Three weeks and two days post surgery and I’m not entirely sure what news I have to report. On some days, I think I’m making progress. If you consider that the first 8 days I could barely make it to the bathroom and now I’m walking around the block 3x a day, there’s certainly been progress.
But when I say I’m ‘walking around the block’ it’s more like limping around the block. The pain still radiates down my right leg which such intensity, it feels like the leg is on fire. And I can’t feel my toes! You never appreciate how important it is to be able to feel your toes until you can’t feel em.
Like if my wife wanted to get all kinky and rub my toes or lick my toes (cuz some people do that, right?) it totally wouldn’t work right now.
‘You like that baby?’
‘Like what?’
‘What I’m doing down there.’
‘Down where?’
‘Down there. With your toes.’
‘You did something with my toes? But I can’t feel my toes! Can we do it again in a few weeks when I can feel my toes?’
Of course this is just a fantasy. In reality, no one in their right mind would ever come anywhere near my toes. They’re some of the grossest appendages known to man. There’s fungus, nail discoloration, toes that are so embarrassed about their lot in life they hide behind other toes. It’s just a mess. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that right now, I can’t even feel my own mess.
Other Not So Important Notes:
— Post surgery, I wore the same sweatpants 8 days in a row. They got washed once and I’ve now worn them another 4 days in a row. As far as I’m concerned, I could wear them 45 days in a row, or however long it takes this pain to recede. Because when you’re in pain, the last thing you care about is how you look. It just doesn’t matter.
—To that end, I stopped shaving after surgery. At first it was because I couldn’t stand up long enough to do it. But then I stupidly vowed not to shave until I could walk around the block pain free. Now I’m hobbling around the block with all this itchy, gray hair on my face, wearing 45-day old sweatpants that don’t really fit, wondering when someone is gonna offer me some loose change or a sandwich.
— Speaking of walks, going for walks when you can’t really walk is a really lonely experience. Sure my wife and Erez and the dog sympathy walk with me a bit, but after a few minutes even Cabo is like, ‘God damn, hurry the fuck up!’ When you go out on a walk with someone, that person has to be at the same walking level as you. If they’re not, it’s bound to be a very frustrating experience. Maybe we should all have walking ratings, like golfers have handicaps. Right now, I’d be paired with anyone over 95 with circulation issues. And that’s fine. We’d stop every half block to complain about how much it hurts and wonder what we ever did to deserve this fate and … we’d be happy together!
— Speaking of happy, the other thing that’s driving me crazy is I can’t bend down to pick anything up. I suffer from mild OCD that normally forces me to pick up anything I see on the floor within 2-3 seconds. Right now, as I type this, there’s two random pieces of lettuce from a salad that are on the kitchen floor, slightly hidden beneath a cabinet, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Left untouched for another few days and the green from the lettuce could stain the wood floors and leave a permanent mark. And somehow, I’m just expected to fall asleep tonight?
— Lastly, I will admit something. I’m scared. Petrified really. There’s no guarantee that this pain is ever going away. I think it will. I hope it will. The surgeon says it will. But until it does, I live in fear that it will be like this for the rest of my life. No one writes more eloquently about pain, it’s consequences and meaning, then the New York Times’ Frank Bruni. His new book tells the story of his fear of going blind (he began to lose sight in one eye) and how his loss of vision helped him see the pain and suffering of others he’d never seen before.
“I understand in a new and important way that struggle isn’t exceptional. It’s inevitable. It’s endemic. It’s our default setting. It’s just often hidden, and I wonder what life would be like if we all walked around wearing sandwich boards that listed what we’re enduring. What we’re surviving. What we’ve overcome.”
When I turn the corner and head the half-block for home each day, I feel like an Olympic champion crossing the finish line. It’s a line I’ve created, in my own head. A line that perfectly fits my circumstances. Guessing you have one too. What I’m just now realizing is, we all do.
