But, you know "in-and-out" is a far cry from "up-and-at-'em." My abs quickly clued me in. "Hey, macho man, you can't move a muscle without us," they smirked. "You mess with us; we'll mess back with you." Doggone, mess with me they did. Being careless enough to think this operation was a "piece of cake," I was quickly eating crow.
Luckily, I have my guardian and healing angel. Heeding the doctor, my angelic Susan put chevrons on her sleeves, and became something between a steely eyed, stern voiced, commanding drill sergeant and a smiling, loving mother hen. I think I'm at the receiving end of what is called tough love.
My Susan understands with her low threshold of pain. She understands pain. She knew better than I what I was about to go through. So, she could be understanding of my pain when I first couldn't. She wasn't surprised when I was at first stunned. Of course, this didn't stop her from lovingly rubbing a little "get even" salt of "I told you so" into my three laparoscopic wounds. This has been a humble lesson for me. I won't forget how I, during those first few days, needed an engineering degree to get in and out of bed without feeling I was being drawn and being pulled apart on a torture rack. The second day, I surprised myself. I felt the pain after the surgical anesthetic wore off. I knew if I felt the pain, it must be some kind of pain! I didn't run away from it or deny it. In fact, I screamed out, "Screw this macho shit. Give me those meds." And, to my surprise, I didn't feel the lesser for it. I actually felt smarter, more relieved, and more relaxed. I didn't have to play the grimacing he-man role and put on airs. In fact, I called my expectant daughter-in-law to proclaim, "The hell with natural childbirth. Take the epidural!"
After two weeks, no workouts; no quick movements; no lifting more than ten pounds. I haven't power walked since the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend. I am forbidden to bend over, to sit at the computer for extended times, to tend my garden, to haul building materials, to build what I wanted to build, to climb slowly more than a flight of stairs. The best I can do is stroll for about a mile each day at what is for me a tired slug's pace. Anyway, after two weeks, to my surprise I have been a disgustingly obedient and patient patient. No biting at the bit; no sneaky disobedience; no objections. Just a series of submissive "yes, ma'am" to my caring Susan.
I had another surprise. Two days ago, a close friend of mine had laparoscopic gall bladder surgery. I found how I could identity better with her distress and pain; I wasn't judgemental as I might have been; I moved towards her pain rather than be cavalier about it and dismiss it as a weakness. In fact, I took on her husband, who sounded like I would have two weeks ago. He told her to get up and moving because it "was nothing, but a few holes. I get bigger holes when I step on nails at the job site." And I came to her defense. I, who, had always chided my Susan threse nearly forty years about her low threshold of pain.
So, here I am, with three slowly closing, very itchy, annoying, highly sensitive, distracting, restricting holes lined up in a row across my stomach (I hope the one below my belly button heals so I have a "smilely"), stranded to meditate on the pre-dawn newly screened-in patio, on the front door stoop, or by the fishpond. And, my thoughts this morning are stunning me.
I am now like a baby who is encountering a sound for the first time. I listen more and better to pain. I am less pained by pain. I have pained and I have gained. I have expanded my empathy and compassion. It is no longer sabotaged by an arrogant and self-righteousness feeling of some kind of superiority because I am able to suffer through and endure pain, and that there's an inherent inferiority about being otherwise. It has increased my capacity to care. It has given me a greater appreciation. It has strengthened my connections. It has made me more intently aware. It has sharpened my ability to listen. It has made me more present and devoted. I am more moved by distress. I am less in my way.
This operation may have poked holes through my abs, but it has also opened my heart; it may have temporarily weakened my stomach muscles, but to my surprise it has permanently strengthened my heart muscle.
It's a good lesson for the classroom for honoring the reality of the physical, intellectual, social, and personal pains of students; for noticing students who are in need.
It's a good lesson for life.
Make it a good day.
--Louis--
Louis Schmier www.therandomthoughts.com Department of History www.halcyon.com/arborhts/louis.html Valdosta State University Valdosta, Georgia 31698 /~\ /\ /\ (229-333-5947) /^\ / \ / /~ \ /~\__/\ / \__/ \/ / /\ /~ \ /\/\-/ /^\___\______\_______/__/_______/^\ -_~ / "If you want to climb mountains, \ /^\ _ _ / don't practice on mole hills" -\____
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