Sorry/not sorry that all I can write about lately is my breasts. I'm now fifteen days post-op breast reduction and I have a raging wound dehiscence (falling apart at the seams) on one side and infection (GIGANTIC PUSS-FILLED HOLE OF DOOM) so it's all I can think about.....but writing has always helped me process my shit, so here we are. Also, this is sort of my way of taking up my own space, using my voice to tell my story.
At first, I felt mortified that I wasn't healing quickly and easily- I've worked in surgery, understand how wounds work, shouldn't I be sailing through? Also, I worried that I might be exaggerating how bad things were/what I felt. I wanted to act like all of this was no big deal- after all, it's indulgent enough to want to look and feel good in the first place/to have this surgery, how dare I not suffer silently if there are complications? But then I thought- fuck it. This sucks. I'm allowed to say that it sucks.
I've been lucky and have had very little healthcare myself in the past- this was my first surgery. I keep thinking back to other major/traumatic things that happened to my body- pregnancy, loss, infertility, child birth, and thinking that I felt shame then, too. I was afraid that all of those things were seen as a weakness or female-specific malady, so I downplayed and hid them as best I could, so as not to appear needy, selfish, or overly dramatic. I worked without faltering through my losses and later, through my pregnancies, until I went into labor, because HOW DARE I rest when uncomfortable, when I was already indulging in wanting to have kids and anticipating taking time off to care for a newborn. After delivery, HOW DARE I not get up! Serve myself, my family, my guests, my baby, even as I passed blood clots into my pants and hurt in ways that were intense, intimate, and terrifying. How dare I complain. Look how lucky I was. I wish I hadn't been so afraid then to express my feelings and my needs. I'm taking some of that back now. Because fuck it.
Also, writing seems more productive than starting movies on my computer and then staring past them into middle distance and sighing mournfully while shoving nachos into my mouth.
So. Things don't seem to be getting better yet. Still having fevers, hole seems bigger, still disgusting. The plastic surgeon keeps talking about the long-term scar--- the wider and more gateway-to-hell this thing gets, the more likely it'll pucker and scar weird. I honestly don't give a shit- it's on the underside of one boob and I am not an underside of boob model....but it did get me thinking- maybe instead of him doing a scar revision if it ends up jacked up, I'll just get a tattoo of a patchwork quilt of handkerchiefs coming out of it and streaming down my belly- like a magician pulling from a hat? Wouldn't that be cool!?
I think so, too.
I swear to God I watched a poltergeist come out of there. Did a little dance on my bed, went back in. Send holy water.