Two weeks into convalescence it’s clear I’m not Wonder Woman…

I feel quite well.  I do.  I have no pain.  The Dermabond has fallen off and my incisions are healing quite nicely.  I am able to move without discomfort or limitations…but I don’t.

This could very well be the sort of feeling that makes me overdo everything, but the wisdom (what little I have of it) garnered over years of living and doing stupid things prevents me from going Wonder Woman on this recovery process.  I am well aware, by the way, that -whatever illusions I might have harbored while in my youth and up to my ears in “clean the house, raise the kids, go to school, go to work”- I am not, nor have I ever been Wonder Woman.

I am woman.  Hear me roar.  Or, rather, I’m not yet roaring but not whimpering either.  You might say I’m growling…

It’s a low growl.  It’s the sort of low growl that says “hey, I’m here…” not the sort of growl that indicates I have any intention of getting louder.

I read a lot.  I google things.  I tinker with recipes.  I let J set the pace, and then I ask him to revise it.  He gives in.  I plan long-term projects.  I plan the garden.  I read some more.  I haven’t mastered the art of the intentional nap, but I have dozed while sitting in bed a few times.  I pet the dog and let her nuzzle me gently.  I wait for Dada to get home from work to do things I know he’d be worried if I did in his absence.

I’m healing.  I’m being patient.  This, aside from the fact that I’m getting better, is a massive step forward.  J is being patient.  J is being independent where before he would have expected me to help him…just because.

Doing this while taking into account that J has his ups and downs (don’t we all?) has been interesting.  He needs help bathing (again…that tricky middle-ear that might cause him to lose his balance); he still gets frustrated and impatient.  I am still, in spite of my reduced ability to be 100% functional, his primary caregiver.  There is a lot of negotiation taking place, but we’re both being patient with each other, and with ourselves.  For a person with Autism and a woman who’s just had her uterus removed, that’s no mean feat.

It’s all going to be OK.

It’s going to take time, but OK is out there in a not-too-distant spot ahead of us…

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