Bruises nearly gone everywhere. Pain level merely an occasional annoyance. Routine activities like wrangling cats for claw clipping almost normal. More energy. Able to slither into favorite pair of skinny jeans this morning although swelling is still there throughout the midsection.
Spitting a stitch is the expression for those naughty sutures that poke through the skin instead of dissolving inside like they are supposed to do. This was highly irritating (literally and figuratively) with my last surgery. Now I’m a freaking expert at rooting these out and snipping the little buggers. Scars are a mixed bag with improvements in some areas and one section that only Dr. Frankenstein could love. Left boob appears to be settling back into the armpit area. Boo hiss. Both breasts definitely smaller, which is okay with me, but I had hoped they’d be perkier. I keep in mind that that the left boob will always play the radiation wild card and will do whatever it wants no matter what the surgeon does.
In one of my favorite wine movies, Sideways, Jack squawks at his depressed friend Miles that he does not want to hear anymore of his “naghead downer bullshit.” Now that the worst of this is over I tell myself to quit feeling sorry for myself and to cease procrastinating. I have not written anything other than this blog for many months. I trotted out my new novel, another murder mystery, and read through all of it this morning. Instead of the tattered mess I believed was there, parts of it were really quite good. I am my own worst critic and need to quell that naghead downer bullshit refrain that often runs through my head. Time for me to get back to work.