Craziness to the tune of a stomach bug that just wouldn't go away. Craziness to the tune of me going to my general practitioner and asking him to figure out how to help me get past said stomach bug. Craziness to the tune of my brilliant doctor immediately recognizing the need for specialists.
Craziness to the tune of my doctor sending me straight to the hospital. To meet with a surgeon. A wonderful, grandfatherly and kind surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless.
Craziness to the tune of having a CT scan that revealed an intestinal obstruction. The same type of difficulty I'd had 5 years ago, when I was pregnant, which had landed me in the hospital for 4 weeks being totally IV fed until Flannery was born. Luckily back then, the obstruction cleared with time and GI rest. I wasn't so lucky this time.
This time around, I needed surgery. There was a strap of scar tissue from a surgery I had had as a baby, that had wrapped around part of my intestine, pulling it and twisting it so that nothing could get through. The surgeon--that kind, grandfatherly surgeon--he snipped the scar tissue, took a few photos of the before and after, and stitched me back up.
And then more craziness ensued. Recovery.
Pain. Nausea. Morphine. Itchy side effects. A crazy haze of pain and darkness and fear. With waves of relief interspersed here and there. A desperate alone feeling. Fuzzy vision. Prodding nurses trying to collect blood from unwilling veins. Kind nurses telling me about their three children. Manipulative nurses trading meds for walks in the halls. My calm husband always there beside me, sleeping on the strange chair-bed each night. Harsh fluorescent lights. IV poles beeping. Care that seemed so violent sometimes. But always with waves of relief interspersed here and there.
And then, somehow, the fog cleared. And I was myself again. I got to come home. I ate warm broth my mom made from scratch. I stopped the pain meds. I started understanding conversations again. My vision cleared. I was able to read again. My brain could follow along when I read paragraphs. My husband's nervous forehead stopped looking so pinched. My daughter started forgetting to be careful when she hugged me. My mom sat down and watched a show with me and laughed a bit again. We all finally exhaled.
And then, today, I drove again. Not too far. Just to renew the car tag with my hubby. And then, we picked up Flanna from school, and my husband took us all out to dinner. It was breezy and cool and crisp out. I wore jeans for the first time in almost a month. I had pasta and shrimp. My daughter drew pictures and played on her iPod during dinner. We were just your average family. I was just your average mom in baggy jeans.
And that, my friend? Is how time heals all wounds.
What wound are you healing from? What has helped you through the healing process and back into life again? For me, it was going outside, seeing the japanese magnolias blooming, watching my husband have endearing conversations with our kiddo, and thinking about work projects again. Those little things pulled me up out of lethargy and toward recovery. And time. I know that time played a big part, as well.