I’m a week and two days post-op, or 9DPO, in the parlance of the Reddit threads I’ve been obsessively reading & refreshing. I’m upstairs in my home office, an elastic belly binder embracing my swollen middle in a tight, slightly scratchy hug. (Being me, I’d proactively ordered a pretty black & nude one designed by a Kardashian sister, but it proved far less effective than the institutional chic, white & blue-striped hospital-provided version.)

It’s February in Minnesota.

It’s FIFTY DEGREES.

The windows are open, the sun shining through the honey-oak frames brightly, and I’m being treated to the less-than-dulcet tones of the utility work outside.

Hmmmmm. Bzzzzzzzz. Hmmmmm. Rooooooooaaaaar.

A lot has happened in nine days.

A lot has happened over the past year.

In the style of old-school, early-aughts blogging, before I dig into my recovery, let’s take a detailed look back.

SUMMER 2023

The whole of 2023 was one of the most challenging years of my nearly 46 on the blue marble. It’s not that it was entirely terrible; it was entirely exhausting. Fourteener peaks followed by Death Valleys. My body was always flooded with cortisol, on high alert, reactive. Weekends, when they existed at all, evaporated quickly. Many good things were happening, and I was contributing to said good things, but man, I was tired.

I’d been dealing with some difficult symptoms for the past 4-ish years, which my doctor and I reasonably ascribed to my advancing age and perimenopause. Consistently, I experienced 1-2 days every month where the thought of even leaving the house struck me with terror, both due to pain and … other issues. Seven to 10 days of the month, I suffered with on-and-off aches and low energy.

I worked very hard not to let any of this limit me. But it was tough, especially in light of everything else going on – everything else that required a lot of my best energy.

When a routine diagnostic came back with two – not one, but two! – attention-requiring results, I was struck with a rare bout of self-pity. I cannot deal with this now.

It’s a cliche, but cliches are borne of truth, and I used this one over and over again in 2023: When it rains, it truly pours.

Over the next several months, through our glorious Upper MW fall, I underwent a series of tests and other pronouncedly uncomfortable procedures, including one in the OR. Nothing was clearly cancer, but nothing was entirely … clear either. I had confirmed problems in three separate areas, and, given my burdensome symptoms and my family history of female cancers, my specialist and I decided: Let’s just take (nearly) everything out.

FEBRUARY 12, 2024

A Monday. I had taken the last several days off of work to try to level my cortisol and blood pressure, the latter of which had been creeping up since July. I had intentionally spent the past several weeks – really, since the minute I scheduled the surgery – connecting with myself emotionally and spiritually, teaching as many yoga & strength/conditioning classes as I could fit in, spending time with friends and family, and just generally striving to feel as good as possible going in.

It was a beautiful, bright yellow day, another freakishly warm one in our freakishly warm winter. Everything was set: The Throat Coat and Smooth Move teas were on the counter, next to the Bare Bones instant Bone Broth packets; a variety of springy PJs and loungewear were folded on mahogany bench at the foot of the bed; and a stack of no fewer than 13 books across genres were stacked on a bedside table, patiently waiting to be cracked when I returned sans several body parts.

I had a donation to bring to the domestic violence shelter. Knowing I was mere hours away from limited mobility, I put the address into my AppleMaps.

It was a little less than 5 miles from the house.

Well, why not.

I packed up the goods and strode out the door. It was colder than it looked outside, but still in the high 30s, with a steady, warming sunshine. I walked a familiar course. One mile to the edge of the development, where friends lived on the corner. Another 1.5 miles of narrow, sidewalk-less, heads-up hilly road. Along that stretch, I passed the intersection where I’d often go left, marking a five-mile round trip if I turned back at Mini’s good pal Easy E’s house.

I hopped on the paved riverside trail, which would carry me most of the remaining distance. The water to my left was low but still moving, and the sun was making diamonds on the ripple.

Are the trees turning … green already?!

I crossed the dark, sparkling river at the S-bridge and arrived at the shelter more quickly than I had anticipated. Knowing I was unlikely to see a 16-minute walking mile again anytime real soon, I decided to add a little more distance to my junket. Instead of doubling back, I walked up the long, gradual hill near the University, summiting near a congested retail corridor. I could loop back to the narrow, sidewalk-less, heads-up hilly road from there.

My AppleWatch blinked 10.5 miles when I finally trudged up our steeeeeeep (many have called it the city’s highest point) hill to home.

That felt good.

So good.

I was ready.

FEBRUARY 13, 2024: A.M.

If you’re up at 4 a.m., there’s usual a story. Getting out of bed at that hour is always a little rough, but it’s particularly so when you know you’re being sliced into in a matter of, well, now, minutes. I paid attention to my breath (always yoga teacher-ing) and felt OK on the drive, singing along to Bush’s Machinehead, one of my mindset go-tos.

I was determined to handle this with the pert good cheer of Dolly Parton (or me, I guess), or, at the very minimum, the stoicism of Bill Belichick.

Then came the IV.

Or should I say, the FOUR ATTEMPTS at an IV.

I warned my pre-op nurse – the one with the witchy name – that I don’t have good veins. I’ve had three other procedures that required an IV – one just in December – and an IV has never worked in my hand or forearm. It just doesn’t. The team always, always needs to resort to the crook of the arm. When this is done, and done properly, I’m quite calm about it. Belichick, even.

I had hoped sharing this detailed information would mean she would simply start in the crook, and it would be over, like it was in December.

She sighed. “We have to at least try in the hand. With the length of time you’ll be out, the arm isn’t ideal.”

OK, I can buy that. Let’s try it.

Once, maybe?

After several pokes, ENORMOUS bruises (which I can still see today, now turned a sickly yellow), and my failed attempts at yogic breathing which sounded more like hyperventilating, my two-nurse team FINALLY gave up.

And my IV port went in the crook of my battered left arm.

“Veins often pop really well when you’re out,” the young nurse anesthetist assured me. “We’ll get you out with that IV, and then we can move it to your hand.”

Thank you.

After that awfulness, I had a series of visitors to my room. My care team was almost entirely women: My surgeon, her partner, two other docs, and a medical student; two nurses; the nurse anesthetist; an anesthesiologist so gorgeous, even in her cap, she looked like she’d walked off a network medical show.

IV trauma over, I felt calm, and I sensed that I was in very good hands.

Despite some relaxation medication, I wasn’t yet out when the nurse anesthetist wheeled me into the OR. The room was much larger than I’d anticipated, with many more staff, all busily attending to different tables and monitors. I was asked to scootch off the hospital bed and onto a much narrower table. I did as instructed, staring up at the somber stainless steel theater lights.

That was all she wrote.

I woke in a recovery room, a young brunette nurse hovering nearby. I didn’t feel anything resembling pain. I didn’t feel much at all, other than a little nausea.

Katie asked me how I was feeling.

“Okay,” I croaked, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

She offered me juice and crackers, and I tentatively put both to my lips.

Tom arrived an indeterminate amount of time later, fresh from the Minnesota omelet at Key’s Cafe. (If you haven’t tried it, yeah. You must.)

He had brought me heart-shaped sugar cookies, generously spread with pink & red frosting and covered in sprinkles. Yum. Frosted sugar cookies are a real weak area for me.

I wasn’t quite ready for one, though.

I don’t have a great memory of the immediate aftermath. I think I drifted in and out of consciousness a few times. I know I nearly lost it, and needed medication for nausea. A new nurse came and brought me to the bathroom. It was uncomfortable, as was getting up.

“Remember not to engage your core,” she said.

“I’m a yoga teacher!!” I protested jokingly.

I don’t think I could have engaged it if I wanted to, anyway. There was an odd sensation down there, an emptiness that can’t quite be described with dictionary words.

A little later, feeling an achy, itchy sort of stir-crazy from the 4 walls and droning daytime television, asked Tom to take a walk down the hall with me.

Slowly, I stood. My big, strong runner quads were wobbly, knees poking in.

I stepped forward. Once. Twice.

… For a total of about four steps, to the chair outside my door. Defeated, and blinking away tears, I sunk down into its vinyl embrace, grabbing Tom’s hand for balance.

I couldn’t believe it. I had walked more than ten miles just the previous day!

Wow. Humbling.

A short time later, after I’d given up on the hallway stroll idea and was semi-comfortably reclining in bed, the curly-headed nurse returned. “Are you feeling ready to get your pants on and go?”

No. No I was not.

“Your pain is controlled and you went to the bathroom,” she said.

That, apparently, was enough?

I stared at her blankly. I had nearly vomited twice, and I couldn’t walk five steps.

“I don’t think she’s ready,” said Tom, firmly but not impolitely.

She was reluctant, and I get why. I understand there are protocols and our (highly imperfect) system is set up for patients to be in and out as efficiently as possible. I know there are staffing and crowding issues happening in healthcare, but this situation didn’t appear to reflect that. This nurse had already mentioned she had only four patients, and the wing was more than half empty.

“I’ll call your doctor to see if she will give orders for you to stay,” the nurse said.

Thankfully, she did.

FEBRUARY 13, 2024: P.M.

I was relieved not to have been ferried home fewer than 120 minutes after rollin’ out of the OR, but time in the hospital, well, it’s just never that great, especially after general anesthesia and a major surgical procedure.

I tried to read, but it was uncomfortable.

I tried to watch TV, but it was uncomfortable.

I tried listening to meditations on my phone, but they were ineffective.

I ordered bland chicken, brown rice, and fruit for dinner, and ate a small amount. Tom, with my encouragement, went back to Keys for a non-hospital dinner.

I was achingly sad and lonely while he was gone.

Is there anywhere lonelier than a hospital room?

Around 7, a new nurse arrived. She had short, dark, curly hair, and warm mannerisms that reminded my of my Grandma (who was also a nurse with short, dark, curly hair).

She brought me my painkillers and some aromatherapy patches for my continued nausea. She was sweet. I was grateful.

I tried to sleep, but finding a comfortable position was a fool’s errand. I played with the bed’s adjustment buttons – up, down, up, down. Side-sleeping was a no-go. I didn’t have pain, exactly, but my insides were very off.

Sometime around 10, I must have finally drifted off. From that point on, I woke nearly-to-the-minute every hour. 12 a.m. 1 a.m. 2 a.m. I could see the classroom-style clock’s black hands by the hazy light drifting in from the hallway.

FEBRUARY 14, 2024

At 3 a.m., Grandma Nurse was back, with more medication. I took it happily, noticeable pain starting to creep up in my lower abdomen.

At 5 a.m., I was treated to an uncomfortable finger prick to measure blood sugar, as well as a blood pressure check.

My blood pressure was the best it had been in months.

It’s over.

Now I recover.

Around 7, a team of docs came in to check on me, and said they’d ready the paperwork so I could go home. I was feeling – I can’t tell you the difference in 18 hours! So much improvement since the previous days’ thwarted discharge attempt.

Tom and I walked up & down the hallways, peering out each window at the overcast sky and at the different parts of our capital city’s downtown. We did it again, and again, and again.

My surgeon came to check on me, and found me walking yet again, far more steadily now.

I was released around 9:30 a.m.

As we departed the bright white hallways, I heard a frustrated nurse on the phone: “He told me he drank a Monster energy drink at 4:30 a.m. Now what?”

Yikes! I’d like to know what happened to that fella. I’m guessing his surgery was rescheduled. I mean, we all want a Monster at 4:30 a.m., but … Follow instructions, people!

We made the 80-minute trek home. I had Ocean Spray cranberry juice and Lorna Doone cookies as a snack; favorites from my post-C-section hospital stay in my favorite riverside suburb. I spent the afternoon napping and reading Allie Brosch.

DAYS 2, 3, 4 & 5, PO

Thursday. I tossed and turned and made a tornado out of the blankets before I finally was able to nod off. Once I did, I slept in.

There’s not much that feels more freeing than a “No Alarm” message on one’s iPhone clock. Ahhhhh.

We took it easy, watching 80s and 90s movies (10 Things I Hate About You, About Last Night, Go) across streaming services. We marveled at the rock hard hair, the bright & tight clothing, and Demi’s natural beauty.

However, Curb reruns were off the menu, despite my best efforts. Laughing – particularly the type that Larry David can inspire – caused a deep internal aching. I actually howled in pain at the conclusion of one classic episode.

I read an entire book.

Mini came over in the evening. He sobbed when he saw me, which I wasn’t expecting. He had put a strong, brave face on in the days leading up to my surgery, asking many detailed questions and learning much more about female anatomy than any average sixth-grader. I was gassed and little help with the 500 piece Peanuts puzzle we worked on.

Friday, a little more of the same. We took two short walks, both to the founder’s home and back. His business is ubiquitous here, and the house is quite something. We always joked he must have a seasonal porch pot service, as the potted foliage changes to reflect even the minor holidays. (We later found out they actually do.)

We made lunch, thanks to a build-your-own sandwich kit from Northern Waters Smokehaus, courtesy of Auntie Jen. Cajun Finn. So tasty.

My pathology report arrived.

I got the notice on my app before the call from my doctor, and my heart was pounding through my kelly green Eaum sweatshirt as I opened it.

Two words lept out.

No malignancy.

NO CANCER.

The relief.

After that had fully processed, I reviewed the rest of the report. I basically had everything else going on in there, and all of my symptoms now made perfect sense.

Symptoms I’ll never have again.

I sat in gratitude for my doctor, my results, my excellent health insurance, my understanding workplace, my friends, my family, my … everything.

We celebrated the news with chocolate desserts.

I felt great (at least, my new great) on Saturday, so we ventured out. Menards. Costco (I’m a late comer, but I’m a total convert). The Home & Garden Expo. Trek, trek, step, step. Moving slowly, but moving. Covering some ground. Logging more miles than I’d seen since my Farewell to Mobility trek on Monday, anyway.

On Saturday evening, I developed a stuffy nose, the concrete kind you just can’t sleep through. I paused, wondering if adding NyQuil to the pharmacopia that was already pulsing through my veins.

I risked it, and slept clear until 9 a.m.

FEBRUARY 19, 2024

I realized Monday that this was the first time in many, many months I had absolutely no muscle soreness – as in, the kind of soreness that comes from using muscles vs having them cut into. None. This was a very foreign and unwelcome feeling. I love the DOMS aches in my abs, my quads, and my triceps, especially.

It’ll be a while before I feel that blissful burn again.

I’ve been getting up at a decent hour and getting ready. Not quite to office level, but I shower, spritz, powder my Rudolph nose, fill in the eyebrow my classmate Brett accidentally destroyed in first grade, and blow dry my hair. I even curl the ends, though it’s all just going up in a ponytail anyway. Earrings. Hand rings. This takes me a very long time, but I just feel … better doing it and facing the day that way.

I started trying a new oral wellness protocol from Dr. Andrew Huberman, with the goal of improving my “mouth microbiome.” Scrape scrape scrape across the tongue twice a day, with new toothpastes and mouthwashes.

It’s rather shocking, the debris that comes off one’s tongue.

My stuffed-ness was better. We took an abbreviated loop-walk, cutting through the driving range, for a total of just over two miles. It took a lot out of me, and I spent the afternoon finishing This Tender Land in the corduroy-cushioned recliner. (It’s cuter than it sounds, and nap-worthy-ly comfortable.)

The book, a holiday gift from Auntie Sara, was a good read, but it was a downer, and I decided to stick with uplifting media for the rest of my leave.

FEBRUARY 20-23, 2024

I’m off the strong stuff, and my vinyasa-trained strength means I can generally use my upper & lower body to squat, lunge, press to get or do the basic stuff I might need. So, Tom went back to his office. It’s quiet without him.

The weather remains eerie, and stunning.

When I booked my date with the scalpel back in December, I figured we would, despite all evidence to the contrary, eventually have a real Midwestern winter. By February, I had thought, we would see highs of 20 degrees, at best, the frosty temps worsened with plenty of wind and snow. Recovering indoors, I opined, should be easy.

Nope. We’re now in our fourth month of November. Early November. And taking it easy is that much harder. I want to be out there. I want to run, walk, ruck, move in the sun, soaking up all the good Vitamin D.

My AppleWatch is also torquing me off.

“There’s been a reduction in your miles per day.”

“There’s been a reduction in your calories burned per day.”

“There’s been a reduction in your move minutes per day.”

Well, yes, of course there is.

I’m already frustrated by all of the above, and don’t need the smug electronic reminders. I wish we could make these devices really smart, so smart they know when we’re recovering from multiple organ removal.

Last night, we took Mini to bar bingo, just for a change of scene. We didn’t win any of the dollar store prizes.

Today, with the high of 55, we took another abbreviated loop-walk, strolling across the rapidly greening (!!) driving range, being mindful not to take a tumble on any of the scattered Titleists. There are golfers and carts on the 9-hole course. Why wouldn’t there be.

Pain made itself known again, likely from sitting upright too long working on this very piece. Not bad, but insistent. I took one of the supercharged prescription ibuprofen and made lunch. Roti with Ithaca lemon dill-flavored hummus, pickled onions, and salsa. A handful of grapes. A handful of blueberries.

The utility workers have moved on. All I can hear is the wind, and a few early songbirds.

Maybe they never went south.

The rest of the day yawns out before me. It will probably include more reading, a little more Reddit scrolling, and some rapid-fire text conversations.

It will surely include rest, and probably ice, and the recliner. Ahhhh, the recliner! When did I ever take the time to really sink in to the recliner without 12,000,000 things competing for my attention?!

I’ve turned the corner, but I’m still healing. And I’m grateful for this pause, and this peace.