Recovery time.

My thoughts and feelings, 10 days after hysterectomy.

I totally underestimated the whole thing.

Three small incisions on my tummy and a night in hospital, and I was allowed home. Like it was nothing. According to my hospital notes, the surgery was an ‘uneventful procedure.’

High on delicious morphine (before it made me throw up)

I wish I was one of those people who could just ‘be’. Sit here, recover, watch Netflix and take my painkillers like a good girl. But instead I am pulling my stitches by emptying the dishwasher, or insisting on walking to the local shop and then nearly passing out in there.

I am not thinking about what has happened to me. I am ignoring it and carrying on. Which is totally stupid, but it’s how I cope.

All I can think about is getting back to normal. I want to take my son for a ride on his new bike, I want to run, I want to go back to work, I want to wear clothes that aren’t ‘comfortable.’ A psychologist might say that I run away from facing up to things that have happened to me, like I did when my dad died, but I say I just like to crack on and live my life.

Medicinal cuddles from my boy…

I know one thing, though. I am so so lucky. That’s it, done, no more surgery again in my life. I will not die of breast or ovarian cancer. I have to remind myself of this.

So it’s not all been stitch-splitting, almost piddling my pants in the school playground, non-stop rule breaking. I’ve spent a fair amount of time asleep and under the influence of some quite marvellous painkillers. I’ve been in more pain than I thought I would be. When you have abdominal surgery you are inflated with gas, which doesn’t escape the, er, usual way gas escapes. It stays in your body until it is absorbed and causes pain in the back and shoulders. So on a boiling hot day I was lying on the sofa with hot water bottles on my back.

Speaking of sweating, don’t get me started on HRT patches either. Now officially menopausal, I have to wear a hormone patch on my bum for 7 days before changing it. They keep falling off. I keep finding them rolled up in my trousers or stuck to the toilet seat. And this fuckery has to continue until I am 50. The one I am wearing at present is covered up with parcel tape, applied carefully by my long suffering husband after he helped me shower and found the best place for it on my bum cheek (he carefully dries in between all my toes too, if that’s not true love what is?).

My husband has been outstanding in his care for me, as have my friends and family. My little boy has been extremely gentle and loving, bringing me drinks and covering me with a blanket. I’m proud that we’ve raised such a thoughtful kid.

I’ve gone to town on online shopping. The Sweaty Betty sale gave my credit card a beating, as did the Topshop sale. The ‘zero gravity’ running tights I’ve had my eye on for ages were reduced from £90 (insanity) to £45 (still insane really but, YOLO) and from Topshop I’ve discovered the holy grail of relaxed skinny jeans for birds, like me, with chunkier thighs (the ‘Lucas’, if you’re interested). So it was definitely time and money well spent.

I’m determined not to eat badly whilst recovering, as I am not moving much at all and know that I can gain weight by just looking at a box of Krispy Kremes. So I’ve been enjoying green tea, lots of veg, and still allowing myself my daily Wispa.

I’m also teaching myself to braid my hair like all of the other Insta fitness w*nkers.

I had lots of interest in my appeal for interviewees and, when I have rare moments of clarity, I am going to write up the interviews and publish in a series I’ve named #OtherRunners. I hope you will enjoy reading.