A few things have joined up in my head this week. I feel the need to write them down to make sense of them.
First of all, some background information: I am four weeks into my recovery from total knee replacement surgery. I have known that I would eventually need this for about ten years, and for the last five years have been fighting to get onto the waiting list. I have been in increasing pain, and gradually, then rapidly, suffering from ever decreasing mobility.It’s not an uncommon tale I am sure. During recent years I have been working very hard to prove it’s not held me back. I’ve done projects and exhibitions, some funded (with all the stress that implies), some in collaboration, some on my own. I’ve travelled around the UK, to Sweden and to the USA, taking advantage of assisted travel wherever I can. I’ve been a steaming and zooming, “I can do ANYTHING!”, post-menopausal whirlwind. I’ve been trying to prove to myself and others that I am not disabled, merely temporarily and slightly inconvenienced. I became adept at masking pain (mostly) and I went at the world like it was my last day.
And then I had to stop.
It was a planned stop, but up until four weeks before, I had no idea when I would have the operation. I cooked and cleaned, putting batches of food and pre-cooked meals into the freezer. I washed everything, baked, tidied up and did everything I could to make sure afterwards I was able to recuperate slowly, and do anything I wanted, from my armchair. For some stupid reason I got it into my head that this major surgery would be nothing but a physical interruption. I thought I would be able to do everything else from that armchair! I had books to read, a selection of computer-based tasks… nothing was going to stop me at least doing something!
Well that was a load of nonsense. I think I knew it then but the idea of some sort of continuity was keeping me going. I knew this was major surgery, but I couldn’t feel it in my body until it was done. I came out of hospital the day after surgery, a gibbering, terrified, trembling, morphine-soaked wreck. I was armed with crutches, a toilet seat, and a huge bag of drugs. I’d had five minutes “training” on how to use the crutches, told I was “doing really well!” Then sent off home.
I have to acknowledge here the wonderful support I had on that day from my husband, and the polite, careful but insistent advocation by my son. I couldn’t remember anything I was being told. And I was scared.
The first three days home were weird, still on morphine, and doing physio exercises on the hour, every waking hour. With adjustment of drugs, and some decent food and my own bed, I have gradually found a rhythm, and a calmer state. The pain is still there, but subsiding. The point of all this is though, to say that I have stopped, because I have had to stop. I am now calm. I’m not fighting with myself any more. The initial trauma and response have settled and now I feel I am convalescing. I have made a good initial recovery, but now I need convalescence. It seems to be a forgotten word, and a lost art.
(Thank you Kate for sending me the book Recovery, by Dr Gavin Frances, it has been interesting, useful and very relatable)
I am taking my time. I am resting, sleeping pretty well, doing the exercises and taking myself out for walks, or slowly tagging along with my husband to the corner shop.
My appetite is returning, thanks to Haagen Dazs and salty snacks.
I don’t know when I will be able to drive, but I actually don’t feel in a mad rush for it. I don’t feel able to tackle the stairs at the studio yet, but they can wait.
I have time to look around me now to see what I might do next.
I am paused.
There are plenty of ideas, plenty of words in my head. In this state of pause they can shuffle themselves around until I am ready for them.
For the first time in probably fifteen years I am allowing myself to NOT fire on all cylinders all the time. Not only am I recovering from surgery, but also from ten years of painful, desperate, over-activity. A feverish decade of trying to prove something I didn’t need to. (To myself yes, but also to people who weren’t listening anyway) I need a break from all that, and from the subsequent energy drain that comes from trying to mask pain. (Because no one wants to talk to the miserable cow in the corner do they?)
So I write this from the aforementioned armchair, and it has been in more detail than I originally thought it would be, and probably longer too. But I wanted to record these thoughts, because I do feel they will be pertinent when I do return to work.
I have a mug of tea, a slice of delicious ginger cake made by my wonderful daughter in law, total control over the tv remote so I can fall asleep to a selection of really crappy and ancient tv detective series.
Repair and healing, physical, psychological and emotional, require time, rest, structured activity, good nutritious food, and love. All of these things I am grateful to have.
I’ll let you know when I start work again.
