So my help left. My parents left because they saw that I was doing better, could drive, and everyone was getting on everyone else's nerves. More specifically, when I asked them to put frozen lasagna into individual pieces back in the freezer, they cut it all up and put it in a giant ziploc bag back in the freezer. How is that helpful? I cant even lift it!
And that is not healthy for the recovery process.
Upon leaving they set up my kids with a "recovery payment program" where they would pay each kid 50 cents for every task they did that mom would normally do. Making breakfast. Loading the dishwasher. Reaching into cupboards and the refrigerator. Laundry. Turns out they are quite capable. I knew this, but it is nice to see them step up. I am dying to know how long it lasts. (So far we are up to over ten dollars a kid. Not bad.)
See the problem with being in the state I am in, is that I look fine. I don't look sick. I am dressed and able to walk. Its just the singular use of my left arm that throws the kids. My son does not get at all that I cant use it. "It looks fine, Mom. You don't even have a bandaid." Truer words have never been spoken.
But see this is where I just cant seem to move on. I'm totally done with all of this. Yet it lingers. I still have to recover. I still have another surgery to face. I just want to move on. But I kind of give up. Because I still have people telling me that "in 50 years, doctors wont even treat this type of cancer because its not real cancer" and "I'm so sorry you still have cancer." Well, like how the hell are either one of those statements fucking helpful? And they roll around in my brain all day and all night. But I still get to have regular days like entertaining my kids and making sure they still have a "normal" summer and are doing their workbooks and getting excited about going back to school and eating too many popsicles and having playdates.
And I sit and try to relax and stop to clear my head. And it all comes back. Again. Not to mention that I am not able to get my heart rate up, meaning I have to endure the creeping depression without the tools I normally have to combat it. I don't have any pants that fit because I have gained ten pounds since surgery. So it is hard to go outside. But I need to go outside to feel better. Circle. Never ending circle.
And there I am. Half way between depression and limbo. And here I will stay until what I am determined to call the Final Surgery because I am just so fucking done.
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