Days in a Daze

“How long is the recovery period?” I asked my surgeon on the day I scheduled arthroscopic surgery for my knee. The one that had been bothering me with unrelenting pain for nearly six months.
“Anywhere from a few days to three weeks,” he replied.
Good, I thought. I’m betting on the three weeks. I knew, however that that was probably unrealistic, given my past history of recovering from surgery. I am lucky to be in great health, and once the anesthetic wears off, which for me always takes several days, I’ve generally been able to handle whatever pain the surgeon has inflicted. Nevertheless, I was hoping for a 3-week recovery. Not that I wanted pain or complications. No, I wanted pampering and a retreat from my frantic life.

So I set up my command center in the corner of the living room, the leather recliner with adjacent table upon which I stored the cache of books I’d been wanting to read. In fact, I’d started and hadn’t finished three different books and I had two others unopened but enticing me with their jackets. Here was my opportunity. In addition, the table also held the remote control for the TV, my laptop, the telephone, a glass of water, another of iced tea and a small bowl of jelly beans, which I referred to as my pain pills. Over the chair I placed two lap robes, one quilted several years ago by a friend in California and another crocheted by a friend in Minnesota. Those lap robes were my connection to far away friends, thoughts of whom brought joy and healing. I was ready.

The day after my surgery, I mostly slept. I’d be ready to dive into my books tomorrow, I thought. But the following day, though I slept a little less, I still felt too drowsy to read. The next day I was ready to dig into my sedentary amusements, but first, to re-establish a connection with the outside world, I turned on the TV. The History channel featured a program about all the prophets throughout time who had predicted a calamitous ending of civilization in 2012. I switched to CNN. There I saw pictures of screaming children fleeing the bombs in Gaza while black smoke poured out of homes in the background. I switched to MSNBC. Perhaps the economic situation that had seemed so glum a few days ago, had improved. Instead, I saw the banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen with nothing but red downward arrows. Commentators predicted further economic doom. I flipped to the weather channel. Pictures of knee-deep water filled with debris, on the streets in a flooded town in Washington filled the screen. I turned off the TV and took a nap.

On day five of my recovery, I finally felt able to concentrate on a book. I selected the novel that my book group was reading this month. It featured an American woman who was neglected and disrespected by her successful husband. Since my own husband had been bringing me my dinner each day, keeping my water and ice tea glasses refreshed, answering the phone for me when I was sleeping and frequently asking if I needed anything, the novel only made me feel guilty. I closed the book and took a nap,
Drifting toward sleep with thoughts about the good times we’d had with our lap-robe friends. I looked forward to enjoying life again with them and others after my recovery, still many days in the future.
By the sixth day, I was ready to do some serious writing. I had my laptop and here was my chance to compose one of the many essays that swam in my head ready to be transferred to paper. Of course my brain had functioned like oatmeal for six days, so I decided to exercise it by playing a game of Scrabble on Facebook, a website new to me. Navigating Facebook and playing Scrabble with electronic strangers was fun, I discovered, even though I lost the first game. But that only meant I needed to play another. Finally, I was involved in four different Scrabble games all at once. By the time I finished those games I was ready for a nap.

The next day, after my husband served me breakfast, I took a shower and did a load of laundry, then quickly returned to my recliner, telling myself I shouldn’t overdo it. I’d better take a nap.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” my husband said. “What do we need?”
“How do I know what we need,” I shouted, I haven’t opened the refrigerator in six days.”
“Precisely!” He replied.
I knew then that my recovery had ended. I got up from my recliner, cleaned out the refrigerator and the freezer, cleaned the bathroom, changed the sheets on the bed and put away all my sedentary amusements.
I still longed for more time to read and write, and I felt a tiny bit resentful that my husband wasn’t willing to pamper me a bit longer. Yet, I also knew how incredibly lucky I was to have good health and a good husband. I said of prayer of gratitude.

Reading and writing is something I do best, I realized, when I’m actively engaged in the world, physically mobile and mentally alert. I don’t need surgery; I need discipline.