Hazy Memories

I’ve been home for a few days now, got home Saturday late in the afternoon. My memories of the last week or so are hazy at best, between the morphine and oxycodone, it gets hard to remember.

I do, however, remember this:
Painpainpain lots of it.
My sweet BFF Whit, curling up on the hard-as-hell horrible mattress, sleeping by me at night because she knew I would hurt more if I were alone.
Brandon bringing me fuschia gerber daisies, my favorite.
My mom, coming to stay with me at the drop of a hat, keeping Cade safe and warm and loved, because she is his second favorite person in the world (after me, of course).
A visit from a friend I haven’t seen in years, to bring me a Diet Coke and the softest blanket I’ve ever felt.
Lana, coming to visit at 10 pm and not leaving till midnight, bringing chocolate shakes and Mean Girls, and contemplating having a slumber party with me…
Brandon, my Mom, cleaning my wound, not acting grossed out when I’d need help going to the bathroom or cleaning up my pukage, like someone else would be.
Patience and love and concern from everybody I know.
My sweet little boy, at home, wondering where his mommy could be? Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, bawling, and saying to his daddy, “I wanna see Mommy. I want Mommy come home. Pwease I wanna see Mommy pwease pwease!”
My son insisting on sleeping on his mommy’s pillow while she was gone, because it comforted him.
Weak. So terribly weak. I walk as if I’m 80 years old, hunched over because standing up straight causes incredible pain.
A swollen stomach with a huge tube coming out of it. It's damn attractive.
I’m terribly thin, have lost even more weight. I look terrible, even I, the seasoned anorexic, can see how terrifying I look.
Funny, wide-looking eyes, that have a far away look in them all the time. Painkillers will do that to ya. It’s pretty wild.

So I’ve lied in bed for the past few days, well enough, thank the Lord, to be home, but not well enough to do much of anything else. I still cannot go to work…don’t know when I’ll be back. I need time so that I can get stronger, not look like I’m literally dying when I go back. I’m just so WEAK. Moving is hard, still.

The surgery took a terrible toll on my body.

But at least I’m home, can wipe those tears from my baby’s eyes. I can remember how happy he was to come pick me up from the hospital, wearing his new yellow and blue plaid shorts and his Cars backpack, excitedly riding in the wheel chair with me down to the car. I can remember that he’s beautiful and he’s perfect and he needs his Mommy.

And that reminds me of what I need to do: pump the hell out of my stomach with BOOST. Yeah, baby!