All That Glitters

I pressed my face into the pillow I was using to shield my view and held as still as possible, trying to remember not to hold my breath, as my nurse did her work.
"Okay, Miss, we're almost done with the first one," she said. There was a pause, then I felt the same thing I'd felt eight or nine times already in the vicinity of the right side of my leg, below my knee.
It was the strangest mix of sensations- the skin of my three incisions, still partially numb, seemed confused all by itself. I felt movement, not unlike when your stomach drops to your shoes or gets 'left behind' when you go down a hill really quickly. Then, a sharp pinch of pain, followed by the type of relief you can only get from scratching something that has itched for a really, really long time. This happened with each staple- a tiny metallic snap, the movement, a sharp pain, relief. The sensations varied- sometimes the pain was a tiny, barely there discomfort, sometimes it was sharp enough that I had to bite my lip to keep from making some sort of expletive-laden exclamation, instead choosing to grip the pillow tighter. Sometimes that feeling of movement was almost imperceptible, other times it seemed to slither over me, making my stomach churn for reasons I can't explain.
The one constant was that confusing moment of relief- sometimes so satisfying that I found myself sighing and going all but boneless, before the process began again.
As the nurse moved on, making steady progress, all the sensations started to mingle together each time- which was, needless to say, incredibly confusing. It was also more than a little disconcerting.

After she did the first two incisions, the nurse asked if I wanted to stop, and have the morning shift nurse do the final one. I shook my head- I didn't want to go through this crap again- and braced myself. A few more minutes and something like sixteen staples later, it was over. My leg ached and tingled as she applied what she told me were 'steristrips'- "They're to hold it closed while it finishes healing." - and wrapped it in a clean ace bandage.

"You can unwrap it any time- the doctor says it needs fresh air." she said as she gathered the trash and supplies.

I'll get right on that, I thought, shaking my head at myself. In the entire time since I'd been in the rehab center, even through daily bandage changes, I had yet to deliberately examine my leg. The few glimpses I'd gotten were completely accidental- the product of a slipping bandage or- in one fun moment- accidentally pressing the camera button on the cell phone I was using to distract myself and block my view while it was changed.

Thirty eight shiny metal staples have been in my leg for two weeks. I've been in the hospital for 17 days.

Finally, tomorrow, I'm packing up my 'easy dressing' clothes, planting my ass in my shiny new insurance-provided wheelchair, and going home.

I know I should be ecstatic- and a part of me is. I mean, I'd be crazy not to be- finally, home, with my own bathroom and my own shower and my own bed, and no hospital staff who hold way too much power to care as little as some of them do! No more isolation and no more hospital food!!!!

But this other part can't stop thinking about what needs to happen in order for me to be able to function there- and how many things aren't resolved yet. I have no safety handles or rails in my bathroom, no shower chair, no table to work at. I have no way to make my own bed, haven't even begun to think about cooking-and what about laundry? I can't carry one thing on the lap of my wheelchair and still operate it myself, forget about a big pile of dirty clothes!

Besides the tasks of everyday care, there's my recovery to think about. Here was easy- every day included at least one hour of occupational therapy (learning to function doing things like reaching for stuff, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, etc., along with lifting weights to up the strength in my arms) and physical therapy (building strength and endurance in my good leg and upper body in general, increasing the distance I can walk- er, hop using my walker- without taking a break, making sure the muscles in my hurt leg don't shrivel up and die, maintaining flexibility in the same leg). Not doing it wasn't really an option, and I thrived when I had a physical therapist directing me. Though home has a lot to be said for it, that is not one of its charms. I'll be on my own- I'll have to be my own task master.

To be perfectly honest, that is not something I've ever excelled at. I mean, I was always the girl who did the month-long project in a stress crammed 12 hour period before it was due. Time management is not a strength for me.

So, I'm nervous about a lot of things, going home. I'm nervous I won't have the help I'll need, and I'll have to ask someone I really don't want to ask. Worried I'll fall and die or break myself again. Worried, probably most of all, that I won't be able to be my own motivation, and that will cause my progress on the road to recovery to slow down drastically. It's not something I want, but old habits die hard.

I can't help but wonder how this is all going to work- and when I'll finally get it together enough to take a good look at what's under that bandage.