Channeling Patience

This is a tense week and, looking at the calendar, the stress levels are only going to increase over the coming days. Scott is preparing for his first elective surgery, and he is petrified. After enduring more surgeries than I can count, I am having a difficult time grasping the concept of the terror that he is experiencing. By comparison, his wisdom teeth extraction is little more than an inconvenience. After all, I had mine removed when I was 17 and was fine in a few days.

I am struggling to remind myself that medical journeys should never be compared and that what he is feeling is real. Regardless of my experiences, he is nearly paralyzed with fear at the prospect of his own medical procedure. I am constantly pausing as I try to dance the fine line between being supportive without feeding into his spiraling fears and tempering my instinct to compare his surgery to all of mine.

Both Scott and I are approaching his surgery with skewed perspectives. My lengthy resume of surgeries is not helping either of us! This procedure along with the recovery has grown to epic proportions in Scott's mind. He is convinced that he won't be able to consume solid food for months, that the pain will be unbearable, and that his face will be permanently disfigured. My trying to calm his fears by relaying the experiences from my own wisdom teeth extraction only serves to minimize and negate his worries.  I'm told that I don't understand and that I don't care. At this point, I don't know how to adequately support him without being perceived as dismissive. 

I recognize that he is terrified, and I am doing my best to be supportive. I know that he will be okay and that the ensuing recovery will not mimic the journey through hell that he is envisioning. My promising him that he will be okay is not helping the situation. He views all attempts to reassure as disparaging. At this point, there isn't anything that I can say or do to help him. I find myself stepping on egg shells with each conversation. 

Tomorrow is his surgery. I know that today is going to be difficult as he struggles with the unknown. I'm going to do my best to listen and to reassure without appearing to judge and compare. I have a feeling it is going to be a long day for both of us.

Multi-tasking Tantrums.

Since the daycare portion of Robby's school shut down, I have been left without somebody to help watch Timmy.  Working from home, I'm fortunate that the closure has had minimal impact on my daily life. I only lament the lack of childcare when I have an appointment that is not child friendly. Yesterday I had to go to the gynecologist, which is probably as child-unfriendly as it gets!

Timmy, probably echoing my anxiety, took the opportunity to throw one of his first true tantrums. Sitting in his stroller, surrounded by extremely pregnant women, he decided to end the silence of the waiting room. Without warning he threw his little head back against the back of his stroller seat, set his little jaw into a scowl and proceeded to scream at the top of his lungs. (He may be little, but I learned that size has no correlation to volume.)

As the mommies-to-be shifted awkwardly in their seats and attempted to feign smiles, I tried in vain to quiet down my little hellion. I offered goldfish crackers. He quieted for a moment, cracked a smile and threw it across the room. I watched helplessly as it bounced off a belly bump before ricocheting to the floor. I apologized profusely as I shamefully picked up the shattered remnants of my inadequate toddler bribe.

I can't be certain, but I'm fairly sure that my wait time for the doctor was minimized because of Hamlet's meltdown. Almost as soon as I threw the goldfish crumbs away, we were ushered into the examination room.  I wheeled the stroller into the corner, hoping that he would be content to look out the window during my exam. Timmy never noticed the window and spent the majority of his energy trying to remove and shred the paper gown I was clutching around my quasi-exposed body. 

Within minutes I was lying on the exam table with my feet in the stirrups. It felt surreal as I was quietly sang Itsy Bitsy Spider while feeding cookies to Timmy during my pelvic exam. I never knew that I could be that good at multi-tasking. 

Omnipresent

During the past few weeks I have received numerous emails from women who have recently experienced an amputation. While geography and individual circumstances vary greatly, I have noticed a common theme. I find myself repeating the advice I was given before I underwent my amputation.  "You will have problems with body image. You'll think that you won't, but you will. It's okay because you will look different. Just don't let your  new body shape define you." 

At the time, I shrugged off the body image warning with a naive confidence. I was secure in my decision to amputate and felt strong enough to handle the changes to my body. Little did I know that personal strength and resolve have little to do with processing and accepting the drastic change in body shape that occurs after a limb is amputated.  Acceptance wasn't something that could be forced but rather required gentle nudges, over time, to fully achieve.

I understand the rush to adjust. I was anxious to resume my life, to put the amputation behind me. It was only with time did I realize that my limb loss could never be put in my past. Instead of being something to get over, it became something that slowly because incorporated into every aspect of my life. From the jeans that I wear to the way I gauge obstacles, my limb loss is omnipresent. It is part of me, but it does not define me.

It took a long time for me to be able to look into a full length mirror and not feel overwhelming anxiety and grief. If I were to be completely honest, I must admit that sometimes I continue to feel pangs of sadness when I see my prosthetic in the mirror. I am always surprised by this reaction when it occurs, but I no longer reprimand myself for feeling that way. Instead of becoming angry for not being "over it," I now acknowledge the difference and walk away. Granting myself permission to occasionally feel sadness has been liberating.

Cleaning House

It is gearing up to be a wet and cold weekend. With the hurricane off the coast and projected to impact our area Sunday night I am not anticipating seeing the sun until next week. I don't mind rainy days, but when they multiply they tend to take a toll on my mood. At this point I'm not as concerned about the rainy day blues as I am about the associated wind. Living in the woods and being surrounded by tall trees, I have come to fear the combination of saturated soil and wind gusts. 

This weekend will be spent trying to get hurricane ready. Although I doubt that we'll be able to work in the yard, at the very least we will become organized inside. Cleaning may not safeguard our home from fallen trees, but it will certainly make me feel less overwhelmed.  The amount of clutter that has accumulated during the past few weeks borders on obscene.  Since everybody will be forced indoors, I figure that we might as well work on a common project.  Of course, Scott may have a different perspective when his football watching is interrupted by the vacuum. 

I have been delaying sorting through Timmy's clothes for several weeks. Each morning I promise myself that today will be the day that I pull out everything that he has outgrown. It seems silly to admit, but weeding through Timmy's clothes makes me sad. There is something concrete about packing away his outgrown clothes that forces me to face the reality that my baby is now a toddler.

While everybody is stuck inside, I am going to take the opportunity to clean out Timmy's clothes bins. I'm hoping that having a house full of commotion will buffer the emotions that always arise when I am faced with this chore. Wish me luck!

Weather Pain

Thankfully, last night the phantom pain finally eased, morphing from angry to nagging. I am fortunate that I don't have persistent phantom pains. I am miserable when they rear their ugly little nervy heads, but so many of my friends suffer greatly because of their frequent intrusions. Although I complain when it happens, I consider myself lucky because of the infrequency.

I always find myself feeling both angry and depressed when I experience phantom pain. I have to remind myself that my phantom pain is fleeting as I try to ride it out. I underwent an amputation to rid myself of constant pain. When I relive the agony, I just want to cry.

With the hurricane brewing in the Atlantic projected to hit our area Sunday night, I am anticipating an uncomfortable weekend. My phantom pain seems to be impacted by drastic changes in weather systems. Our local news station has started featuring a pain meter in conjunction with the weather. I've realized that when the pain meter is in the red, the probability of my experiencing phantom pain is greater.

Hopefully my predictions are wrong and the nagging pain will never materialize. We have a lot of work to do before the hurricane makes landfall. I don't have the time to be laid up with pain! Fingers crossed that my limb cooperates.

Phantom Pain

Between my phantom pain and a waking up with a killer headache, today is not shaping up to be a good day. My leg was doing the jitterbug kick most of the night, keeping me awake with the movement and near constant stinging. I blame the cold heavy rains that pushed through our area for my pain, but knowing the culprit has done nothing to mask the problem. 

My headache can probably be attributed to fatigue and my clenching my jaw throughout the night.  I tried to remind myself to relax, but as the hours wore on it became more and more of a challenge. Needless to say, today is not shaping up to be a good day!

I'm hoping that my pain eases as the day progresses. At this moment, I hate being an amputee.  I've said it before, but it bears repeating.  There is nothing 'phantom' about the pain I'm feeling!

The Great Potato Fight

I used to love to cook. I remember chomping at the bit to get into the kitchen, eager to play and whip up new and exciting dishes. I still enjoy spending time in the kitchen, but what was once a beloved and relaxing activity has become a chore.  In between writing reports, fielding conference calls, finishing assorted projects, managing my social media responsibilities and entertaining Hamlet, I still manage to make dinner. Every. Single. Night.

Yesterday was especially busy because I decided to surprise Robby (and Timmy) with a trip to Jumping Jimmy's after school. (In addition to wanting to see the boys have fun I must admit to some ulterior motives. I've discovered that taking the boys to a bounce house tires them out, dramatically simplifying our bedtime routines.) Before I left the house to pick up Robby from school, I prepared dinner. I prepped chicken and potatoes so that all I had to do was put it in the oven when we came home. Granted that roasted chicken and potatoes isn't gourmet, but it is a solid meal.

After spending an hour jumping and playing, we came home, and I immediately put the chicken into the oven. Because I was tired and wanted to be comfortable, I changed out of my clothes and into my yellow nightgown. (I realize that it was only 4:30, but I had already been up for 12 hours at this point and was beginning to anticipate going to bed.)  Ninety minutes later the house smelled yummy and dinner was ready. Sitting down for dinner, I saw Scott turn up his nose when he saw the chicken and potatoes.

With all seriousness, he asked me if the potatoes were crunchy. I explained that they were freshly dug potatoes from the farm that had been roasted with the chicken. He put down his fork and proclaimed "I have decided that I am only going to eat crunchy foods from now until my surgery." (He is having his wisdom teeth removed next Thursday which, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you realize this is quite the traumatic event for him.) 

Seeing that his Daddy was refusing the non-crunchy potatoes, Robby followed suit. Both crunch-seeking eaters picked at some chicken and refused to touch the potatoes. I could feel my blood pressure rising each time they pushed the food around their plates.  Finally I had enough! I put the rest of the potatoes and chicken on a plate and directed Scott to take it to Mr. Bill.  I dismissed all of his attempts to defend his crunch-seeking ways and proceeded to clean the dishes. 

As I was loading the dishwasher, my ire was rising. Seeing Scott across the street laughing on Mr. Bill's porch was my tipping point. Still holding a dirty red spoon, I went outside onto our deck and screamed across the street.  "Hey Your Highness, make sure you apologize for the potatoes not being crunchy enough."

And then I saw myself: I was standing outside, furiously squawking across the street while wearing a yellow nightgown at 5:30 in the afternoon. Yikes. When did fighting over non-crunchy potatoes become my reality?  I took a deep breath, tried to muster as much dignity as possible and went back inside. 

I decided to forgo arguing about dinner. I figured that the boys would find something to eat when they were hungry. I closed down the kitchen and proceeded with Timmy's bedtime routine.  I have no intention of rehashing the great potato fight, but I must admit that I'm looking forward to whatever Scott and Robby decide to make for family dinners for the remainder of the week.  This Momom is on strike.