The Slow Lane

I am one of those New York commuters who gets irritated when people stand on the left side of the escalator, blocking my way as I climb the steps. If it’s rush hour, I will even say something. (But nothing ruder than “excuse me” – I am from Iowa, after all!) I cross before it says “Walk,” leap over puddles, nip into the street if the sidewalk is full and run for buses in high heels. I move quickly.

But not right now.

Since returning home on Friday afternoon, I have to concentrate on each movement. I am not supposed to use my arms to lift anything over five pounds for the next few weeks. I use my core muscles to lift myself from lying down to sitting, then swing my legs to the floor to get out of bed. Michael, Mom, Dad and Matt are pressed into service to bring my laptop to me, set it in my lap, and then take it away again when I finish. Gentle movement is good for my recovery, so I do little laps up and down the hallway in my apartment, from the bathroom, past the bedrooms, through the living room and into the kitchen. Turn. Repeat.

It is painful, but my progress is encouraging and my tolerance for discomfort fairly high. My range of motion is increasing every day – I knew I was better this morning when I could apply my own eyeliner. I can open my sock drawer (and even put my own socks on!), but the lower, heavier pajama drawer still requires assistance.

The “straight to implants” reconstruction technique means that my profile is also heartening. Rather than the partially-inflated balloon that expanders resemble until they are filled over a period of weeks or months, my new breasts are already at their final volume. Still a bit swollen, they will continue to take shape over the next few months, helped by time, supportive bras, and a distinctly uncomfortable piece of three-inch-wide elastic I have strapped under my arms and across my sternum, pushing things into place.

The four drains that carry extra fluids away from the surgery site are still in place and will remain until at least mid-week, when my doctor will remove them. These are what have so far prevented me from leaving the apartment – the combination of the strap across my chest and the drains hooked to a belt around my waist make me look lumpen when hidden under one of Michael’s old shirts, and like a terrorist in my own clothes.

Michael reassured me that the drains could be mistaken for the waist-pack water bottles worn by runners in Central Park. I don’t think anyone would be convinced. But even a few days of inactivity has left me longing to join them in laps around the Reservoir – an impatient patient, I am anxious to be on the move again.