Day 7/8 Post-Op: The Clean Kitchen, A Midnight Truce, and Friday’s Golden Trees
Today is Friday, October 2nd, and for the very first time since Dr. Allison completed the first surgery, the world feels steady again.
To get to this peace, Matt and I had to walk through the fire first.
Two nights ago, after days of agonizing pain, missed sleep, and the sheer terror of my nervous system short-circuiting, the emotional dam completely broke. I lost my way. I lost my patience, lost my temper, and unleashed a wave of raw frustrationon the very person who has been breaking his back to save me: Matt.
When you are that broken and vulnerable, you end up throwing your worst at the person who feels safest to absorb it. But the guilt ate at me all night. Yesterday morning, before he even got out of bed, I wrote him a text:
“Good morning. I want you to read this before you get out of bed and please read my proper heart-felt apology. I hope you heard me last night, but I think your ears were probably ringing and your head was spinning and it might have been hard to hear me. I am sorry that I lost my way and lost my shit on the person who is holding me up and saving me…you. I came down this morning to a perfectly clean and organized kitchen, organized to take care of me. You have been everything I have needed and more. And you deserve a gold star and more for what you have done for me and how you have bent over backwards and have not complained once or made me feel afraid or desperate for more help. You have provided everything I have needed and have been patient, steadfast, and the living example of humble service that has not been recognized out loud by me nearly enough. I am so incredibly thankful for you, Matt. You are more than enough. I love you so much Matt and, as usual, I don’t know what I would do without you.”
His reply was grace personified:
“Thank you, baby! I really did hear you last night, and I really do understand. I’m really not upset with you at all. Yes, I was a little frustrated last night, I’m not going to lie, but your apology landed immediately, and it’s okay. You’ve had major trauma. Your body’s not yours right now. You have meds flowing through you that are either trying to get out or trying to latch on, and your world’s in chaos. Of course, it’s totally fine that you had a moment. I have moments too. It’s no big deal. Thank you for acknowledging everything. I will say, Abby’s been a great team member. She’s done a lot of the fine-tuning, like the kitchen. I did the basics; she finished, so credit where credit’s due, but beyond that, I genuinely appreciate what you’re saying. Thank you very much, and I’m not upset with you in any way! I’m just overly impressed with how well you’re doing, and we’ll keep supporting you throughout because I love you more than anything!”
Standing in that spotless kitchen, scrubbed down by Matt and organized down to the smallest detail by Abby, I felt the tension leave my chest. We are human, we are battered, but the floor beneath our feet is solid stone.
Now, on this Friday afternoon, I am sitting by the window looking out at our yard. It is a stunning Colorado fall day. Our ash tree has turned brilliant, luminous shades of yellow and orange. Because our house sits just across the tracks from the neighborhood high school, the front room is filled with the quintessential sounds of autumn: the brassy echoes of the marching band practicing their sets, the whistles blowing, and the distinct, rhythmic cracking of football pads as the teams sprint across the fields in our direct line of sight.
Those sights and sounds are deeply comforting. But, also hit with a sting of fomo.
My entire life is built on constant, purposeful motion. Intentionally slowing down and practicing mindfulness is one thing; being physically anchored to a chair, unable to lace up my own shoes while the active world sprints past my window, is an entirely different test.
I want to be out there under the golden leaves. I want to be walking the dogs, packing the trailer, or moving on my mat. But for today, the assignment is stillness. The house is peaceful. And one breath at a time, we are building it all back up.
