I'm glad you're alive

I remember the sentiment when I was younger. At times I thought I was being over the top. Telling friends - well school mates- that my dad could die. 

I don't know if I realised that was true. 

Today, as we wandered back from the pub, my little grown up girl and I got a Chinese and a couple of drinks and we talked about his pleased we are the I'm alive and not disabled. 

Feels like a strange yet obvious conversation. Most people are glad of that. 

She lives with that. 

I live with that. 

stitches out

The relief is a little overwhelming. 

Seeing the small and tough bits of thread that held my neck together and feeling the pulls. All done. 

It matters this step. Hearing the nurses tell me I'm healing well. That I'm through this one. 

10 operations over my life time. And I know the odds are there will be more. 

I tiny little bit of me wants to indulge the idea that maybe, there might not be. I don't know the statistics. 

I am doing more normal stuff. Going to the chemist on my own. A little bit of gardening. Making dinner almost all by myself. 

They all matter. 

And I had tried to prepare myself for not being here, this independent.

I saw how I pointed at something I couldn't reach easily and without pain the other day. I saw my dad's hand. I saw his struggles. I saw what might have been. I don't really know how he did it. To have a fully working body and then not. 

I miss him. I know he'd be so proud of me getting through this next one. And he'd feel so responsible too. 

tracking this recovery

It's almost 3 weeks. I'm feeling frustrated and bored. I can do so much and yet not enough to feel independent. I can cook but not empty the saucepan to drain the pasta. I can water the garden if someone else has pulled the hose out. I can walk but can't turn my head enough quickly to cross roads without a little nervousness. 

I can't drive. 

I shouldn't get on public transport. 

The pain is mainly muscular - a tightness where I'm protective and the scar site is itchy. 

I tend to need a good nap each day. 

it's my recovery

And I'll cry if I want to. 

I expect most people think we should be jubilant about the survival. I'm very sad at times. Not because I am broadly fine but because I'm broadly fine. 

how many more

Once someone online told me to count my blessings and not my tumours. They did not get it. 

Eye - nowt changing and nothing I'm willing to do. 

Tail of pancreas - seems to be dormant 

I think liver - sometimes reported sometimes not

Maybe in the lumbar of my spine - again not sure if I've imagined that, got confused or what. 

I'm currently the most tumour free I remember being for most of my adult life. 

But what's next, which might grow, what might be new and importantly where? 

As I recover, and recover well, I wonder what more by body can do to me and give me, what can it take, what will it survive? 

Each time I gain a scar, sometimes they take old ones away, I have another story and they aren't even that interesting to me. There's too much for most people to comprehend and truly appreciate. There's too much for me. I think I've over taken my dad. I've exceeded expectations. 

My warrior spirit can do it because it's one at a time. It's the next one. And because of the people I've gathered to keep me safe and sane though it all. 

I'm recovering well 

But I'll have to get ready for the next one. 

recovery

The op was on Wednesday and today is Tuesday. My body hurts, aches, tweaks and crunches. It's not just the surgical site, the other places, cannula holes, throat sore, bruised in places around my whole head. I'm on paracetamol in the day and codine at night. I'm doing well but I'm not enjoying the limits. 

I'm so grateful and still feeling miserable at times. I'm mostly positive but also frustrated and grumpy. 

There's no poetry in this... This is too remind me. If I have one like this done again. 

My head is heavy.