I once had an editor who always made fun of the way I walked.
He was from the south, and he spoke with a slow drawl; I'm from the Midwest, and I talk fast and walk fast - usually with a strong sense of purpose.
"Robinson," he'd say, laughing, using my maiden name. "Look at you. You're walkin' like you're off to stomp a snake."
It cracked me up. I just assumed he was crazy.
Until recently; until I got sick. I wasn't stomping any snakes. I walked slowly and deliberately, rattled by abdominal pain caused by fibroids and dulled by painkillers.
I slept a lot, too. And rumor has it I might have been a bit cranky.
Then I had surgery a few weeks ago. I didn't really want it; I was terrified. But I didn't feel like I had a choice. So I shut my eyes, crossed my fingers and said a few prayers before I went under.
That was about four weeks ago. Recovery hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be, but I was still walking on proverbial eggshells, afraid I'd pull a stitch or strain ... something.
But yesterday, I noticed it. I was in the grocery store, and I was walking fast. I was myself again. I wasn't stooped over and sweating; I wasn't in pain. It was such a relief.
It was kind of like how you feel when you've had a cold for weeks and weeks and then one day, you realize - it's gone. You can breathe again.
I got tired quickly; but it felt great while it lasted.
I think I'm getting back to business - ready to stomp those snakes.
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So I had surgery the other week, and I have to admit, recovery hasn't been what I had in mind. Although I told everyone that I fully expected to just lie around and take it easy, that isn't really what I thought would happen.
I kind of saw myself as Carol Brady, you know, the mom of the Brady bunch, in that episode where she was sick and had a little bell beside her bed and the kids had to wait on her hand and foot while she watched TV and recovered from her half-hour illness.
Then, I figured, after I ate enough bon-bons and watched enough Food Network, I'd scurry down to the computer and do a little writing. After all,, I'm THISCLOSE to finishing "Mom Tales," I really want to finish the sequel to Death on Deadline this summer and I have a really fun new idea for a murder mystery. Well, "fun" except for the murder part - you know what I mean.
Except it isn't working out that way. Because:
1. Outpatient surgery is a misnomer. I don't feel like Carol Brady. I feel more like Tom, as in Tom and Jerry, when Tom has been run over by a truck several times. To handle some significant pain, the nice doctor gave me painkillers and they're pretty strong - similar to Vicodin, she said.
2. "Mom Tales," is a humorous collection of essays on parenting. And trust me - you're just not funny on Vicodin. You might think you have a humorous idea for an essay, but .... really, it's Not. Funny. At. All. So there hasn't been much writing. There's been a lot of sleeping, though.
Luckily, time heals all, they say, and I'm tapering off on the meds. But before I get too healthy, I still need those bon-bons and the little bell.
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