Tomorrow is Day Three. The third day sitting on the couch all day with the exception of some pacing back and forth every few hours just to move a little. The third day of waiting to heal so that I can feel like the surgery was even worth it. The third day of comparing this surgery to my last two, to childbirth, to recovery from all the illnesses I’ve ever had. The third day of anxiety about steri-strips, about showering, about making it up the stairs. The third day of trying to focus and re-focus my eyes after the anti-nausea patch that they put on me in the OR gave me double vision. The third day of making sure my phone is charged, my sheet is straightened on the couch, my juice is cold.
Day Three of this stuff is always the hardest. I’m the most impatient, the most angry, the most demoralized, the most bitter on the third day. All the anesthesia is fully out of my system and the moment the percocet wears off, it feels like I’ve been repeatedly kicked in the gut and chest. And it all still feels crazy surreal. This wasn’t even remotely on the horizon. It wasn’t even in the back of my head — oh, one of these days I’m going to have to get that appendix out. I never thought that. And now, here we are, day three. Incisions and antibiotics and the lingering sensation that a tube had been shoved down my throat and then violently ripped out.
This is some kind of bullshit.