SOLSC '26 Day Fifteen: What we miss--Stepping outside, part two

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

My husband and I took a right at the end of the driveway.  "Just to the end of the block and back," I said, hands holding my sore belly.  Always the pacesetter when we've walked before, this time he followed my lead.

The skies were blue and the temps were just a smidge on the warm side.  We noticed one of the grand old oaks in a neighbor's yard that had been trimmed to half its height, bare thick trunks forming a natural sculpture of sorts, the cuttings still littering the yard.

"Maybe that's what we should do with our tree in the back."  Our old mother oak is dying of oak wilt; I just hate the thought of the tree completely disappearing.

We reached the corner and turned around.  The second house we came to was being painted by the neighbor from the third house.  My husband knew him and said hello. After I was introduced, my husband asked if he was just doing the couple a favor by painting.

"Oh, the owner passed away in October," he said.  "The wife is going to sell the house and move into assisted living.  My partner and I offered to help get the house ready for the market."

After getting over the shock and discussing the circumstances, we said our goodbyes and headed back home, a bit more somber, the blue skies a bit less bright.  The neighborhood is aging, both trees and people.  The weight of that fact is an inescapable reality, whether we are paying attention or not.

SOLSC '26 Day Fourteen: Stepping outside, part one

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

It was getting too warm at night to wear flannel nightshirts.  I was tired of them, anyway, having worn nothing but the recent Lands' End purchases since Monday afternoon.  It was time to put on real clothes.

Thank goodness for my Lularoe-wearing era.  A pair of high-waisted leggings skimmed over the steri-strips on my belly; an oversized sweatshirt completed the outfit.  

I put my freshly washed hair in a ponytail, swiped on some concealer, blush, and mascara to look a little more alive for our monthly SoulCollage session via Zoom.  Not that the group would have cared if I showed up a hot mess; we have a more come-as-you-are kind of vibe.

Several hours later, I had two cards in my hand.  As I pondered their messages for me, one point seemed clear--nature heals.  I needed to get some fresh air and sunshine, pronto.

My husband came home from running errands as I was putting on my shoes.  "You're just in time," I said.  "Do you want to go for a walk with me?".

To be continued...  

SoulCollage Card by Chris Margocs, March 2026

SoulCollage Card by Chris Margocs, March 2026

SOLSC '26 Day Thirteen: Preparation steps

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

The days leading up to my surgery were a whirlwind of preparations:  sub plans, picking up medications, washing clothes and bed linens, shopping for ready-made meals, and buying my husband's birthday cards and gifts.

By the time I got around to the last thing on that list, it was at the end of a twelve-hour workday, my last before medical leave.  My husband is hard to shop for as a rule, and I had little to no brain power left to be creative.   

I drove to my local Hallmark and spent a few minutes choosing a couple of heartfelt cards.  The decision fatigue was closing in fast as I wandered the boutique sections, trying to find something, anything that would keep me from having to go somewhere else.

There--fancy pancake mix and syrup.  Something I could make for him when I felt up to it again.

It wasn't much, but at least there were cards and gifts, waiting for him on his birthday this morning.   

SOLSC '26 Day Twelve: Step by step

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

Opened the door today, took a breath of fresh air...and didn't make it much farther.  Another restless night, feeling a little shaky, I just wasn't ready to head outdoors yet.  I also still need to figure out what clothes I own that will accommodate incisions placed a bit higher than I anticipated.

I did take a much needed step elsewhere--into the shower!  I had avoided the hassle of taking one while the pain med pump was still in place; the instructions for that scenario included swathing my midsection in plastic wrap, and, well, it just didn't seem like a pleasant process.  Hubby took care of removing that last night, so I was free to shower as usual.  The added bonus of some fancy soap arriving in the mail today (a gift to myself) was like a self-care sign from above.

Washing my face with actual facial cleanser, then lathering up in perfumed soap reminiscent of a sea cove made me feel one more step closer to normal.   

SOLSC '26 Day Eleven: A little stir crazy

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

I was really hoping to make it to the front porch today.  But after a rough night of pain with very little sleep, it was another day of walking around the living room and up and down the short hallway.  

The morning started off as the night had been, gray and rainy, but by afternoon the sun was shining.  Through the kitchen window, I watched a squirrel clamber around our old playscape and people enjoying the weather on the hike-and-bike beyond our yard.  Inside, I was wearing a path between my bed, the living room armchair, and the dining room table.

The pain pump is empty, which means my husband gets to help me remove the catheters.  Despite the instruction sheets saying it should be a fairly painless procedure, I'm still a bit nervous about it.  Once it's done, though, I am cleared for normal showering--and a shower may be just the ticket to feeling one step closer to normal.  

SOLSC '26 Day Ten: Mandatory walking

 

Thirty-one walks, thirty-one posts.

Well, I survived the yeeting of my reproductive system, as the kids would say.  

Thank God for anesthesiologists.  When mine came to my pre-op bed to go over the details, I told him what I've told every anesthesiologist that's ever worked on me or my children: "You're the most important person in the operating room.  You're the one who's going to make sure I (or they) don't feel a thing and keep breathing, and you're the one who's going to make sure I (or they) wake up afterwards.  This surgery isn't happening without you."  He appreciated the compliment; maybe that's why I don't remember anything after he said he was starting the IV push.  I woke up in the post-op bay, blissfully unaware of what had transpired the two hours before.

I was home by mid-afternoon, with doctor's orders to rest, hydrate, and walk to prevent clotting.  I changed out of my cute jumpsuit into jammies that better accommodated the ball of local pain meds tethered to my body via catheters in two of my six incisions.  Since I like to name medical apparatuses (our daughter's apnea monitor was Monty), I've named the ball Q-bert.  After I took a much-needed nap--time change plus impending surgery did not allow for a good night's sleep beforehand--it was time for me and Q-bert to take a walk.  Still wobbly, my husband stayed by my side for the first few walks between bed, bathroom, and kitchen.

Today, I've managed the walks pretty much on my own.  I slept so heavily last night that I was up at four a.m., fixing myself some protein toaster waffles and my first cup of coffee in over twenty-four hours.  I still feel a little weak, but the hallway in our little house is just long enough for a couple of laps before I need to rest again.  Carrying Q-bert is a little annoying, but I'm thankful for the pain management and the little strapped bag that makes it easier for it to handle.

Been sitting long enough.  Time for another mandatory walk.  Maybe tomorrow, I'll manage going out to the front porch...

SOLSC '26 Day Nine: A letter to my reproductive system

 

I'm taking a detour from my walking theme with this piece, 

which I'm writing the day before it will be posted. 

The reason will be made clear...

Dear Reproductive System,

     Our time together is coming to a close, but I didn't want you to leave without my gratitude and apologies.  We have had a love-hate relationship over the years, but I really thought we'd signed a truce post-menopause.  I guess it was a false assumption on my part, as has now been proven by multiple ultrasounds, CAT scans, an MRI, and detailed labwork.

     But I'm getting ahead of myself here.  Let's revisit our history together, starting from the beginning, way back when I was thirteen.  You were fairly kind to me then, making your monthly presence known without much fanfare.  After listening to my mother's horror stories of floods and pain, I felt lucky to have skipped a generational curse.  

     Fast forward to our first pregnancy.  You did a great job making it happen...and a lousy job finishing the work.  No one gave you permission to just clock out at twenty-six weeks.  I spent the better part of sixty-five days hating you as our firstborn began her life in a neonatal unit.  She survived though, and thrived, so I finally gave you some credit for what you did get done and moved on.

     Then came the second pregnancy.  You had the decency to send some sort of signal to my brain to let me know not to count on this one at all...so thanks for that early RSVP.  Knowing that sometimes it just happens that way, we were still on good terms. 

     Third pregnancy, and I had high hopes.  Twenty-six weeks went by, twenty-seven...we made it to thirty-seven!  No major glitches either, until we got to the delivery room.  You had to throw HELLP syndrome into the mix, making the hospital staff scramble once again, only this time to keep me alive.  After two traumatic births, I promised the nurses that the next time they saw me, it would be to make sure you didn't get the chance to botch a delivery ever again.  I kept that promise a year later, thanks to day surgery and two little plastic clips.

     We had a few minor hiccups after that, but nothing serious.  You gifted me with a blessedly easy and early menopause, maybe to make up for your previous misbehavior.  I thought we would ride off into the eternal sunset together as a complete package.

     But it wasn't to be.  A simple annual physical exam unearthed what you'd been hiding--a grapefruit sized fibroid I've since named Gertie, since she's got me swollen as a five-month pregnancy.  You gave her a couple of walnut-sized cousins, too.  I can't help thinking this is partially my fault, for not showing you more love and appreciation over the years.  After all, you did give me two wonderful children, for which I will always be grateful.  Maybe it's because I've been stifling my creative pursuits and working under stressful conditions; I know both aren't good for our sacral chakra.

     Whatever the cause, it is time to part ways.  I am a little worried about the space left when you are gone, both physically and emotionally.  There are side-effects that I hope will disappear along with you.  And maybe I will learn my lesson and practice a bit more self-love and self-expression. 

     So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye.  It's been real, reproductive system.  Thanks for the memories--Chris