Off the Clock

The last time I had nothing on my schedule for more than a few days was seven years ago, just before 9/11. I rented a sunny cottage efficiency in Truro, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. For one week, my biggest decisions were whether to hit the ocean or the bay, where to eat lobster roll, and which sunset whale watch to take out of Provincetown. I had my beach pass, my umbrella, my sunscreen, and my pile of books. For one week, I lived in heaven—no plans, no lists, no responsibilities.

I’ve had one of those weeks for the last ten days. But recovering from surgery was hardly the vacation I’d hoped for. Rather than being driven by outward, hedonistic urges, I've been driven by pain avoidance, pain management, pain relief, and sleep desperation. I’d heard the horror stories and I'd planned for it. But you can never plan carefully enough. In my delusional optimism, I’d actually hoped to accomplish some things, like purging the 8,497 emails from one of my inboxes. Or stuffing a bag with clothes for Goodwill. That was for starters.

Then I figured I’d graduate to reading—just light fare such as Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith, and Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. And maybe, as I progressed, I’d hit my Guide to Literary Agents—I seriously have to get back to my book proposal.

But none of that was meant to be. I was reduced to the most basic, primitive needs. Liquids—cold or lukewarm? Nutrients—how soft can they be? Salty or sweet? Some semblance of rest—sitting up or leaning? The world revolved around me and my miserable biorhythms. Nothing else mattered. Except CNN.

By Monday, I finally lowered my expectations. I stuck a Post-it on my computer: “I give myself permission to be a zombie!”

No matter what, though, I was determined to make it to my Wednesday-night writing class, essay assignment in hand, having reviewed everyone else’s entries too. I read some submissions at 3 a.m., some at noon. It didn’t matter when. I was off the clock.

I hesitantly ventured into some non-chewy food options such as buttercup squash, Le Sueur baby peas (one by one), and coconut milk-vanilla soy yogurt, thanks to Susan's creative shopping excursions. Plus I found out Ardis the librarian, who’d had her tonsils out, was right: Jell-O is the ultimate godsend. Thank you, Kraft Foods. I won’t forget you when my ship comes in.

On Tuesday, I hit bottom. Agony. Swelling. Cumulative pain and insomnia. Nothing worked. Couldn’t reach the doctor. As I furiously stirred the strawberry Jell-O at dawn, scraping the metal spoon along the ceramic bowl, I thought I heard it crying “Help me! Help me!” Please someone, cart me away.

By Wednesday, after a medication change and a soothing round of ice chips, I actually left the house as a test run before my evening class—the world was different! Leaves were changing. Some trees were already bare. Gas was $2.79 a gallon, down from $3.39 when I went under the knife on October 7. I got to my class—and even read my essay aloud, very quietly, and lasted, intact, for three hours. Writing workshops are the best therapy. Then I came home and stared at the debate, half-listening, and collapsed. I slept for a total of five hours straight. My vacation had begun!

I stuck a Post-it on my microwave: “Smile! You are healing!” Uh huh.

In the next days, I read the Globe, the New York Times online, drank in the election coverage, cheered the Red Sox, very quietly, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! and rallied the brain cells to finish the Sunday crosswords. I stopped counting the hours between pills. I stopped clutching the banister when I went downstairs for my mail. Little signs.

On Thursday morning, I had a craving for fish. Now. Any nice hunk of meaty yummy juicy fish. Schrod. Salmon. Halibut. I didn’t care. I conjured fish purée, fish soup, mashed fish, bottled fish. But I couldn’t figure out how to get fish in non-chewable form. I was still thinking about it that afternoon when the words “gefilte fish” popped off the page of one of my classmates’ essays. Something about a Passover seder. In a daze, I got my body into some sweats and off to Shaw’s to comb the kosher aisle. It took all of my waning willpower not to open the jar of Kedem’s Original Heimeshe Gourmet Gefilte Fish in the car on the way home. It was worth the wait.

So vacation’s almost over. My throat feels like it’s been raked by coarse-grain sandpaper but at least the obstructions are gone. My sleep cycle is shredded. After my post-op doc's visit on Monday, it’s back to work, which means finding my appointment book somewhere in the piles. Eventually, I’ll collect my receipts and return some of my stash of uneaten baby food and weirdo health drinks. Then maybe I’ll save my pennies for a real vacation, someday soon, when I can recover from my recovery.