The staples that held together my abdomen were removed this morning. The lady who pulled them out (with pliers!) told me that I looked pretty freaking awesome for someone who had a massive tumor removed a week ago. My wound is relatively small and healing well, my demeanor is saucy, and my sense of humor relatively high. I’ve also been under house arrest for a week. Which has surprisingly yielded no productivity in terms of finishing my book on time.
The official oncology report came back: my tumors are officially benign! Whoo! Hard to believe that two and a half weeks ago I had no idea about the giant tumors in my abdomen and now they are gone and benign on top of that. Medical science moves so quickly. And so does my tissue regeneration.
The scar will be negligible. The pain hasn’t been too bad. I only took the Tylenol with codeine for twenty-four hours. I’m about to finish the antibiotics they gave me during fever-week. Of course, I’m not allowed to lift things (six weeks), drive (five weeks), or exercise (three weeks) for fear of hernias (!), but in the long-run that’s not too bad, considering I had a 10cm x 7cm x 5cm mass inside me a week ago. In fact, I’m feeling pretty tip-top right about now. Healthy, almost. Except for all the bloating.
My parents let me leave the house today. So I went from watching the Olympics in my television room to watching the Olympics in Michael’s living room! Hoorah! Still, it felt great to leave the house for a little while. Be human again. And who knows, now that I can leave, I may even start being productive on this god-forsaken book project.
I’m more receptive to getting phone calls now. Now that I’m not sweating and uncomfortable. Now that I’m not hateful of the million ways my body betrays me. What is the old argument – that the body and mind are separate – that I am not this corpse, I am more than this corpse. I am my brain and this is the shell. Of course, that’s not true. I am the corpus, the mind is the body, it’s all connected. I can’t write when I feel like shit, even if I’m stuck at home doing nothing but watching television. I should be able to write now, but who knows. I’m sure I’ll find a way to write a hundred pages on August 24th. Just watch me.
Renee said she was afraid that I’d find a way to die during surgery, because I was so convinced the witch was out to get me. This is probably true. But, hey, how many people have witch say to them when they’re sixteen “you’ll never reach 25,” and then, lo and behold, a month and half before my 25th birthday, a giant mass appears inside me. For a few days there, I was convinced. This was it. I was going to bite it. Obviously, I didn’t. But I was preparing myself for a day or two there. I kept thinking about the ways that things could go wrong. Maybe I watch too much House.
Either way, I wasn’t dying and I’m not dead. I had a totally common surgery that turned out fine. And according to the lady who pliered me this morning, I’m a healing machine. To quote Pete, “the healingest.” She was actually amazed at how well I looked. The spring in my step shocked her. Too much buoyancy, perhaps? My mother, obviously, thinks that the week of house arrest is what did it. Aha! Your being miserable actually made you better. If you’d left the house, who knows what could have happened?! You defeated your fever through absolute inactivity.
I’m still a little swollen. But that just means I can’t wear pants for a while. Which is fine with me. I love skirts. Skirts make me happy. And I get to sleep a lot. Sleep makes me happy. Given all the happiness that surrounds me, I’m not as chipper as I could be. My dreams continue to be troubling. It’s like my unconscious really hates that I’m not writing, so its torturing me with the bizarre. My dreams aren’t even symbolic, symbolic I would enjoy. Symbolic I could dissect and make some sense of, but instead, I’m stuck in the absurd. I dream that I’m performing in a dinner theater morning show. Although, I guess it would be “live breakfast drama.” HA! (The fact that I find that funny should give you much insight into my current state of mind.) The backstage animals revolted and I hid in the bathroom. Which turned into a condo where my parents tried to make me something delicious for dinner and the doorbell kept ringing.
Now I’m rambling. I’ve become unhinged. My notes are getting out of order and I’ve lost the cover page. Still, I’d rather be a mess than deplied.