Uh-oh. This is an emergency.
Indeed, I feel horrible. Hideous. I feel like a slob of fat walking around PGH with legs as heavy as her heart. This is no longer right. I'm supposed to be loving this.
Somebody tell me what's wrong. It's probably the hormones. From a surge of happy hormones two weeks ago, to an acute depletion of whatever endorphin was around. This is transient. This is temporary. I have to get over this soon enough. This will come to pass.
For the meantime, I have to content myself with walking around like a lump of grease, looking like Hagar-the-Horrible, hair unkempt, face unmade, brain empty. When will the real me return?
Yesterday, I heard an admonition from a TCVS consultant during our pre-op conference. He said, "You have to be very careful with your next move. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. It's the same as the heart. If it's been failing for a long time, you try to fix it, but you really won't change much. You might even bring more harm."
He was talking about a patient, of course. And surgical procedures and all those nerdy stuff. But why did it feel as if he was looking right at me?
To end this depressing entry. I'd like to share a poem by Sara Teasdale. Yeah, her poems are too sappy, dangerously bordering on lame. But I like them anyway. Honesty always is a saving grace. Here goes...
Oh, because you never tried
To bow my will or break my pride,
And nothing of the cave-man made
You want to keep me half afraid,
Nor ever with a conquering air
You thought to draw me unaware--
Take me, for I love you more
Than I ever loved before.
And since the body's maidenhood
Alone were neither rare nor good
Unless with it I gave to you
A spirit still untrammeled, too,
Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.
There's some tangentiality in the thought process of this entry. Forgive me, my writing is as messed up as my mood. I call on Honesty as my saving grace here.