Validation

Ricardo, my physical therapist, presses his strong hands into my lower back, rubbing in cream with soothing circular and up-and-down motions.

    “That’s where it still hurts,” I say. “Is it normal that I still feel pain after seven weeks?”

    “Of course,” he answers. “You had major surgery. “They made an incision in your skin and then pulled you open. In my experience, your recovery should take about 3 months.”

    “I’ve been feeling kind of low,” I tell him.

    “Perfectly normal.”

    My step is lighter as I leave.

In spite of my doctor’s reassurances, I need validation for what I am feeling. My family treat me like a queen – breakfast in bed, morning checks on levels of pain, hands to help me up –  for about the first month. I think they expect that I should be better now. Yes, they still ask daily how I feel, but I sense they are losing patience. At the dinner table one night, they claim to feel frustrated that I can’t describe in detail the intensity and location of the pain.

“How does it compare with before surgery?”

“You’re healed on the outside so should also be healed inside.”

“Then the surgery did no good.”

“That doctor keeps changing your medication.”

I tell them I have complete confidence in Doctor B. who reminds me of a big brown teddy bear that I want to hug. We actually do hug each time I leave his office. I can send him a WhatsApp which he answers immediately or calls me on my cell phone.

At home, I report on Ricardo’s comments. That should keep them at bay for a day or two. But doubts prevail in my own head. I pull out the long sheets of information on the two meds I’m still taking.

Adverse Effects: Drowsiness, weight gain, puffiness, weakness, depression, irritability. (and “fondness for doctors," I add.)

    That just about covers it. I spend half the day in a stupor, can only walk 4 or 5 blocks, my face is swollen, I feel ugly and find solace in reading and swear like a drunken sailor when I trip over the vacuum cord.

    Two days until I see Ricardo again. He reminds me of a ...