Visible and Invisible

I went into the hospital in January wearing a day glo orange tank top and matching lightweight sweatshirt. I remember because I ended up wearing that tank top for over 60 hours. In the ER they gave me a gown that didn't fit. When the nurse came back and I asked for a bigger one I was wearing the tank top without my bra. She never did bring another gown. They stuck the heart monitor pads on me and never gave it another thought. At the hospital they gave me a lovely green gown that fit just fine but because the heart monitor pads were already in place, they said to leave my tank top on under the gown.

When I left the hospital I put my sweatshirt back over that tank top and was wheeled out to the curb. I had the thought this morning that when you go to prison, they put your own clothing and belongings into a bag and when you leave prison you're often wearing those clothes from that bag. It was the same for me. So much had happened in over those few days, I had actually physically changed, but I was still wearing the same clothes. From the outside I looked like me.

But on the inside? Far from it.

This morning I lay on my bed after my shower, getting my leg up for a while so the swelling and redness could go down. I had my phone and a book nearby but instead I stared out the window for a while. And then I looked down at my body. On my stomach I could still see the outline of one of the heart monitor pads. It came off several days after I got home (don't judge but that shower I had dreamed up ended up not being a priority) but the stickiness remained. Eventually I found the nail polish remover and removed all remnants. Well, at least I thought I did. This morning I moved my fingers over my skin and realized that there's still something there. An outline. Where the pad was there are tiny little bumps in a circle. Almost invisible. But I found them. It's a circle. It's not painful but it's there. A reminder.

And then I looked at my arm. My arm that has had an IV. Has had injections. Has had blood drawn from it. Saturday the nurse rooted around in there with her needle for a good 60 seconds before drawing my precious blood. It smarted. Today it hurts. Today, three days later. A reminder.

I'm healing. Every day. But not as fast as I'd like. Not as well as I'd like. I get frustrated and mad and sad. I get angry. And I get panic attacks. Now, I'm not unfamiliar with these. After my penicillin reaction I had them for quite a while. Logically, I know my body knows how to breathe. It's been doing it on it's own for literally all of my life. But emotionally? Something inside me snaps for a few minutes every few days and I freak out. I think, my heart is beating too fast. I'm pretty sure my breathing is labored. I have rales (Yes, I looked up rales on the internet today; I am not proud of this but I do think it might be an issue. I am sure my acupuncturist will be excited to hear me talk about them tomorrow and then try to convince me, rightfully so, that I do not actually have rales). I will never be better. I will never walk more than a few feet without being winded. I'll never get back to my exercise challenge or my desk. I'll have to sit in the sand in Hawaii and miss out on everything (oh, I know: FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS). But when it's happening, these panic attacks, I've realized, in the logical light of day, there's nowhere to go but through 'em. You just have to let them play out. I have to cry. Then I have to cry some more because it hurts my side when I cry and then the more I cry, the worse my breathing is, ragged and all that goodness, and the cycle continues. For moments that seem like hours. A reminder.

But it's better. It's certainly not worse. I am so unbelievably thankful for that. I am reminded of that constantly. I sleep all night now without waking from pain or panic. I haven't had a pain killer in over a day. I survived Angela's head cold without catching it myself, something me and my health team is beyond giddy over. It's better. And still? It's present. The visible: the scars, the reminders, the labored breathing, the pain. The invisible: the fear, the anger, the sadness, the scars, the reminders, the labored breathing, the pain. It's present. A reminder.

Today I had three goals. I've accomplished them all. They were small and insignificant and yet, mine. This afternoon I'll fix my hair and I'll tie on my pink Converse and I'll accompany Angela to the grocery store for a slow walk. It's the little things. It's the slow work of recovery. Of healing. I am trying so hard to take care of myself. To get better. To fix the visible and the invisible. And I will. Little by little.