After Surgery Nut Bag

I kinda like that title.  The days and weeks since my breast reduction have passed by quickly and pretty much the same.  I was in a drugged up fog the entire first week, and to be honest most of the second week, and part of the third.  Heading into the fourth week though, I am feeling better.  In the two weeks my kids had to live at Grandma's they were my main concern.  Were they missing me, did they understand why they were there, where they happy, had they hogged tied my parents and started a bonfire.  Nature parental fears when separated from the little sunshines of their lives.  They got to come home last week, and I wont lie, taking care of them is rough.  They both weigh twice what they should for the fact that they both resemble underfed orphans.  I swear they are either 100% muscle or they have solid lead feet.  How can a 4 year old who if they were long enough would wear an 18 month pant, weigh 40 pounds?  Seriously the waist the best fits her is the 18-24 month range, but the length is like a 5 or 6.  I gave birth to a giraffe.  On the Sunday before they came home, I had a MAJOR panic attack.  It may have been an anxiety attack but since there isn't an M.D. after my name I don't think I need to give an exact diagnosis.  I was laying in bed listening to Dave play with my babies and I felt a lump under my incision.  If I understand correctly these lumps are normal and could be something as simple as dying tissue that will just get re-absorbed into my breasts.  However I decided that I had obviously torn something.  I should mention here that at my last post op I was told that I was over doing it in a big way and that my kids probably wouldn't be able to come home for another two weeks.  EEEP.  Not only did I not want them gone that long, but I was afraid my mom's head would explode.  Don't get me wrong, my mom absolutely LOVES my children.  She has an especially soft spot for my son who I call her trained monkey.  Its just hard to take care of kids this age, and a lot of work. 

The panic attack started easy enough, I was feeling that lump and started thinking, oh shit, they are going to have to go back in to fix it.  Fuck, if they go back in to fix it, that puts me at the start of the healing process again.  So I went out to my loving husband.  Don't get me wrong.  Dave loves me very much, and hates to see me hurting.  However Dave was born with a minor birth defect, he was missing the ability to lie or be anything other then painfully honest.  This is good in the sense that I never have to worry about him lying to me unfortunately its bad it situations where a white lie wouldn't be bad.  So when I told him I thought I was having a panic attack the response I was hoping for was that he would take me in his arms, tell me everything would be fine and that there was nothing to worry about.  What I got was "Is that even possible with the amount of Valium in your system"  At this point it full on hit.  I tried to fight it but instead ended up in my bed bawling like a baby.  I got it all cried out and then told him that I thought that I needed to get out of the house for a bit.  That did help and that night I apologized because along with the inability to lie, Dave startles like a deer in the headlights.  Where I was over my attack, Dave was probably afraid to fall asleep for fear I would stab him or something in his sleep.  Poor guy, he never saw what hit him when he married me.  LOL.  He doesn't quite understand depression anyways, however after having friends with girlfriends who refuse to get treatment for their postpartum and seeing what they have to go through, he appreciates my acceptance that I am bat shit crazy and need meds.

The attacks scare me because after having been on anti-depressants now for roughly 4 years, it takes a lot to cause an emotional downswing that will actually bring tears.  I can still be angry and happy however crying is generally reserved for major issues.  Before my sweet sweet pills I would cry over commercials,  things I lost, movies, songs, breakfast, lunch, dinner.  I think you get the picture.  However after them I cried rarely.  It was reserved mainly for when my babies were hurt and/or sick.  In fact the last time I cried before last Sunday was May 27th.  I can't pinpoint the exact time, but I can tell you that I was standing next to my son's crib at Flagstaff Medical Center, they were trying to draw blood from him and he was so dehydrated that they couldn't get any, on the third or fourth attempt, my sweet angel looked into my eyes and just so sadly cried Mommy.  I bawled.  You would have to be a rock to not cry at that.  Hell the nurses were crying and that is their job.  So when I get that feeling coming on it terrifies me.  I am seeing my Dr this week to discuss it.  I am really hoping it is temporary, possibly caused by withdrawals from my pain killers, which I only take at bedtime now instead of several times a day.  I really don't want to go on a higher dose of Zoloft and I would hate to add another pill to the cabinet.  Not to mention that living with that on a daily basis would be annoying.

So in a nutshell that has been my recovery, as the haze of drugs clear from my system I am sure I will remember more and I will tell you what I remember, but I still have un-recovered memories from high school drinking binges, so don't hold your breath.