Blizzard life

Physical recovery from brain surgery is a lot like watching a blizzard. There's a lot of waiting. If you live where it snows, you know what I mean. When they predict something like 20 inches, you sit back, make some cocoa and maybe read for a few hours under a blanket while listening to the quiet that only exists when snow falls. Because who is going to keep shoveling during a blizzard? Maybe you scrape around every few hours but you're waiting for the worst to be over before you can get to cleaning up.

When you are recovering from brain surgery, a different sort of blizzard happens. I have a box full of cards that I haven't been able to touch. I have gifts and mix CDs and flowers all around the house. I have dreams that showed up along the way, dreams for Plucky and for my family and for me. But I can't deal with any of it right now. I record the gifts on a list, I stack new cards in the box, I write myself emails about the future that I want to manifest. And I exist here, moment by moment, pushing the mental recovery off until I feel like the blizzard is over.

Chris and I have talked about how we can't answer "how are you doing?" I mean, you do. Or you try. But it's impossible to say. Instead we ask each other for a list of feelings you're feeling. That's more clunky but more true. Tired, sad, hopeful, patient, scared, bored of these days. Stuff like that. My NP told me that people my age are hit by the full force of what happened to them about 6 months later. You get back to physical norms 2-3 months in, but mentally it takes time.

Here's my latest picture from 5/19. The black triangle is because there's always something black. Nothing is full of rainbows. But figuring out how to defeat the black? That's what I am always hungry to do. Xo

1 comment:

Anne said...

"How are you?" or, the worse: "how ARE you??" is the worst question. Poor Americans are conditioned to say it whenever they see anyone, ever.

A better choice is "It's good to see you."