My Hands

Just out of the surgical unit my eyes fluttered open as I slowly regained consciousness. They attached me to the tubes and wires in the hospital room as I looked into my husband’s tired and worried eyes above me. Slowly lifting my arm I touched his face with my hand which had tubes attached to the veins through a needle above the bones. —— I lifted the cotton shift and saw a battlefield where my abdomen used to be. The scheduled robotic partial nephrectomy had turned into an open abdominal along the way. —- Well, it is what it is. More scars made no difference. —— For the next 48 hours my whole being was reduced to pain. They pulled me up to get me on my feet and walking. Later I sat up on a chair for an hour to get the circulation go further into my legs and upper body. My head hang low with my unwashed hair clinging to my wet face. Trembling, sobbing and in shock my body now had taken over. I looked at my shaking hands trying to hold on to the seat of the gray metal chair. 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 my body onto the toilet without it 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 leading me away from the military hospital, into our car, and up the few steps to the front door of our home. —– Soon later my hands hold on to my oldest daughter as she helps me into the tub where she washes the hospital stink off of my skin, and my thankful soul. She carefully washed my hair with heavenly smelling shampoo, just as I washed hers when she was a child, and I hugged my knees, and thanked God a million times and more for the love and care I received. ——– My hands reaching out to my youngest daughter when she leans down to hug me while I rest, and I deeply inhale my child’s familiar scent the way just mothers’ do. —— I again look at my hands as I do over and over again while they try to help me do a little more each day. Holding on to countertops and walls, and with fingertips which dive deep into my dogs fur in bliss. ——– 9 weeks later I stand in the cold water of the Pacific at some beach close to us here in Seattle. I hold my wet hands up into the sunlight and watch the water as it pearls down my skin like liquid silver. My eyes gaze farther above the water where dark grey clouds are moving high 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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