Saturday, March 7, 2015.
That’s what I would choose as my last really “normal” day.
We woke up and had breakfast. I shared my DIY column on making reusable kitchen towels. I darted out to my 9:30 Zumba class.
When I came home, our good friends from next-door had just arrived for a playdate. We hung out in the playroom for the rest of the morning, laughing and talking while the kids ran around.
After they left, we had a quick lunch. The kids went down for quiet time, and I sewed a new dress for C out of a men’s shirt. We had pork tenderloin for supper (Darling Husband made it, but I stuck it in the oven).
We ate dinner together as a family, played for a while, and put the kids to bed. Darling Husband went to work, and I can’t remember what I did — finished the dress, possibly, or started on a new project? I fell asleep, the time changed in the middle of the night, and with it changed my life.
The next few days were a blur of pre-op bloodwork and a pregnancy test and calls to confirm my arrival time. On Wednesday, March 11, I went in for a minor procedure and wound up with a hysterectomy.
It’s been a month, tomorrow, and I’m impatient to get my life back. This post is going to be bleak and whiny — just warning you now — because that’s just about all I can muster at the moment.
Over the last four weeks, I’ve had hospital visits to get iron infusions. I haven’t been able to drive the preschool carpool, pick up the kids, or run around the house with my usual command. We’ve had a string of guests helping us out (very grateful, but still — it’s not our “usual”).
Other wrenches thrown into the mix lately: