(no subject)

I wrote a post yesterday, and then lost it to the fuzz of oxycodone and ambien and exhaustion.

I still have drains, but I can shower. I've left the house and seen people I love. I'm wearing a goddamn compression bra which makes everything hurt less, but really drives home the fact that for the moment, I don't have boobs. I shall, however, eventually conquer this brave new land and plant a fucking "Fuck Cancer" flag in it.

I'm still not quite up to my standard pace with reading, focusing takes a little more effort than I can reasonably maintain for hours at a time. But netflix has an endless array of horror movies, and I have something like fifteen years of half-finished cross stitch projects to work on. (the intent is that I can't buy any new projects until I've finished my backlog. Which is a pity because one of my new fun hobbies is adding things to my etsy wishlist.)

This healing thing (or this medication for pain thing) makes me feel stupid and slow. I write half-emails and then leave them in my draft folder, because I know I'm not saying things the right way, and it frustrates me. I post things to lj and say them all wrong, even if it's still important for me to say them at all. I feel like I should have projects for this recuperative time, long handwritten letters or reviewing all the books in my librarything, or something, as if I'm willing to acknowledge the limitation of not being able to putter around, but feel like my brain should be completely unaffected.

I went out twice yesterday. One to the breast surgeon and then Sherman, and the other to accompany Light picking up our farmshare and dropping in on Purple and her clan. Kilt might be the only person I know who is really going to appreciate the truly disgusting process that is post-surgical care, but they were having dinner, so we only talked about talking about it. Also, I can't make heads or tails of it, but my doctor printed out my completely unremarkable pathology report and I just might stick it to the fridge.

I'm better than I was last Friday, and I'll be better still next Friday.

(no subject)

I wrote a post yesterday, and then lost it to the fuzz of oxycodone and ambien and exhaustion.

I still have drains, but I can shower. I've left the house and seen people I love. I'm wearing a goddamn compression bra which makes everything hurt less, but really drives home the fact that for the moment, I don't have boobs. I shall, however, eventually conquer this brave new land and plant a fucking "Fuck Cancer" flag in it.

I'm still not quite up to my standard pace with reading, focusing takes a little more effort than I can reasonably maintain for hours at a time. But netflix has an endless array of horror movies, and I have something like fifteen years of half-finished cross stitch projects to work on. (the intent is that I can't buy any new projects until I've finished my backlog. Which is a pity because one of my new fun hobbies is adding things to my etsy wishlist.)

This healing thing (or this medication for pain thing) makes me feel stupid and slow. I write half-emails and then leave them in my draft folder, because I know I'm not saying things the right way, and it frustrates me. I post things to lj and say them all wrong, even if it's still important for me to say them at all. I feel like I should have projects for this recuperative time, long handwritten letters or reviewing all the books in my librarything, or something, as if I'm willing to acknowledge the limitation of not being able to putter around, but feel like my brain should be completely unaffected.

I went out twice yesterday. One to the breast surgeon and then Sherman, and the other to accompany Light picking up our farmshare and dropping in on Purple and her clan. Kilt might be the only person I know who is really going to appreciate the truly disgusting process that is post-surgical care, but they were having dinner, so we only talked about talking about it. Also, I can't make heads or tails of it, but my doctor printed out my completely unremarkable pathology report and I just might stick it to the fridge.

I'm better than I was last Friday, and I'll be better still next Friday.