When I was discharged from the hospital, I was given an entire folder filled with information: side effects of my medications, which symptoms to call the doctor about, how to take care of my sutures–the list goes on. I was eager to head home and see my family, and as soon as I got home I threw the folder in a drawer. A week and a half later, I realize what’s not in that folder. For as much as they talked to me about physical recovery, they didn’t prepare me for emotional recovery.
I think it’s safe to say that what I’ve been through is traumatic and there’s a recovery process for that. I need to accept what happened to me and find a way to move forward without forgetting my experience. Although I’m confidently typing these words now, I didn’t really understand all of this until three days ago. I was at the orthodontist’s office–of all places–and I started crying. My orthodontist stopped what she was doing and let me take a break while I collected myself. Although what she was doing did hurt, that wasn’t what triggered my tears. While she clamped, scraped, and chipped away at the ceramic brackets, all I could think to myself was “haven’t I been through enough?” And that’s when it hit me.
Up until now I haven’t truly felt the gravity of the past three months. I lived with chronic pain for too long. I tried numerous medications to no avail. I had an endoscopy, colonoscopy, CT scan with barium, nuclear medicine white blood cell scan–you name it–without promising results. I was admitted to the hospital twice in one month. I spent three weeks in the hospital, away from my family. I had a foot of my intestine removed. And the night before surgery, I shared with my husband what I wanted for our girls if, God forbid, I didn’t wake up. Of course, there are far more traumatic experiences, but this is mine and I shouldn’t dismiss it.
When I first came home, it was hard for me to eat. I still had it in my head that food is the enemy; I eat and immediately after I’m in pain. After several days, I started forcing myself to eat to prevent nausea. When I mentioned this to my doctor at a follow-up appointment, she assured me that it’s all part of the recovery process. Where was this information in the folder? Where was the pamphlet on learning to think and act like a healthy person? Turns out, it doesn’t exist; it’s what they don’t tell you. She then dropped the bomb that medical science affirms that 40% of Crohn’s patients will need another resection 5-7 years after their first surgery. She also said that new treatments, like Remicade, can reduce these odds. It’s scary to think about a statistic like this hanging over my head, but again, learning to accept it is part of my emotional recovery.
After a week and a half of eating small meals, I’m beginning to trust food again. I’m going back to work next week, and I look forward to returning to a normal routine. The more I do what I used to do, the more I feel like myself again. Except this time it’s a better version of me, a healthy me. And as I continue my recovery, I’m learning to think like a healthy person. A healthy person doesn’t shame herself for her dramatic weight loss. A healthy person isn’t afraid to eat. A healthy person doesn’t stay holed up inside her house, in fear of getting sick in public. And a healthy person doesn’t focus on the fact that she was sick, but that she persevered and she’s stronger for it. I say this not just for my benefit, but for anyone else who is learning to change the way she thinks about her health, because again, this is what they don’t tell you.