It’s Saturday morning and two days since my surgery to “spiff up” my ovaries to someday have you. Darling, I feel like someone rammed a spatula into my stomach and starting smacking everything red.
What was supposed to be an hour and fifteen minutes took over two and a half. Much to my amusement, I learned that your father was devouring any reading material possible in the lobby and then switched to TV when NO ONE came out to tell him why I, his wonderful wife – the mother of his future children – was still in surgery. Poor guy. You know how he hates to be out of control.
Alas, Dr. Liu came out and told him these words, “It was complicated, but successful.” Apparently, there was enough scar tissue to wrap all of eastern Europe in its own casserole and needed to be removed from my insides. That extended as south as you can go in my uterus and ovaries into my northern stomach region. The stitches around my belly button are as sore as sore can be. It feels like they reorganized my entire reproductive and digestive system.
On a funny note, I am passing gas like it is my job. To see as much as possible through a small camera and light, the doctors blew up my body during surgery. Some was still in there after the procedure which is why my belly looked like I was 7 months pregnant when I left the hospital, and it leaks out every 20 minutes or so. I’ll take a teaspoon sip of water and belch like I just ate an entire plate of Italian food goodness. I’ll take one step and leave a wind of gas behind me. It makes me giggle, then I grip my belly because it’s painful to laugh.
Your father is trying his best to be everything to everyone these days and I watch him from the couch, or bed, doing laundry, cleaning up, washing dishes, trying to get me DVDs I’d like to watch, and sprinting to Pearl of the Orient for my scallop and shrimp lo mein. About two weeks ago, I came down with a common bacterial infection that put me in the worst mood. Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with strep. Then I had this surgery and am farting and burping like a mindless second grader. All in all, I wonder how your father still manages to sit at my bedside and whisper, “my beautiful bride,” into my ear while I am waking up or how he runs his hands into my hair and looks at me with a longing to feel better.
I wish that for you, my love. I wish for you a soul who will love you tirelessly and without knowledge of rest. The way your father loves me is a gift from I don’t know where. I just know that I want you to someday find it in a person who is endlessly fascinated by your thoughts and post-surgery farting habits. Someone who looks at pictures of your tender ovaries as if they were pictures of God’s face. Most of all, I hope your father and I set an example for you of what is possible in this world.
It IS possible to love someone so much that it feels like a miracle.