Truth be told, the first few weeks I was out it wasn’t all that bad. I was uncomfortable (that’s an understatement, actually), but I had a steady supply of helpful pharmaceuticals, a pressing need to stay completely still and watch box after box of television series on DVD, and I was very tenderly waited on hand and foot by the boy and my friends.
It wasn’t fun, by any stretch of the imagination. But it wasn’t the worst scenario in the world.
Then two weeks passed. And although I hadn’t so much as spent an entire four hours sitting up in bed let alone at a desk, it was time to return to work. I spent the first few days sneaking away to quietly sob in the bathroom, the pain was so much to handle. The second week was slightly better, and after becoming more active as a result, the third was worse.
The pain levels have fluctuated, as has my mood, but I don’t feel like I’ve ever reached more than 75%. And now five weeks after the fact, this constant unrest is almost unbearable. I should have begun feeling better after two weeks. That’s when I got back in the swing of things, and I think I did more harm than good. I haven’t healed as well as I need, and my follow-up visits are increasing in frequency – the opposite of what should be happening.
There are legitimate reasons to why I’m still not feeling like myself. I’ve been told as much. Yet I still feel weak, even guilty that I’m not over it.
I hate that I can’t ignore the pain. I hate that I have no energy. I hate that I still have to sleep on my back all the time. I hate that the boy wants to do the simplest thing like take a walk around the block after work and that it’s too much for me to handle. I hate that I’m crying as I write this.
Sorry for the morose topic — just had to get that off my chest. (Pun COMPLETELY intended.) Soon I’ll be posting before and after pictures, and acting like my normal self. Promise.