Stuffy

 Herself speaks.

Surgery, however minor, is very difficult to process. It's an authorized intrusion on bodily integrity, and a giving up, however temporary, of control over oneself. It's traumatic, even if it it necessary. ]I have had a few flashbacks/memories of this week's procedure, and I am trying hard to just let them slip over and through my brain and away into the ether. No dwelling on things I could neither control nor change. 

I remember being suddenly aware of a transition from Nothingness to Presence in post-op, without remembering the transition to Nothingness in the first place. The pressure of the oxygen mask on my face and creeping pain from the site. Seeing the blur of the nurse's outline when I opened my eyes just as she removed the mask, and hearing her kind voice after I  involuntarily let out an awakening gasp -- 'Don't cry, you'll get all stuffy.' 

I didn't cry. I didn't want to be stuffy. Or a bother. 

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I know that time, careful attention to pain management, and regular use of the necessary medications, will likely yield successful physical recovery. I'm doing what I can to take care of this temperamental body. The question remains, though -- how does one heal the wound to the soul that comes with the surgical process? I'm not sure where to begin.

All I can think is: Don't cry. You'll get all stuffy. 

One day at a time. I'll get better.