"A month off work" sounds great, doesn't it. Funny, "sitting around at home for a month, unable to do most everything by myself except roll over in bed" doesn't. Go figure.
This morning we went back to the surgeon, for my 4 week check-up. The x-rays show the disc is in the right position (if it had shifted, they'd have to open me up again, and fuse it) so this is *very* good news. This means I can be more active, up to what I *can* do, comfortably. And, I don't have to wear the brace all the time anymore, unless I'm doing something that will put a strain on my lower back (like lifting something that weighs more than 10 pounds... to illustrate: a gallon of milk apparently weighs 8.8 pounds). I can drive. And, if there was an outdoor public pool in Oak Creek, I could go for a swim.
So for the next four weeks, I am to gradually increase what I do, but still to take it pretty easy. The doc said to be guided by what my back allows me to do, pain-free. After that, another check-up, then physical therapy. By then I will be back at work, so life will go from slower-than-evolution to busier-than-hell.
The Bristol Ren Faire opens soon, which means Paul will be working 7 days-a-week again. If I can, I will work one day each weekend, but not both. Ben will be working both Saturdays and Sundays.
Whee, and like that.
Is there a Nobel Prize for dads? Mine *sure* deserves one.
My father and I got along fabulously well when I was little. We did things together (like fish, watch hockey and build a deck) and It Was Good.
... like the time, after listening to half an hour of industrious hammering from the basement workshop, he came solemnly to my aid when I shouted upstairs, "Dad! Will you come start this nail for me?" (What was I building? I don't recall, by my parents report one *really* big nail in a scrap of two-by-four. And he didn't laugh.)
I don't know what happened in specific, but there was a time after I was not-so-little that we no longer saw eye-to-eye. On anything, really. Everything. I didn't understand him and I was *sure* he didn't understand me. I was convinced at the time that it was all his fault, though retrospect shows a much different picture. I was the archetypical teen: fast to take offense, individualistic to a painful degree, chaotic and deeply resentful. I can't think of anything at all he did to earn the target I painted him with, but he got it... he was the rock and I was the waves; we were bound to crash into each other, and make a lot of spray while we were at it.
Thus passed many years. Sometimes we got along a little better, sometimes not so much. After we both had some time to get over my divorce and the issues that caused (don't even ask), we started to reach out to each other again, and I was surprised to find out that my dad was actually very similar in reality to the way I saw him when I was a child. The man who was my hero when I was still a wee lap-sitter, then who bore the brunt of all my offensiveness as a not-so-wee young adult...
I think I have finally grown up enough (at 41) to have gotten past whatever adolescent stuff it was that gave me such a skewed view of the man who brought me into this world.
My dad never deserved the way I treated him. He always did his best to be a good father as well as a good person. He worked hard to provide us with a good home and a good life... I wish I had seen that when I was much younger.
He taught me so much; most of my own values I can now see are based on his. Those of you who know me well know that competence is something I *really* respect; my dad is the perfect model of The Competent Person - he can do *anything* and have it come out right. We used to joke that if there was a nuclear war, afterwards, all that would be left would be cockroaches and everything my dad built.
I sincerely regret the time I wasted by allowing my own stupidity to come between me and my dad. I look around me now and I see so many ways that my life would be better if only I could see him more often. I'm sad we now live so far apart that I'm lucky to see him once a year. We talk on the phone and it makes me miss him more. I wish he and Paul could spend more time together, I wish he and Ben (who is named for him) could spend more time together. I wish, I wish, I wish...
Hey, Dad, I miss you. I love you... will you come and start this nail for me?
Your Wayward Daughter
(Transcribed to Paul, who can sit at the computer.)
I had the surgery on Tuesday. The surgeons agreed that it went well. They were able to do the replacement disc (as opposed to the fusion). I hardly ate anything at all in the hospital due to a combination of extreme nausea and unappetizing food. They served me french toast and bacon on Friday morning, when I had my heart set on eating breakfast and even took an anti-nausea shot. Paul brought me home on Friday, and the fresh air felt like heaven. I'm getting pretty capable at getting around the house with the help of Paul and Ben - I'm using a walker to walk, and only need a hand getting up and down (into and out of the bed or a chair). And even that I can handle on my own some of the time. This morning I had about two and a half hours where I was completely awake - not that kind of awake where I'm just not sleeping, or the kind of awake where the alarm went off and I've had a shower and I'm getting ready for work, but wide awake. Really and truly awake. And that felt really good. I actually spent most of the day conscious - reading, eating, getting up to walk around a little bit, and sitting down to watch Dr. Who - with a few hours of nap around the middle of the day.
Sorry, Bogdan, the disc is not made of gold.
In the hospital I got two balloon bouquets and a card (actually mailed to me at the hospital, which I didn't know was possible), and phone calls asking when people could stop by. (Both calls on Friday, and I had to decline because I was being released.) So now I have some thank-you notes to write. In a few days.
Great big thank-yous for everyone's warm thinks.
It's official that I won't be able to fight heavy, but may be able to do combat archery if the doctors say it's okay. (Too much rotation involved in swinging a stick.)
More later. *cautious hugs*