My poor chemical-laden dog Daisy is sleeping off her nasty meds in the shade; she's suffering, slightly, at least until a ball or frisbee appears, through her latest application of Advantix, that cursed, blessed combination of toxic gunk that keeps the fleas and ticks away but leaves her wondering why she feels like hell. I know how she feels. I have been aware that my next surgery, when I'll trade in expander for implant on the left, and refurbish the right with a slight lift, is fast approaching, and that soon I too will be trying to sleep off the nasty meds in the shade, and wondering why I feel like hell.
I have not wanted to think too much about it, because when I do, all I can see is the night nurse coming in to catheterize me, the endless parade of nurses and doctors, asking me my name and taking my vitals over and over again, filling me up with meds, disguised in drip bags and brightly colored pills...and those first impressions of my scar--the alien ugliness and strange, alarming beauty of the violent bursts of color on my chest, spiraling through the bruise cycle--that still haunt me in the mirror.
I have buzzed through my week, making preparations, running errands, and trying to organize things in a pathetic attempt to exert some kind of control over the images that haunt my waking steps and infiltrate my better dreams. It's a futile exercise, but somehow, it lends an illusion of control to make these days leading up to Tuesday infinitely more do-able. Otherwise, I'd be entrenched in my anxiety--about what's to come, about what I don't know, about what I do know, about what I've experienced before, and don't necessarily want to experience again. Part of it is not wanting to relinquish even the illusion of control come the 17th, when I must surrender to the Anesthesia gods and fantasize about filling the drip bag with tequila. And this, from an ex-party girl who stopped sucking down bottles of Jose' years and years ago! But wouldn't it be nice?
Just this morning, the buzz intensified. It was the kind of day that made me wonder how I got through it without stealing sips from a nip tucked away in a pocket. (Pathetic! I've never done that! Well--only when I used to get cold playing fullback for the WWRFC). After speed-picking several quarts of fat juicy strawberries with Dominick to start the day off just right (though it would have been better if we could have lingered), we took Luke to his doctor's appointment at 9:15, where he was finally able to remove the splint he's been wearing for the past six weeks to repair a ruptured ligament (basketball injury). Just an hour later, we had already hightailed it to the local food co-op, where we cashed in some coupons for free stuff (it's a bit like getting free gas these days) and marveled at the kindness of strangers (a nice lady offered Luke a quarter when the meter maid came by to evict him from the parked car and make him pay up), dropped off camp forms at the pediatrician's office, made a deposit at the bank, and finally, went to the library, where we returned some books that were wretchedly late (and again, kindness shone forth, as the librarian waived all fines, hurrah!) and picked out a bunch of new ones before heading home for lunch, more reading, and working on their ancient civ projects. At the end, I should have been hanging together by mere threads, my typical evening unraveling, but somehow, the hustle and bustle of the day worked, to quell the spasms of anxiety about not being organized, to dispel the inner strife around balance and free will and creativity, and compel me to cook a big dinner, and dessert to boot. Where did all this energy come from? Of course, it could very well be an illusion--and I'm actually exhausted, and am indeed unraveling as we speak, but just don't know it yet, and won't until Tuesday, when I'll welcome the sedative into my system like an old friend and slip into neverland, hand in hand, to worship the Anesthesia gods. I'll probably do that anyway, exhausted or energized. I have learned never to say no to a little, ah, rest.
There are signs that this current buzz will soon spin to a halt. Luke takes the SSATs tomorrow, signaling the end of a long spring of preparation and hard work. Dominick's baseball season has officially wound down; the only thing left to do is to scrub the grass stains out of the knees and return the uniform. We're eating salad greens and kale and chard and herbs out of our garden, and there are more vegetables announcing themselves each day. And the boys are fully entrenched in summer reading mode--I can't get their noses out of their books for much, except, perhaps, some frisbee on the lawn or fresh-out-of-the-oven strawberry rhubarb crisp. It's a wonderful thing, when they move from book to book (Dominick has three going right now), series to series, devouring page after page, always ready and eager for more, and seemingly blind to the vast number of distractions that could wreak instant havoc on their best-laid summer reading plans (for instance, a new PS2 game, the latest Celtics-Lakers UBUNTU! fest, or the season finale of Top Chef...). They read in the car, in the waiting room, during breakfast (yes, we all read at the table sometimes), on the couch, at the picnic table, under the tree, on the porch, in bed...
I wish I could join them. Soon enough...
It seems the hardest part is giving up being able to do whatever I have wanted to do--physically--for another four weeks post-op. After working hard to gain some strength and stamina back since my last surgery, I worry about losing it all over again. I started PT last week, and have made strides in easing the chronic hip, back, and knee pain that was nudging me towards early retirement from all contact sports (it was my future boxing career that I believed was most in peril). I even played squash last weekend, when Jim, the boys and I spent Saturday in Williamstown with my mother, eating far too much Indian food at Spice Root, crashing the class of '88's reunion, and yes, donning the dorky protective eye wear and hitting the crap out of the little blue ball in the white walled, red striped court that always makes me feel a little boxed in and happily insane (it's a good sport). My but-tocks were sore as heck from all that bending and reaching and kicking some 13-year old butt (it does feel good to still be able to beat Luke at something), but it was a good kind of sore, emanating from the depths of my hips and nates and speaking to me in a kindly way, Hey Liz! Yeah, we're a little out of shape, but thanks for taking us out for a spin! Of course, we only hear what we want to hear. They could very well have been saying, Liz, you fat shit! What the hell are you trying to do, kill us? Yadda-yadda. Whatever. They've recovered, and have stopped whining, and no matter what they were telling me, it felt good, and my girls, good girls that they are, didn't complain at all.
I was glad to squeeze some squash in, amidst the bicycling and frisbee and general running amok we've been doing, and survive it. And more than that, I was thrilled to see some old friends at Williams that weekend, and to reconnect with the spirit of our time there, when the most I worried about my girls was whether my strapless dress would stay up during the Homecoming dance. Most especially, I enjoyed seeing a healthy cache of my old Dennett House charges and fellow Used Bagges from the WWRFC, who still, after all these years, continue to lighten my load, brighten my gloomier days, and put a smile back on my face. In their honor, I wore an old rugby shirt to my PT appointment last week. The receptionist chuckled, "Oh, I love your shirt. Always hold a Used Bagg-ie by the bottom. " Baggie? I didn't have the heart to tell her that the Bagge was simply pronounced bag. I figured it didn't matter a bit. I headed into the PT room, where Laura, my therapist, started to work on my squash-tight butt muscles, digging her elbow into the side of my bottom, where the pain seared, spread, and then dissipated as I screamed silently into the pillow. Used Bagge indeed.
In addition to PT, I've also started to see an acupuncturist, and had my first session yesterday. After slipping into a deep relaxation for about twenty-five minutes, seven needles stuck in various points in my body, dislodging all that stuck, cranky chi so that it could flow freely throughout my body, I was finally able to see what all the fuss is about. I could easily become a needle-addict. All that blissed out serenity! Geez, where have I been? I could get used to that.
Tonight, we're enjoying the first strawberry rhubarb crisp of the season, our own little slice of rapturous delight. Needles? Who needs needles? Dominick has just asked me if I'd like some "Napoleon" on it. Napoleon? With his dirty little war-torn feet? No, but I'll take a scoop of Neapolitan, thank you.
Little by little, we are savoring the best of the season, jogging the memory, re-igniting the senses, and reminding ourselves of just why we live here. This time of year, the succulence of the strawberries is just the beginning. Just this week, we were treated to the whip of new air that filled and refreshed the house after a wicked, awesome thunderstorm that lit up the skies, still thick with the rumble and release of heat and humidity that had stuck to us like melted chocolate for three days. We've stained the tips of our fingers pink with the juice of the new strawberry season. We've swum in Laurel Lake, caught newts in a bottle, and brought enough sand home in our shoes to create our own beach. I even tried a bathing suit on--actually, I tried on all of my bathing suits--but none of them worked, at all--so decided instead to swim in my bra, surf shirt and shorts. I was a little overdressed, but at least my left girl wasn't shouting out Look at me! Look how much bigger I am than that one! Oy.
Thanks to the encouragement of friends, I have decided to go ahead with the lift on the right side--it's my best bet for not having to worry about having mis-matched girls. After all, I'm done with the invincible thing. And this Used Bagge needs to be held by the bottom--and the top, too, apparently, so my girls don't spill out and cause a ruckus. I'll leave all that to the younger set. As Dominick said the other day, "Actually, they sent me down from outer space to hypnotize you with my belly dancing." It explained a lot, actually.
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