Today was my first post-op visit. Thankfully we didn’t need to leave the house at 4am!

It was an odd feeling being driven back to the hospital. The last time I was there I was wrapped in what felt like bubble wrap from head to toe and floating on the perfect pain pill cocktail so I wouldn’t feel every pothole and bump on the highway ride north.

Today I walked in eight days post-surgery feeling like a very proud patient. I have followed every instruction to the letter. My drains were neatly tucked under my shirt instead of hanging around my neck like the gaudy necklace they were twelve hours after surgery, when modesty was the least of my concerns. A week later though, I’m perfectly happy hiding those somewhat gross little bulbs from public view. No one needs to see my inner goo. Decorum still exists in a hospital after all – or at least it should. 

I still haven’t really looked. I’ll take a squinty peek when I’m brushing my teeth, but even then I tend to take a little two-minute stroll around the bedroom afterward just to avoid a true look at myself.

Denial can be a helpful recovery tool.

My days are long. I’m not much of a napper, but my body tells me when I clearly need a rest. I know I’ve done too much when the stairs start to win.

I did manage one small outing earlier in the week when Mother Nature gifted Pennsylvania with a few days of false spring. I walked slowly…very slowly down the sidewalk and felt like I had summited Everest. If I had to guess it was probably 50 yards. Remember it’s ok to celebrate small wins! 

My other adventure was the DMV. Because obviously that is exactly where you want to go seven days post-op. But it was worth it. My youngest turned sixteen this week, and I wanted him to have a moment of normal in what has been a very not-normal birthday year. That meant a driver’s permit and birthday cake. I love birthdays and always want to celebrate big, but this year the timing meant it was more low key – but I’m blessed with a very understanding teenager, and if anything, he’s been so gracious and helpful during my recovery.  My hope is that this kindness and understanding he’s showing now is a little foreshadowing of the man he will become later in life. 

But priorities. Motherhood does not pause for surgical recovery.

I’ve also kept a distant eye on my work emails. It’s hard not to. At the very least I want to return to the office with some semblance of normal waiting for me.

At my appointment today the doctor was thrilled with my incisions. Apparently I’m a good healer. I’m not prone to bruising or swelling, so I walked away with an A+. Glenn also received an A+ for his meticulous medication spreadsheets and drain output tracking. It’s a team effort.

Next week will be the first step in reconstruction, and hopefully the moment these awful drains finally disappear. I’m told that’s when I’ll start to feel human again.

I am very much looking forward to that milestone.

Meanwhile, I am still Momming. Hard.

My oldest is headed to Jamaica for spring break. This is his first big international trip without the family, and while he’s technically a young adult, I am still very much his logistics department.

Our family has visited Jamaica many times over the years. We’re practically J’American at this point, which is why my pre-anesthesia song choice felt just right. But sending your child out into the world without your packing supervision is terrifying.

I am the planner of this family. I’m the one who tucks bug spray, plastic baggies, and random emergency supplies into the tiny corners of our carry-ons. And yes, my family has been trained to travel with nothing more than a carry-on and a backpack, so I know he will make me proud – but that control is very hard to let go of.

The call with him today went something like this, followed by approximately 199 texts.

“Download WhatsApp. That’s how everyone communicates there.”

“I connected you with our driver. His name is Lloyd.”

“Also I sent a Target delivery to your apartment. Pencils, markers, books, card games, stickers, and two backpacks. Pack them in your suitcase so Lloyd can donate them to a school. Consider it an all-inclusive vacation with a side of paying it forward.”

“Also pack Pepto. And toothpaste.”

“Don’t drink too much or you’ll lose an entire day of your trip. But also there’s a DJ at the pool every day, so make good choices.”

“Here’s how you ask the bank to break your hundred dollars into small bills.”

“Here’s the parking confirmation for the airport.”

“And remember the rule for your water ears”

That one got a quick “Yes Mom.”

For those who don’t know, the water rule exists because of his cochlear implants. Only one implant stays on during water activities. If something happens to both, he’s still deaf. That worry will probably live with me forever.

Will any of the 199 instructions stick?

Hopefully. Did they annoy him? Definitely. 

But I also remind myself he’s a capable young man and I raised him well. A few bumps in the road are where growth happens.

Of course I still went ahead and booked them VIP airport service and lined up all their excursions.

As I’m writing this, I’m realizing I might be a lot. Maybe I do need to get back to work soon.

Something unexpected happened this week.

One of the most beautiful things about this journey has been the connections. Maybe that’s exactly why this part of my journey feels so important.

A dear friend introduced me to her niece this week. She’s walking a similar path, but unfortunately cancer is part of her story. That was also when I said a small thanks to my now 2%. 

She was initially hesitant to talk because she didn’t want anything negative added to her already heavy situation. I completely understood that. So we started simple.

Pregnancy pillows. For the record, they are excellent post-surgery recovery tools even when you are very much not pregnant. Antibacterial soap. A flexible back scratcher, which I now consider essential medical equipment. We kept it light. But something beautiful happened.

The conversation shifted. And then it happened again. And again.

Four different times this week I found myself connecting with women walking this same road.  I realized I was living out one of the positive outcomes I wrote about earlier.

I get to be a flashlight for people who are just starting this journey. 

But something even deeper is happening in these conversations.

Making these connections with other women feels like part of my calling. When I lean into my vulnerability it somehow creates a safe place for them to do the same.

Of course every recovery is different. My path will not mirror theirs exactly, and theirs will not mirror mine. Bodies heal differently. Circumstances are different. But my gospel right now is community.

Creating a place where women can ask questions, share fears, laugh a little, and realize they are not navigating the unknown alone.

And I am very proud of that.

When I really think about it, the first time I felt the power of shared experiences was years ago during my mother’s cancer diagnosis.

I spent hours upon hours in online chat rooms reading story after story, searching desperately for a positive outcome. I wanted to see someone who had walked through metastatic breast cancer and come out the other side.

Then I did it again when my boys were diagnosed with hearing loss. I searched for what I called twin stories. Someone whose experience looked just like ours, someone who could show me what life looked like after that terrifying moment of diagnosis.

Deep in my bones I needed proof that the hard thing we were facing could still lead somewhere beautiful.

And perhaps that’s exactly what I’m trying to replicate now. Because those stories carried me through some very dark days. If I can be that voice for someone else, the one that says “I’ve been there and you are going to be okay,” then every ounce of vulnerability I’ve shared will be worth it.

And this week I was brave enough to share my blog with my professional network. Transparency has always been part of how I lead. My personal and professional worlds have never existed as completely separate versions of me. There has always been overlap, and my teams have always been welcome to know the real person behind the title.

When people feel safe bringing their full selves into the room, good things happen. At the end of the day, we are all human.

Maybe that same instinct for connection is exactly why I feel called to share this journey out loud. Maybe the lines between my personal connections and professional ones were never meant to be separate after all.

Week One

Week one has had its ups and downs. I’m still hurting. I really hate the drains.

But flipping it positive…what I’m best at.

I made it to the other side.

My electric recliner is officially the best recovery purchase I made.

The flowers from friends and family are blooming brightly around the house and make me smile every day.

I’ve eaten a medically questionable amount of Jello.

Chef Hubby has been delivering some pretty impressive meals.

And in the spirit of full transparency about recovery realities, I also ate an entire 16-ounce container of prunes in 24 hours. Because apparently massive amounts of pain medication slow things down in ways we don’t really need to discuss in detail.

Showers are slightly awful right now. I am deeply grateful for the staying power of my husband and the magic of dryer-warmed towels waiting when I get out. Honestly, I prefer the far less traumatic sponge bath, but occasionally I have to remind myself that I am in fact a grown adult.

The itching is another strange reality. Itches you can’t actually feel are the worst. Dumb nerves.

Dry shampoo has also become one of my greatest allies. And bless the hairdressers who squeeze recovering women in for a real wash when T-rex arms simply cannot get the job done.

My tribe keeps showing up with love, prayers, and encouragement.

Even the bunnies are adjusting.

Eeyore is our ‘upstairs bunny’ and she has learned the sound the recliner makes when it goes down and immediately demands head rubs. The other is slightly offended that I’m spending most of my days in the bedroom instead of the office where she normally receives endless treats and cheek rubs. Don’t worry about Cinnabun though. Daddy is filling in admirably with banana bites and affection.

Life is about balance.

So for now I’m just going to keep walking this path honestly as I heal and invite you all along for the ride. And if you ever meet someone starting this same journey, send them my way. Let me help guide them.

Sometimes living life big simply means facing the hard parts with honesty and a little humor.

In fact…

…every little thing gonna be alright.