Defining Progress

I was glad to be home. I spent the first two days just sitting on the couch, reading, and eating when meals were brought. I didn't even turn the TV on. I took my pain pills  on schedule, and I kept my splint pillow on my tummy almost all the time, including when sitting and reading. It was much better than being in the hospital, because I wasn't constantly being disturbed by nurses or noises from the hall, but otherwise it wasn't much different. More comfortable, calmer, quieter, more consistent, but still the same. Lie still and convalesce. How could I know if I was actually getting better?

I called my mom when I got home. She had tried to call me in the hospital, but I didn't talk on the phone at all in the hospital, not even to Liz. I had texted a few times, but that was all. Liz had called Mom once or twice to report on my progress. But Mom had tried to call me, and I hadn't answered. Mom rarely calls. I think she has social phobia worse than I do, which really is saying something. So I called her, first thing, after I got home. I told her I was doing well, and everything was under control. Because I was doing well, and everything was under control. But at that point, there was still enough pain to keep me mostly focused no enduring. It hurt too much to let boredom set it.

By Monday, things were changing a little. I finished The Handmaid's Tale, and had to start another book. I picked up one Liz suggested. She had put it on the coffee table in front of me. So there I was, thinking about something besides enduring the pain or taking care of bodily functions. Not a truly momentous occasion, but still, a sign of progress. Someday, it seemed, I would be thinking about normal things again. It was nice to know.