I'm just your average, everyday, divorced 38 year old girl -- overweight, tragically unhip,
and trying to make a life for myself. I live with two furry beasts, Dave and Abby, whose
feline mission in life is to choke me with their fur. Nothing special.
Friday night. I am at home overnight, just to see and take care of my kitties, grab some new clothes and my prepared meals, and then head back up to Orange County to spend more time with my folks. I wanted to log on briefly before I head down to bed just to let everyone know how the surgery went and how Daddy's doing.
The surgery took about eight hours and became more complicated than was initially expected. They made seven separate grafts and there were only three planned, but he didn't lose any blood and went on and off of the heart/lung machine without any issues. He got to his room about four o'clock in the afternoon on Tuesday and, when we saw him for the first time on Wednesday morning, he was clearly tired but looked a whole lot better than I'd expected. He had already been up and walking (less than 12 hours after surgery) and had eaten solid food for breakfast. Each day since then, he's gotten a little bit stronger and does a little more. He walks at least a lap around the fourth floor, three times a day, and also has to do breathing and coughing exercises. (Imagine, if you will, coughing with your ribcage cracked open. Yeah, it hurts a lot from what I can tell, but he's doing it anyway, because it helps clear the lungs out after surgery. Believe it or not, they're actually saying that they may send him home tomorrow, which is unfortunate because my mom is not ready for the responsibility and stress involved in taking care of him with all of the changes he's got to make to his life. I'm going to stay through at least Sunday night, just to help out, but I'm very afraid of how they're going to do when they're on their own. Daddy's got to change his diet (no salt, low cal, low fat), his activity level (either two or three short walks or one 20 minute walk each and every day), and his stress management practices (stress kills), and Mom's really afraid because it's very intimidating. Heck, it would intimidate me, too, and I know a lot about food, nutrition, and exercise!
Anyway, I'm going to bed now. Please, if you will, continue to pray or send good thoughts toward my parents' house - for Daddy's recovery and for Mom's mental health!
Monday night. Any semblance of order and self-control is gone at this point. I'm freaking out inside although I've been maintaining admirably well outwardly. I'm scared and I'm turning to (terrible) food as a comfort because, well, because I don't really have anything else that works as well. Sad, but true. Thirty-seven years of using food isn't the right thing, but it's keeping me sane and, at this point, that's about all I can hope for, I think. I know I need to stop, I know that I can, but not right now. Not until things are better with my dad. I just threw things into my suitcase and my prepared meals into bags, and threw the lot of it into the car. I haven't prepared in advance at all for being gone and I know that a lot of it is simply because I don't want to face this whole situation, but part of it is the disease of apathy, lethargy, and losing the will to want to improve. I have sparks of the old me (or is that the new me?) but I think she's tired of fighting this thing, at least for now. Right now, it's all about survival, kids, and it's not pretty.
