Went to the gym today; it had been about a month since my last visit. The three-day recovery from a Hemorrhoidectomy (yes, surgery to remove a hemorrhoid) took just under three weeks.
To feel the pressure on muscles again! Ah!
A week into recovery, I discovered that I had lost 9 lbs. My “recovery” included at least three moments that I was this close to calling an ambulance or having Naomi drive me to the hospital Emergency.
I must have had at least four panic attacks during this time, not fun to experience. In retrospect, I guess that I can be reflective, sanguine and “wise” about the whole thing but in the moment, panic is panic, inescapable until it passes. Eventually.
Not that the panic was replaced with anything close to pleasure or calm. The pain and discomfort (and humiliations, but I’ll spare you the details) continued relentlessly and this case, the “getting better” part has been depressingly and acutely slow. My problem might have been to expect to wake up one day feeling great.
Instead, it’s been an almost imperceptible recovery, a very little at a time and a bigger test on my resolve, character and inner strength than I ever expected.
Err, not that I’m implying that I’ve gained any of the above virtues for having gone through what I have. In fact, the struggle seems to have more or less cemented in my mind, fairly or unfairly, that when it comes to physical pain and discomfort, I’m not a paragon of strength, but more like a big almost-61-year-old baby.
Today, in the gym, I felt as close to normal as I’ve felt in a long time, and pulling on those weights was an incomparable joy.