Convalescence

It’s silly to speak of convalescence when the cancer is raging unimpeded.  All transformed cells that survived the surgery on Monday, microscopic chunks invisible to the naked eye and thus too small to be removed by knife and individual cells floating around aimlessly are still around and are as menacing as ever.  The cancer has not been stopped.  The cells will keep growing and do the damage that all cancers eventually do.  There is only one outcome.

But I’ve had major growth removed and the remaining bits of my gut reconnected successfully.  The healing process has started and is progressing well.  This morning, I was given a pot of coffee and hot milk, the first food in more than three days.  In four to six weeks I should be strong enough for the next stage on this tour.  That’s when the cancer will be attacked at the source, with the goal to eliminate or subdue all malignant cells.

Since Monday, I’ve been feeding on infusions and small amounts of mineral water.  This will not get me back on my feet.  On the other hand, my reconstituted gut is weak, recently stitched together in places that had nothing to do with each other before, and, at least at the beginning, not ready for more.  Every time I increase input - drinking more than one sip at a time, drinking weak herbal tea brewed with tepid water, drinking milky coffee - my gut revolts a little bit.  Like me, it is lazy and likes to rest, left in peace and comfort.

Shortly after waking up from surgery.

I am my gut’s carer.  I tell it to get up and move, to exercise, to get its juices flowing.  In contrast to my own carer, I’m suffering for it.  I feel occasional stinging pain that moves with the motions of the intestines, as if things were ripping apart inside.  Since the surgeon told me that it’s the scraping of the intestines on the extensively wounded peritoneum, I can deal with this much better.  This pain is just pain, not a harbinger of worse to come.

Yesterday I walked 2400 steps.  I counted every single one.  The hospital corridor is 170 steps long.  My last trip at night comprised three laps.  I was exhausted afterwards but happy.  My goal for today is 5000 steps.  If I spend more time outside bed than inside it, by walking the corridor and sitting on the table reading or writing, my body should see the direction of this tour.  It’s a tour of convalescence, of hope, of survival.