer of the story is how Jeannette brought thoughts of my mom with her to my door. My mom was the ultimate home chef, a gifted, natural cook who lived in her kitchen, constantly preparing the next meal or baking the perfect chocolate chip cookie. My mom’s reputation preceded her; every single one of my friends over the years got to know her by sitting on the barstools at our kitchen counter, watching her cook while she effortlessly wove her words and warmth into the entire experience of being in her presence. Before anyone realized it, hours had drifted by in conversation.
Jeannette still talks about that deep connection. When Kate, Jeannette, and I were in college, the three of us planned a special lunch with our three moms around my mom’s kitchen table. In true fashion for my mom, it was a full experience. Every utensil, sparkling glass, and bowl on the table, matched the placemats, napkins, and decor. She served her signature homemade chicken noodle soup, fresh-baked rolls, and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Jeannette originally planned to recreate that exact lunch for her meal delivery, pulling my mom’s chicken noodle soup recipe straight out of her own family cookbook. But when she realized we had already received chicken noodle soup earlier in the week, she made a quick pivot, classic of her thoughtfulness.
Jeannette has walked beside me through the agonizing, slow loss of my mom to dementia. Because she carried her own genuine love for my mom since childhood, she understands that grief in a way few people can. She is a true memory keeper, and yesterday, she walked into my home and acted in my mom’s absence, bringing the exact maternal comfort my mom would have brought if she were not already lost in the disease.
Not having my mom here has been one of the bitterest pills to swallow throughout this surgery. Caretaking was my mom’s native language. If she were here, she would have lifted the heaviest burdens off Matt’s shoulders. God, I miss her so much and my heart aches for her.
Jeannette’s visit filled my cup to overflowing, leaving me nourished, wrapped in love, and deeply connected to my roots. But as the afternoon faded into evening, my energy faded as well.
As the sun went down on Saturday, my body began to unravel.
My pain ramped up, my emotional tolerance vanished, and my entire system became locked in a battle. The night unfolded in fitful, broken fragments of sleep, with Matt dutifully waking up to hand me medications and help me hobble back and forth to the bathroom.
On one of those trips and out of nowhere, my body went into uncontrollable jolts of shivering. It was the same terrifying response I experienced earlier in the week. By the time I reached the edge of the bed to begin the careful log-roll onto my back, my nervous system went on high alert.
Nausea flooded my throat, and the shivering instantly turned into full-body spasms. I started feeling frantic as I lay flat on my back, unable to move my body and deal with my nausea.
Eventually, the wave broke. I got my meds down, the muscle relaxers took the edge off the spasms, and I was bundled back into clean, warm sheets, thankful for Matt and waiting for the sun to rise.
Now, it is Sunday morning. I am back in my living room chair, looking out the window at another beautiful autumn day. But for both of us, it is another long day that sits ahead. I hope to get out for a decent walk today, thankful for my people and for making progress everyday.
