I am not a machine.
Last week I had some minor surgery. So minor that when the doctors and nurses said encouragingly, "You'll be back to your normal self in a day or two," I took them at their exact words. I didn't even view it as:
"a day of surgery," but
"a day off work."
While everyone told me the anesthesia would probably make me sleep the remainder of the day, I hoped it wouldn't. A whole afternoon to myself?! I would spend it working on music instead, especially since I would be back to normal by the next day anyway.
I came out of surgery feeling the effects of the anesthesia and no pain. NO PAIN. Laughing, joking, and making hilariously inappropriate and nontypical comments. My mom and I went out to eat afterwards, where I marveled at how easy this "surgery" had been. I took little more than a half-hour nap as she drove me home, where I made myself comfortable in my bed----and played guitar and sang for the next hour or two. I finally dozed off for a little nap, then awoke to play my guitar some more.
The next day I went back to work.
The day after that I went to work again,
then straight-out-of-town where I lead music for a women's retreat,
returned home late that night, drove back early the next morning to lead more music,
another late-night drive home,
then one more drive back to lead music on that final Sunday morning---
all while pain and fatigue from the surgery blared to get my attention,
but I barrelled my way through it.
This weekend had been planned months before my surgery.
Besides, I was supposed to be back to normal in a day or two anyway.
Sunday evening I sat at my boyfriend's keyboard, still playing and singing, while he browsed the computer right beside me. Suddenly, I stopped. I felt like I couldn't sit up a moment longer; my mind and body felt thoroughly sick and drained. After having doggedly pushed through several days, I could feel myself plummeting.
"I don't feel right," I said weakly.
He quickly looked up and asked, "What's wrong?!"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm just---really tired. And having pain. And--I'm not sure why--but I feel down." Running a fever, feeling dazed and undone, I asked groggily, "Am I okay? Am I a good person? Do you think I'm doing everything alright? I'm not sure..."
"Misty," he whispered as he sat beside me, "Look, I know it wasn't a major operation, but you still had surgery a few days ago, and you've had no time to recover. I was worried about you leading music all weekend after surgery, but I knew it was important to you." He softly soothed, "Everything is going to look skewed when you're feeling sick, so don't listen to those lies. You know who you are. You just need to rest and give your body time to heal."
"But the doctors and nurses said I'd be better by the next day," I defended meekly, remembering how I'd had plans to go to the gym the morning following surgery.
"I know, but every body is different, and you haven't had any down-time to recuperate," he insisted.
Like a kid who had been fighting rest for too long and had finally given in, I nodded and whispered, "Okay," as I relaxed in the comfort that comes from being able to verbally hear the advice I was too tired to give myself.
The nights following that, I slept almost ten hours each night. On the days my workload was light, I took a nap in the middle of the day. Slowly, the pain diminished to a place where it was more tolerable, and my outlook regained its rational perspective.
Thirty-five years old, and I'm still learning to pay attention to what my body is telling me, even when the doctors or statistics say something different, even when my body doesn't respond in the way I think it should. How many times have I been guilty of pushing myself beyond what is reasonable?
Just another of many reminders:
I am a human being.
Not a machine.
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