My therapist warned me that the surgery itself could spur on trauma.  I had thought about that.  Entering a hospital, seeing the tubes, smelling the antiseptic, IVs, gurneys: all reminders of the 45 days straight Kevin spent in the hospital, not including the additional return trips before he died…in the hospital.  I felt emotional after the surgery, mostly because I just felt so damn sick.

Now, I’m mobile, driving, going back to work on Wednesday, all progress, right?  Yet, I feel just as weak and helpless as I did before the surgery.  Not allowed to lift more than 10 pounds.  Limit bending and turning.  Nothing rigorous.  No water submersion.  Gentle does it.  The worse part?  The numb leg.  The leg that continues to drag along as I try to go about doing life again.

Ok, so I KNOW it’s only been 2 weeks.  I’m doing well considering everything.  The leg will take time, maybe even years of time.  Things I all knew.  But I had hoped I would wake up and feel my foot; hoped I would wake up and walk and not feel like I was dragging my leg along.  I would begin walking, then hiking and I would feel energized again. 

I’m tired.  I ache.  My calves are screaming at me.  They hate when I squat.  My left leg yells at me just as it did before the surgery.  It says “stop walking so much on me or I swear I’ll go completely numb on you.”  And it does.

It’s October.  It’s “the month”.  This morning I broke down, wanting to feel better, to feel healed, to feel my damn leg!  Nope, none of that.  I hear our song, I cry.  I cry at the time of year.  I cry from my hormones.   I cry at my weakness.  I cry as I beat myself up.

I never expected I could feel so sad post surgery.  I thought I would feel like I was heading towards healing and instead I just feel headed towards weakness.  Maybe that’s where I need to be, to take a break, to rest my body and my heart.  But it hurts a lot while I wait for all of that.  Everything just hurts.