Recovery Lesson #1: Everything takes longer than you think. Like this update, which I started last Thursday.

Today was a pretty good picture of the past month– full of highs and lows. I woke up on a low, feeling the effects of the insomnia last night. (Stroke messes with sleep patterns). But if I had to be in bed, I was happy with my company: Mom to my left, Evan at my feet, and kitty in the middle. I justified more TV time for Evan since the show was educational. Rest was the priority.

After almost a week on antibiotics, I’m coughing less, my temperature is down, and my oxygen saturation is up. Smell and taste are coming back. Still, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, or trying to style my hair all wear me out. I needed to gather up all my strength for a procedure this afternoon.

Due to the stroke risk, I had to discontinue a medicine that helps keep my brain tumor in check. Its replacement was a device that will hopefully do the same job, releasing medication slowly (via my abdomen) over the next several years before it needs to be replaced.

Getting there and back turned out to be just as stressful as the appointment. My mom is a very nervous driver, to put it mildly. Backing the van out of the driveway, finding there was no handicap spots free, dealing with a temperamental ramp and rushing to get the wheelchair into the elevator in one piece, all put her in a tizzy. Evan was unfazed; he was excited to get into his bags of little toys and snacks, ready for the long wait ahead.

By the time I got into the room, my blood pressure was sky high. Staying calm when people around me aren’t, is harder than (I hope) I make it look. I knew I was in good hands. This doctor could fill an entire wall with her qualifications, but by some miracle she landed here. She is someone you’d be lucky to have for a friend to boot.

One of the perks of living in a small town is knowing many of the healthcare providers and their families. She knows my family too, and she wants the best for all of us. I was awake the entire time as she walked me through step by step. I won’t lie. It hurt. A lot. I’ll be in pain for the next couple of days.

Afterward, she expressed genuine concern, and went a step further to say exactly what I needed to hear. She believes in me. Despite getting knocked down again and again, I can continue to do hard things. The next one was in the parking lot.

I put on a brave face until we checked out. I was in a lot of pain, and all I wanted to do was crawl in bed. We got in the van OK, but the ramp was stuck, mid-air. Mom and I tried every button, back-up button, and even the manual controls. Nothing worked. Instead, we smelled the burn of the ramp motor and managed to kill the van’s battery in the process.

Todd was in the OR; I couldn’t get ahold of him. I called our mechanic and explained we were stranded. An hour later, Todd was rushing toward the van, flustered and frustrated, but finally successful with the help of a jumpstart. Meanwhile, the mechanic pulled up. Kind enough to follow us home, he manually deployed the ramp without kneeling the van.

As a result, my purse fell off the back and I ran over it, just as a call from my health insurance company came in. It wasn’t just any purse. It was my favorite and a Christmas present, ruined. But there’s another van repair to schedule, an intense phone call finish, and a patient little boy who needs my attention. I need to ignore the pain awhile longer.

Life continues, and I can’t opt out. Forms need to be filled, regardless of how terrible and difficult handwriting has become. End of the school year events will happen, even though I’ll be the only parent in a wheelchair. Kids grow, no matter how much I wish they’d stay little.

It’s not just that time goes fast. My children have lost out on so much because my body is so unpredictable. Preschool, sports, music lessons, summer camps, playdates… really any plans are subject to the whims of my body. Family is what they miss most of all. Whatever their reasons, most have opted out of our lives. I can’t say that I blame them. Loving me is a burden I worry eventually everyone will tire of carrying.