My Hands

Just rolling out of the surgical unit my eyes fluttered open as I slowly regained consciousness. They attached me to tubes and wires as I looked into my husband’s tired, worried eyes. Slowly lifting my arm touching his sweet face. ——After the nurses left I lifted the hospital’s cotton shift and saw a battlefield where my abdomen used to be. The planned short robotic , partial nephrectomy had turned into an hour long complicated open abdominal along the way. —- Well, it is what it is. More scars made no difference. But what happened?!—— For the next 48 hours my whole being was reduced to pain. They pulled me up to get me on my feet and walking. I sat up on a chair for an hour to get the circulation go into my legs and upper body, all the while thinking I might literally lose my insides all over the hospital floor just bending over. I didn’t trust the stitches and staples. The scar was too big, shocking me, and my head hang low with my unwashed hair clinging to my wet face. Trembling, sobbing and in shock my body took over. I looked at my shaking hands trying to hold on to the seat of the gray metal chair they put me on. Even my arms had tears running down on them. I had delivered two beautiful baby girls without as much as an aspirin, and here I sat reduced to nothing but pain while the narcotics ran into my veins. —— What the fuck! For the next days all I really saw of my body was my arms and hands. Reaching out. Holding onto the frame of the bed lifting my body up again, and again. Preventing me from falling. Trying to maneuver onto the toilet, without vomiting on the floor when the bones hit the seat; my abdomen, the bruised ribs, the pinched nerves in my spine going full force into spasms. ——— My hands did it all. They finally held me up, they wiped the tears off of my face, they gratefully reached for the first cup of water, they bruised up from more and more needles, and never gave in. They finally held on to my husband’s hands, leading me away from the military hospital, into our car, and up the few steps to the front door of our home in Seattle. —– Soon later my hands held on tight to those of my oldest daughter’s; as she helped me into the tub, where she washed the hospital stink off of my skin and my bruised and thankful soul. She carefully washed my hair just as I washed hers when she was a child, while I hugged my knees, thanking God a million times and more for the love and care I received. ——– Soon after, my hands reached out to my youngest daughter when she leaned over to hug me while I was getting ready to rest, and I deeply inhaled my child’s familiar scent the way just mothers’ do. —— I again looked at my hands just as I do now, over and over again while they tried to help me do a little more each day. Holding on to countertops and walls, and with fingertips finally diving deep into my dogs fur. ——– Now, 9 weeks later I am standing in the ice cold waters of the Pacific Ocean here in Seattle. I hold my wet hands up into the sunlight, watching the water pearling down my skin like liquid silver. My eyes gaze farther above the water where dark grey clouds are moving above the majestic trees into the mountains. I so long to be there! Soon I will be strong enough I hope. —- My heart is happy, my soul in peace. ——– Grateful beyond imagination! —- Segment/9.19. —- Love and light to you all.

7 thoughts on “My Hands

  1. I was drawn into your writing because of the intense and beautiful imagery….
    as well as understanding from my own personal experience.
    I have been tossing around the idea of writing about my experience, and recently decided that I would once I complete my post on PTSD.
    I am sending you the biggest prayers for continued healing. God Bless in the PNW.

    Liked by 1 person

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