My father is a farmer. My mother is a teacher. Both are now retired, but when they were working, they didn’t do things like call out sick, or take a day off for their own mental health. Both of these concepts were completely alien in our family. If there was one thing the Longo household did not lack, it was work ethic. Sounds like it’s a good thing, right?
It might have set me up with some unrealistic expectations.
The night my appendix was gearing up to murder me, I was on a gurney, waiting to be admitted into the hospital for emergency surgery, emailing my boss. I told him the situation, and finished with I’m so sorry, but it looks like I’ll be out of work Wednesday and Thursday. I’m hoping to return Friday.
I. Had. No. Idea.
Luckily, my boss did. Apparently, while I was going under the knife, he was laughing his tuckus off and saying, “This fruit loop thinks she’ll be back to work in two days! Were we aware of how completely delusional she is when we hired her?”
He was right.
See, the thing is, when you undergo surgery, your body does not bounce back in twenty-four hours (nobody told me). Between bouts of nausea, I was still texting my editing partner to assure him I wouldn’t miss any deadlines, texting my friend with MS to say I expected to still be at the walk that Sunday, and telling Jason I might be able to do the author event scheduled for the afternoon after the MS Walk, if he was driving. Sure, I periodically stopped texting to take a few minutes to weep from the agony and summon the hospital staff for more pain medications, but this would all pass, right? In an hour or so?
It did not.
When I was released from the hospital, I wound up spending a couple of days at my mother’s, because someone had to babysit me (Jason, of course, wanted to get back to work, which nobody in my family—including me—was going to fault him for). I couldn’t eat, I was walking like an arthritic possum, and the nausea . . . I was clutching the arms of my parents’ sofa like I was riding the small ferry to Block Island on a particularly stormy day (you islanders know what I mean). I couldn’t read (made me seasick). I couldn’t even walk briskly (turned me green). I finally had to admit I might not make it to the MS Walk or that author event.
But I could return to work Monday, right?
“Ha ha ha! And ha!” I can imagine my boss saying. “Seriously, do we ask if people are completely delusional in our job interviews? Maybe we should.”
I did eventually return to work a week and a day after my surgery. And honestly, it was still too soon. The seasickness eventually passed a couple days after that, and I was able to read a sentence and have it make sense again maybe two days ago. And I’m still incredibly frustrated that I can’t do things like make it longer than eight or ten hours without needing a nap. (Another thing about my family: the women in our clan do not nap. The fact that I desperately wanted one filled me with shame at how badly I was failing at recovery.) (I didn’t say this made sense, mind you. All I’m saying is we do not nap.)
This past Thursday, I’d had it. Enough with this healing and recovering crap. I wanted to wear a pair of pants, darn it! I pulled on a pair of loose, low-riding khakis, popped some ibuprofen, and went off to work.
It turns out that even if you tell yourself your still-healing incisions and aching belly can take pants, some of us just aren’t ready for it. You can wail and shake your fist at the sky and shout, “I’m tired of shaving my legs! Let me wear trousers!” and it won’t make a bit of difference (though my boss did catch this little scene and slipped me a brochure for the employee mental health assistance plan).
So, all in all, I’m feeling better. I’m working again, which makes me happy. But not as happy as I’d be in pants.
It might have set me up with some unrealistic expectations.
The night my appendix was gearing up to murder me, I was on a gurney, waiting to be admitted into the hospital for emergency surgery, emailing my boss. I told him the situation, and finished with I’m so sorry, but it looks like I’ll be out of work Wednesday and Thursday. I’m hoping to return Friday.
I. Had. No. Idea.
Luckily, my boss did. Apparently, while I was going under the knife, he was laughing his tuckus off and saying, “This fruit loop thinks she’ll be back to work in two days! Were we aware of how completely delusional she is when we hired her?”
He was right.
See, the thing is, when you undergo surgery, your body does not bounce back in twenty-four hours (nobody told me). Between bouts of nausea, I was still texting my editing partner to assure him I wouldn’t miss any deadlines, texting my friend with MS to say I expected to still be at the walk that Sunday, and telling Jason I might be able to do the author event scheduled for the afternoon after the MS Walk, if he was driving. Sure, I periodically stopped texting to take a few minutes to weep from the agony and summon the hospital staff for more pain medications, but this would all pass, right? In an hour or so?
It did not.
When I was released from the hospital, I wound up spending a couple of days at my mother’s, because someone had to babysit me (Jason, of course, wanted to get back to work, which nobody in my family—including me—was going to fault him for). I couldn’t eat, I was walking like an arthritic possum, and the nausea . . . I was clutching the arms of my parents’ sofa like I was riding the small ferry to Block Island on a particularly stormy day (you islanders know what I mean). I couldn’t read (made me seasick). I couldn’t even walk briskly (turned me green). I finally had to admit I might not make it to the MS Walk or that author event.
But I could return to work Monday, right?
“Ha ha ha! And ha!” I can imagine my boss saying. “Seriously, do we ask if people are completely delusional in our job interviews? Maybe we should.”
I did eventually return to work a week and a day after my surgery. And honestly, it was still too soon. The seasickness eventually passed a couple days after that, and I was able to read a sentence and have it make sense again maybe two days ago. And I’m still incredibly frustrated that I can’t do things like make it longer than eight or ten hours without needing a nap. (Another thing about my family: the women in our clan do not nap. The fact that I desperately wanted one filled me with shame at how badly I was failing at recovery.) (I didn’t say this made sense, mind you. All I’m saying is we do not nap.)
This past Thursday, I’d had it. Enough with this healing and recovering crap. I wanted to wear a pair of pants, darn it! I pulled on a pair of loose, low-riding khakis, popped some ibuprofen, and went off to work.
It turns out that even if you tell yourself your still-healing incisions and aching belly can take pants, some of us just aren’t ready for it. You can wail and shake your fist at the sky and shout, “I’m tired of shaving my legs! Let me wear trousers!” and it won’t make a bit of difference (though my boss did catch this little scene and slipped me a brochure for the employee mental health assistance plan).
So, all in all, I’m feeling better. I’m working again, which makes me happy. But not as happy as I’d be in pants.
TWICE this week I had to shave 'em. It's too much to ask, I tell you!
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