Day 8-10 - The Calm Before the Storm

I am nearly 1 year out of this whole experience, so I clearly would admit that my "memories" may be a bit fuzzy, jaded, and distorted, but as always...I don't care.

Day 8 begins at roughly 7:30am, when I first meet the only male nurse on the floor, Ted. Ted is a hulking of a man, although considering my lightweight dimensions, that may be an overstatement. He turns out to be an incredibly charming, witty, and funny guy to hang with. He woke me up, and did some usual vital signs, and off he went on his merry way.

After a while, my mother and her new beau come strolling in to check in and see how things are going. It wasn't long before the bomb came reigning down from the non-existent heavens that they had "decided to leave today." That was code for: Beau doesn't want to be here, he's pushing me to leave, and since I can't think for myself, I caved in to leave you laying here still taking some pretty serious pain medication.

As I recall, they left around noon. It was thought I was "out of the woods" so-to-speak and everything following this day would be simple. They *could* make that argument, and my mother subsequently *did* make that argument, to which many in the family seemingly were incredulous at.

Upon asking me, laying there in a hospital bed, doped up on pain medication, "Is it okay if we go?" I literally was left speechless. How was I suppose to say no to that? I had no time, nor was I in the position, to mount some counterargument as to why she was being a ginormous asshat. Moreover, no matter how much I argued, I didn't see me getting my way in any shape or form.

Luckily, my afternoon proved eventful to keep my jaw from smacking the mattress I was stuck on while pondering what exactly had just occurred. After my lunch, which consisted of some fruit, applesauce, and some yogurt i believe...I got my first sponge-bath I could ever recall.

Ted, the nurse showed up at my door, and with his big hands and arms got me to painfully move upright and enough to effectively give me the bath my body had been lacking for a week. We bantered back and forth a bit as he kept me propped up and pretty much undressed my ass. He delicately worked around the massive staples and scar that was just beginning to heal, and around the massive bandage in the middle of my chest from a tiny leak that would eventually have to be hand-sewn shut.

Ted, wonderful Ted, took the whole hour to clean me up, give me a respectable shave, and generally made me feel better. It was serious mental progress, in retrospect.

Later that afternoon, just before dinner arrived, the physical therapist arrived to assess how terrible I looked. It was at this point that I was encouraged, and took a stand. Literally. I stood. I looked like a freaking hunchback with my torso bending over, but I stood. Despite standing, my prospects didn't look good. There was talk of possibly needing outside therapy after I was discharged.

Later that evening, I went for the first of what would turn out to be an interesting adventure of procedures. *cough* I was put into a serious sedation and a thing was put down my throat to discern what was causing some numbers they were seeing from the bloodwork not look quite right.

Day 9-10 marked my first Saturday and Sunday that I was mostly awake for. On the floor, those days were the most quiet. There were very few doctors visits, and without my aunt visiting me and bringing wished from my grandmother and my doggie, I would have been even more bored. Being immobile & stuck to a bed, gives you much incentive to get OUT of said bed.

Saturday proved to be a giant blur, as I slept most of the day having been tired from the emotional stress and the physical stress of Friday with the therapy, the bath, and the "procedure." I was completely whipped.

The funny thing about nurses is, they aren't kidding. The sooner you get your fat ass out of bed, the better. And, I knew it. Early on, I pressed myself and pushed a few envelopes without being reckless to get my fat keister off the bed (and yes, sister, it actually was fat at this point!).

The other thing about nurses, is it's a great idea to know how to find the good ones early, and to find ones who will be willing to help you out when you really want something. I had one, and I knew it. Sunday, I stood again and even took some very shaky steps. I was white-knuckling the walker. Late Sunday, I had Elanor as my nurse. She struck me as a bit of a firecracker and someone willing to let me walk, so when I pondered, she was more than willing. Once I was up, there was no stopping me. I headed out the door at speed of warp 1, and I walked a good ways.

With these forceful attempts at getting myself back into shape, I saw a slight drop in the overall swollenness of my body by the time Monday rolled around. I was so impressed with myself and buoyed by my progress, I had visions of going home that very Friday.

Day 11 will begin on Monday morning and the beginning of a hellacious week.

An Old Saying = Truism?

There is a saying I've heard a few times during the discussions of love seeking, searching, & the desperate hope to find love.

I've heard something like: You have to love yourself before you can truly love someone else.

I refuse to believe this is a truism that holds fast. If it holds fast, I am eternally screwed.

I don't think I will ever "love" myself. I am far too critical of my own self. I was far too critical the second I had a conscious thought that I still remember.

Every time I would look at my stomach, it was constant reminder of the imperfections implanted in me from the moment of that egg fertilization. And as the years rolled on, and as has been noted within the digital pages of this blog, the list of things of things I don't like about myself only got bigger & more complex.

I have grown up to begrudgingly accept myself in spite of my incredible flaws, while still trying to work on some of them. I have learned to celebrate, revel, & enjoy my own quirks, while in search of someone unique, smart, and also holding their own quirks.

But, unless I get a concussion & my personality undergoes a Johnny Damon-esque transformation, I will never love myself. Not really.

Even if it's because of a shallow, shallow, shallow thing like my physical scarring that I have seemingly forever had, it just won't happen. My personality is what it is, but that I can at least attempt to work on. For the first time, I have to admit to myself that my physical scars have left their deep emotional scars on my mind.

I blame this on many things, but mostly my own stupidity. I wish I were smarter to have not continually fallen into the trap of the male masculinity model that I was never going to fit; I'm not tall, I have no muscles besides my heart, I have a non-manly voice (Visa once though I was a woman and refused to believe I was I despite giving them every number imaginable), and I'm just not a guy's guy.

I was smart enough to be myself, but perhaps not in a smart way so that "normal" people wouldn't be put off. But, I know me. I know myself. And, I cannot be something I'm not.

It seems like a paradox to me at this point: I will never see myself loving myself, yet I have to be myself in order to operate effectively in this world.

Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive, but damned to non-existent hell if I'm not smart enough to figure it out.

I read a post on someone else's blog about regrets in the past & how they should be kept there because you really can't do much about it now. I agree with that sentiment.

I have many minor regrets that aren't worth a hill of beans. But, I do have one thing I regret that I have had crop up in the past few months: I should have drank more alcohol.

Early on, I was taught to be afraid, and I was afraid. I still am in many respects.

I was afraid of my parents, I was afraid of my bigger sister, I was afraid of other kids who would punish me verbally, I was afraid of failing, & I was afraid of dying or getting tremendously ill.

I'm no longer scared of my family. Once I began to speak my mind, other kids didn't really scare me too much; ask the kid I sucker punched because he wouldn't shut the heck up.

My fear of dropping dead or getting ill was ALWAYS present. I was extremely careful about booze. I rarely drank in an ill-fated effort to avoid the issue that I finally had to deal with. I didn't much smoke. I basically ate pretty healthy except for a few years there.

In retrospect, it was inevitable. I should have enjoyed my bad drinking machine when I had the chance & lived it up. I should've gotten sloshed like a freaking pirate every weekend. Maybe then I would have found someone that was interested in me as a person once they sobered up. (Fat chance, but you never know right?)

That is my only big regret now in life. I should have just gone for it. I should've let it really all hang out in that way.

I know I owe a lot to the family who gave me this new chance, & the people that have supported me emotionally & financially, but I feel out there a bit. I've always had an attitude, if I hadn't come out swinging when I was hatched I wouldn't have made it 5 days, much less this long.

I want to be out there & take risks, but I can't bring myself to be. I feel like I owe people. I felt like I owed people when I was younger, & now I still do, if not more so. This notion is still hampering me, but I think I'm beginning to feel the chains of restraint & guilt loosen just a smidgen.

It hasn't manifested itself in anything tangible, and maybe it never will. All I do know, is for the first time in a long while, I have discovered someone who I seem to actually relate to. It's almost unbelievable and quite possibly something very silly.

Addendum @ 12:17am - I think there is one way I could come to love myself, but that would be something that would be highly unlikely.