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A big bear hug

Jun12
I did not samba in the parking lot when I left the hospital yesterday afternoon. In my mind, I pictured myself joining the roda. That celebration will come in time; perhaps after these first two weeks of being Vac-free.  But my good news wasn’t real until I saw my daughter. The look on her face was one of genuine joy, hope, and gratitude.  Our hug was one of homecoming. 
After 44 days, I’m no longer attached to Mr. Backpack. I will be slowly resuming my normal routine.  I will return to work Monday. I’m still restricted from exercise: half-marathon training and SambaFunk classes are on hold until the doctor sees more progress in my healing. My wound is not closed but is 1.5 centimeters close. The surrounding skin, sore and blistered from weeks of adhesive tape and air-tight sealants, will need to heal.  As for the cosmetic healing, that will be a longer process, six months or more and one I choose not to ponder for now. 
Strangely enough,  after the Wound-Vac was turned off, I felt exhausted and experienced a level of pain I hadn’t felt in weeks.  I didn’t let it intimidate me. It is my body’s turn to take over the healing process. I will continue to take my recovery one day and one moment at a time.  Lots of bear hugs won’t hurt. 

Anchors: They Weigh

May24
 “Bag lady you gone hurt your back
Dragging all them bags like that
I guess nobody ever told you
All you must hold on to
Is you, is you, is you “ Erykah Badu, Bag Lady
“Until then I am a red balloon, a balloon tied to an anchor.” Sandra Cisneros
The Ancient Mariner and the Albatross around his neck
I have been wearing a wound-vac since Tuesday, April 29thor for 25 days.  In those 25 days, I have learned how much I miss daily exercise, wearing any clothes I want, and showers that don’t require waterproof tape or plastic wrap.  M has named the wound-vac Mr. Backpack. Mr. Backpack is attached to me 24/7, whether I am sleeping, enjoying my weekday Sex and City marathons on E!, or going out to our now-once-a-week family dinner(he gets his own chair.) I even made up a silly Mr. Backpack song to the tune of “Mr. Sandman.” All was going well with the new member of the family until I visited my surgeon for the first time in two weeks.  Yesterday, my doctor decided to keep me on the Wound-Vac  for two to four more weeks.  I didn’t take the news well initially.  I cried, raged, and moped. I considered reading the Book of Job again. But today I have accepted the news.
A wound-vac or wound-vacuum is a machine that provides vacuum pressure on a wound within a sealed bandage. Think of it as a Space-Bag to prevent infection and promote healing. (For those of you who don’t know or remember the TV commercials, Space-Bags are gigantic Zip-locs for storing blankets, sweaters, and other bulky items  by vacuuming out the air and increasing your storage space.)
As I did throughout my illness, I did Internet research to learn about wound-vac, particularly about others’ personal experiences.  My experience has been positive overall.  Home health nurses visit me three times a week to change the dressings. Thanks to a prescribed painkiller, which takes effect in a quick twenty minutes, I don’t feel a thing(of course, then I’m really mellow but unable to drive for about three to four hours.) One of the key aspects of a dressing change is the measurements taken. The wound’s length, width, and depth indicate the rate of healing.  So centimeters matter.  My wound is healing.  I am understandably impatient.
I had built my life around keeping busy.  Being on the Wound-Vac has made me remember that life happens. While I can do my best to shape and structure my lifestyle, life itself will go on, often times with events and experiences beyond my control.  That is why the wound-vac has become my teacher in humility.  Take the news from the doctor. I wanted to return to work on schedule. I wanted to parade vac-free in Carnaval this weekend. I wanted to jump in the shower, be in there for ten to fifteen minutes (yes I realize we’re in a drought), and wash and condition my hair.  Maybe do a samba step in celebration.  Instead I’ll be devising some bling for my vac bag and waving from a parade float. I will continue live my life differently for a few more weeks with my three-pound friend on my shoulder.
Mr. Backpack, bring me a dream.