Take It Easy

My reunion with the boys at home is amazing for me, but not as I had romanticized. Miles does run up to me and give me giant hug (carefully!) but then only wants to talk about "mommy's new bed moves!" I had a hospital bed delivered so that I could get up and down by myself without crying and it totally upstaged my coming home. Baron remembers me and still likes me which makes me so happy. I sit down with Miles while he has lunch and then give Baron a bottle. I think that maybe not picking the boys up won't be nearly as torturous as I expected. Even though I think I'm doing nothing, the rest of the day Boris keeps telling me to stop doing things, take it easy and sit down. I don't know how to take it easy so it's really, really tough. My mom comes over to help with dinner and baths. I kiss Baron goodnight and my mom disappears in to his room with him. I follow Boris and Miles around as Miles gets his bath and milk and feel pretty useless. Although I'm so happy to just be near Miles, I wish I could snuggle him in his chair and put him to bed. Baron has been sleeping 5-7 hours each night (woo hoo!) so Boris and I are hoping for a good night's sleep. We should have known better. We hear crying around 2:00a.m. It's Miles. Boris gets up and I hear them talking. As soon as it gets quiet, Baron wakes up. Poor Boris! He gets both boys back to bed in a short time and returns to the bedroom. In the morning I tell him how sorry I am that he was up with both boys. He tells me that Miles was just excited that I was home. When he went into his Miles' room, Miles kept repeating that "mommy's here. Mommy's home. Mommy has ouchie. Mommy's new bed moves." But before I can be selfishly happy that my child woke up to talk about my return, Boris informs me that Miles also wanted to discuss the ponies he played with that day at my cousin's house. Oh well.

The following day goes much better than I anticipated. I am in agony, but am able to move around better than anyone expected. I spend my day as usual playing with the boys; it's just an altered, less physical play. Miles and I read books together (without him cuddled up to me or sitting in my lap like usual), play with his trucks and I even let him watch television for the first time ever to keep him still and in bed with me. Thankfully, he's not so interested in the television and after 10 minutes of Sesame Street, he climbs off the bed and runs down the hall. He's way more interested in watching diggers on the computer. He's opened up a new and fascinating world of entertainment for me. For example, this is his favorite video which he calls "noisy trucks" - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXhhXXsxSfE&feature=related. When he goes to the park I sit with Baron on the floor and play with him and even give him another bottle. He's super social and smiley and we chat and laugh and sing. Boris (who took the whole week off) and one of my nannies (I currently employ a staff. It's very fancy.) keep trying to make me sit down and won't let me touch a thing. I appreciate it but it's so hard to do nothing and while I worship having my house scrubbed 24 hours a day and my meals prepared for me, I feel so strange not even getting my own water. I nap (which never happens) and feel good other than the intense pain in my chest and hand.

I try to explain the pain to Boris. The best way I can describe it is to imagine having jagged plastic cups carving into your flesh. Or the tightest, most uncomfortable corset imaginable around your chest that you desperately want to take off only you can't. Ever. Or like you want to unzip your chest. It hurts to breathe deeply because it expands my chest. I tried rolling my shoulders back to stretch (no, I don't know why I did that) and almost died. Sometimes I'll move too quickly and will feel a searing pain in my chest. So I never know when I'm going to feel something horrifically painful or not. Good times.

That night as I'm following Boris and Miles out of the bath into Miles' room, Miles sees one of my drains. He gasps, points and yells "water! Mommy has water." I explain it's water from mommy's ouchie and will go away soon. He asks to see "mommy's new boobies," and I oblige. He doesn't seem bothered at all. He just smiles. My "new boobies," which Dr. Slate says are about a B cup look ridiculous on me. I look like a body builder with pecks. I now understand why Dr. Slate repeatedly told me I couldn't have small boobs. I'm just not made for them. But as crazy as I look, I can already tell that my new tatas are going to be really good. Really good. I have a perfect cleavage which is fake, but nice all at the same time. Even in all of my pain, I'm enjoying being braless as strange as it feels.

The next few days are spent the same way. Other than Miles wanting to see my new boobies a lot and talking constantly about my ouchie and new bed, things feel almost normal. Well, except for the not really being able to take care of my kids or be alone with them. At all. One night as I'm sitting with Baron and Boris is feeding Miles dinner, I notice I've missed a call on my cell phone. Then I notice it's from Tower and listen to the message immediately. It's Dr. McAndrew. She wants me to know that the results from my pathology report are in. And they're clear. All clear. No cancer. Anywhere! I cry. Boris and I hug. And cry some more. What a relief. At least for now. As Boris and I are putting Miles to bed, Miles strokes my face and says "make mommy feel better. Mommy sad." I tell him that he makes me so happy and that I'm only sad when I'm not with him and Baron. I can't tell him that I'm happy that I'm not going to die. At least for now. It's the cutest most tender thing ever. And then poof, the moment's gone and he asks "papa see mommy's boobs?" The good news goes relatively uncelebrated since I hurt and can't go anywhere anyway and really just need sleep. But that's kindof how things go now.

Our first weekend without our staff sucks. Big time. Poor Boris is exhausted as the boys decide to wake up every few hours. He runs from one room to the next calming everyone down and attempting to ensure sleep for all. On Saturday while Boris is putting Baron down for his nap, I stay outside with Miles and some friends. One of them has a gorgeous 3 year old who tries to help Miles down off a small ledge and ends up yanking him down on to hard stone. Miles starts shrieking and although I'm a few days out of surgery I instinctively pick him up and carry him inside. It is insanely painful but what's a mom to do? Seriously. Let him scream? It's bad enough that he asks to "go to park with mommy" every morning and I have to tell him no. So we snuggle inside and I clean the scratches on his little body. After that, Miles tells me several times a day that "mommy is clean." Initially I had no idea what he was talking about but then realized that each time he hurts himself I tell him we're going to clean his ouchie so it gets better. Now I'm the one with ouchies and I think he's trying to make sure I've cleaned them so they get better. I just want to pick him up and tell him I'm fine.

By the beginning of week 2 post-surgery I'm totally over not being able to pick up my boys. I know that in my hopeful grand scheme of things, 2 months isn't a long time (that's assuming I don't die prematurely) but at the moment it is torture. Torture! I think it's killing me. But so is my chest. I think the pain is worse, but it's been so bad it's hard to tell. I go to see Dr. Slate because the pain is so severe I'm sure something is wrong. Sadly there's not. Dr. Slate and his amazing nurse, Toni, ask me how much pain medication I'm taking. I had been trying not to take too much because they are so constipating, but they both tell me to get over it, drink some prune juice and take more medication. "Two pills a day isn't enough," Toni says. "You just had major, major surgery."

On the upside, they take my remaining 2 drains out. Besides not looking like I'm wearing a holster, I get to take my first real shower in 2 weeks. It feels amazing. Pre-surgery Miles and I would shower together so I'm finally able to shower with him again. We sit on the floor of the shower and chat and snuggle. He points to my ouchies and repeatedly asks "you okay mommy?" "I'm okay, Miles," I respond. "I'll get better every day." He also points up and says "what's this mommy?" "That's mommy's vagina," I tell him. "Eat it?" he asks? I'm constantly telling him and Baron that they're delicious and I'll nibble various body parts and I'll tell Miles that I want to eat him or gobble him up. Oy. Vey.

Miles goes to sleep for the first time in almost 2 weeks without protest and tears. As usual, I don't sleep as well. I'm still in too much pain. I can only lie on my back even though I desperately want to roll over onto my side. It's incredibly uncomfortable to lie in the same position all night long. Plus, I have a splint on my right arm and hand for carpal tunnels and a nighttime compression garment on my left since my lymphedema is acting up. The compression garment is thicker than an oven mitt and runs from my knuckles to my armpit. It's hotter than hell and I'm still having hot flashes every 10 minutes. It's ridiculous. I also haven't exercised in months which doesn't help and one of the numerous, fabulous side effects of chemo is that it makes me feel like I'm 93. My bones and joints are creaky and achy. So me and sleeping don't go so well of late. Or more accurately since last August.

The next morning I go to my last appointment with Dr. Slate before my expansion begins. The ladies look good. No fluid buildup and he's pleased with how I'm healing. Pleased enough to tell me that he'll start the expansion process next week. I tell him that I've "accidentally" picked Miles up twice and that Baron is so little and cute that I "accidentally" pick him up all the time. I want to hold him all the time. Toni looks at me like I'm crazy and shakes her head no. Dr. Slate explains, for the umpteenth time that my muscles are in a weakened state and that if I continue to lift heavy objects, like children, I could tear them and have to start all over again. Ugh. I know I'm trying to do too much but I honestly can't help it. I try to explain, for the umpteenth time, that it's impossible not to lift my kids at all. He tells me that he can't stop me or force me to follow his medical advice. But of course I don't want to hurt myself or worse, have to start this process over again. So I try to take it easy. Easier at least.

While I was in the hospital, Boris gave me a beautiful card that I couldn't read because I was blitzed out of my mind on opiates to which I had an allergic reaction and then needed Benadryl. Once home, I find his card and read it again. Boris writes "I can't begin to imagine how much pain you will simply brush aside in the coming few weeks as you labor to play with and bench press our children." How well he knows me. He also writes "I know this last stretch of pain and hardship comes after a long, hard road, but I can see the top from here." Me too.