I’d like to introduce my new friend, The Bruise. All the black and blue bruising I initially had in my face has now migrated down my neck, mainly on my left side. It’s turned into an enormous green bruise, not unlike what it might look like if someone tried to strangle me. My boyfriend and I feel aware of it going out in public, knowing it’s clearly visible and wondering if people suspect him, rather than the surgeon, of being the culpable party.
Left: The Bruise. The picture on the right was taken on day eight post-op. That’s my attempt at a close-lipped smile. I still have some work to do. But my swelling is going down.
There have been some surprising aspects of my recovery that I hadn’t expected. I have experienced close to no nausea, despite being prone to it in life in general. I think the Scop patch must be a miracle-worker. Either that or I’ve been taking aspirin under the guise of hydrocodone this whole time.
I’ve also been surprised by how much I can open my mouth. I could open it immediately after surgery because I wasn’t wired or rubberbanded shut, and the amount I can open it has been increasing as time passes. I don’t do any special jaw exercises or anything, but I can eat things (poorly) with a spoon now and easily drink out of a cup, so no more of that pathetic-looking syringe eating.
Another thing is how I can feel both aware and confused, lovely side effects of hydrocodone. I feel completely there mentally when I’m watching Netflix, talking to my boyfriend, or texting someone, but I find myself forgetting a lot of things too. Did I tell him that or was it a dream? What am I looking for again? What was I excited to have for dinner? Why did I come back into the house? Have I listened to this part of the podcast already? It’s an early taste of senility.
Related to that, I haven’t read yet. Being an avid reader, I stockpiled books on my fireplace, ready to read for after surgery. But with my mind sort of fuzzy and lazy, I’ve preferred to watch Netflix or listen to podcasts or scary stories. I’ll probably start in on the books once I’m off narcotics.
There are a few other observations I’ve made that I don’t necessarily find surprising. I’m not surprised I tire easily trying to talk. This splint is really killing my vibe in that arena. I also keep biting my cheeks because they’re numb and swollen, so if I swipe my tongue between my molars there are raised teeth marks running along both cheeks like the joker, but inside my mouth rather than outside.
Something negative to pop up since I last wrote is that my pain level has slightly increased. I think it’s because my numb nerves are starting to heal, which is a good thing, but it’s leaving me with more feeling in the surgical sites. The left side has been especially achy, so I’ve been putting a warm compress on it, which only sort of helps.
Another negative is that my bowels are packed with poop that’s going nowhere fast. Side effect of narcotics, again. I went from never having taken a stool softener in my life to eating almost a whole bottle only to produce the most unsatisfying of rabbity turds. Sigh.
On a more serious note, my family and friends have been so caring and supportive during my recovery. I’ve received several care packages, cards, and texts wondering how I’m doing. I’ve been particularly touched by how selfless my birthmom has been, volunteering to fly out here and help me during and after surgery, and how kind a couple of my coworkers have been, checking up on me, offering to bring me groceries, and suggesting movies to watch, though we’re not especially close. Having people I know simply remember I had surgery and acknowledge that I might be having a hard time goes a long way in keeping my spirits high while I bumble around my apartment alone.
I’ve gotten into the habit of sitting on my second-story porch at around 3am and watching documentaries. The other night I decided to do just that, but to pamper myself a little and use a Korean-style face mask with a cat on it that my boyfriend’s mom had given me. I ended up looking like leatherface.
I laughed fucking hard for a sec, then put my icepacks on my face, tied onto my head using a canga (a Brazilian piece of cloth towel thing), Grey Gardens-style. While sitting out there, I thought about how terrified I would be to be walking down the sidewalk back from the club on a Friday night and look up to see THAT silently staring down at me.