Feeling my way

identity crisis

This recovery malarkey is weird.  Anyone who has had major surgery will tell you that.  One minute I feel fine with the ability to take on the world and energy to spare.  Next I am weeping with exhaustion as I shuffle my shawl clad old lady body back to bed for a nap.  There are, however, several things that I am finding peculiar to this experience.

The smell.  Oh.  My.  It is not like I wasn’t worried about this before.  I have already mentioned it on here.  And more than once to those around me.   My surgery has involved my armpit.  I cannot use scented products there or anywhere near any of my scars.  For how long I am not sure.  Pity those around me.  They say they cannot smell anything.  They say all is well.  But they would say that and I am not sure I believe them.  Especially as I am almost knocked out by the noxious fumes every time my left arm so much as twitches.

Which brings me on to my next point.  In order to create my new boobsicle (it is not large enough to be a fully fledged breast yet), muscle has been taken from my shoulder.  Imagine the scene:  my shoulder wakes up one day knowing it is a shoulder; mid morning it is rudely assaulted, severed with sharp implements and finds itself pushed into a mound on my chest; by evening it is expected to think of itself as a breast.  Not surprisingly it is having a crisis of identity.  I was told to expect this.  And it makes me giggle every time it happens.  When I have been using my arms for nothing major, typing or holding a cup or the like, my shoulder/boobsicle muscle (shoubsicle?) begins to twitch.  I have a twitching shoubsicle.  I have not yet witnessed this phenomenon but only my lack of speed in the disrobing department is stopping me.  I really think if it carries on a set of fairy lights and some tassels will be in order.

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