It’s been 2 weeks since my double mastectomy/reconstruction surgery. I’m managing the pain fairly well – more discomfort than pain to me, and I’m worrying more about becoming too complacent and over doing something that would result in my recovery taking longer than originally thought.

Recovery. Usually post-surgery you take your pain pills and 4-6 weeks you are back to normal. I’ve had multiple surgeries before – two on my abdomen, one on my knee. This recovery is not the same. It’s not what I expected. Usually post-surgery you look at yourself and you still outwardly look the same. Sure, you might be missing a gall bladder or a ligament or perhaps even a small part of an ovary but no one can tell and you don’t really miss them – even if you do have to learn to live without them, and even if that does require you to modify things forever going forward in some small way.

This surgery is much more brutal. Looking at myself in the mirror after the surgery is surreal. It’s like I’m looking at a movie version of myself – stunt double body with the sewn up chest with barely any hair on my head. It’s not me. I have long, beautiful brown hair that I love. It’s healthy and shiny. I am slim – having spent the last 3 years going to crossfit 3 days a week – and over the last year really seeing the change in my waist which I fell in love with. My chest, while I never even looked at it as much, was something that I’d learned to accentuate a bit more now that I was feeling stronger, slimmer from all of the time at the gym. It helped me relish my femininity, my power and sexuality as a woman.  Now I look in the mirror and see a Frankenstein-esque collection of scars across my chest, under my arms and on my stomach from the numerous surgeries. I understand that the reconstruction results are supposed to be amazing and that in the end the scars will be barely noticeable but now, well now I just cannot see it. All I see is cuts and lines everywhere. Instead of breasts which require a bra I currently have two hard bumps – mere suggestions of breasts. They don’t sag, they are hard. I feel that I have no need for a bra – especially now since post-surgery everything is so tight and new.

The recovery isn’t just for this surgery. This is a recovery within a recovery. My nails are still horrendous though improving. I keep them trimmed shorter than short – so I can cut off as much of the offending reminder of the chemotherapy. I spoke to someone who told me it’ll be 6-9 months for my nails to fully grow out. It’s a painfully slow process. All I want is for every reminder of the cancer to go the fuck away and every day I look in the mirror or at my hands and I cannot even see a difference. I must look week to week to be able to notice any difference. I’m forced to be patient, to slow down, to stop, to look elsewhere at what’s around me as the time passes.

I hate going slowly. It’s not my style. I walk fast, talk fast, think fast, type fast. This entire experience is an exercise in patience. The Ultra Marathon x Iron Man of races.

I’ve set small goals to reach so I can mark my improvements. Right now I’m trying to get off the percoset and onto Tylenol but the discomfort is a bit too much, so I continue taking the percoset. This means I cannot drive. I thus cannot take my daughter out and do any errands or even take myself to the doctor for an appointment. So I figure another week I should be fine.

Now that I’m through the worst following the surgery I’m feeling clearer in my head, as if I could handle doing work – but I know that I shouldn’t. There is so much more going on that I need to accept, digest, figure out how to move forward from. Right now I still cannot undress myself. Yes, it’s true I did wear a t-shirt today – the first time since the surgery (I’d been wearing button down shirts) – but the truth of it is, when it came time to take it off, I couldn’t do it without help. I couldn’t do it myself due to the limited movement of my arms and shoulders. Yeah. Wow.

I’ve been passing the time with Netflix watching Mad Men. 7 series, 13 episodes a series ~ 1 hr per episode. Watching it continuously allows me to forget my own situation. I get lost in the story line – the fashion, their work in an advertising firm, the people. It’s wonderful. But then I feel guilty for not doing more around the house to keep it up. And then I remember that right now the number 1 priority is to rest and not over do anything. So I push everything else out of my mind and I curl up in the comfort of my daughter’s room, under the soft blankets, and surrounded by a supportive bed of pillows and I watch – hour after hour of Mad Men. And then I get philosophical about the show and its portrayl of women in the 1960s, and women in offices, and the relationships between men and women during that time and now – and I think about it all, compare and contrast to my own life and start identifying with certain characters as certain people in my own life and it all gets odd. I’m over thinking. It’s a bad habit. At least for once I’m not thinking about cancer or work. It’s a nice change, a guilty pleasure, another silver lining I’ve found that I’m trying to enjoy as much as I can.