Everyone says walking will make a huge difference in my recovery, especially helping the air trapped in my belly from laproscopic surgery (a lovely tangent, my transplant social worker said that since I was so small they had to really pump me full so they could see what they were doing) to disperse.
And so, I've been walking. Until yesterday, as exhaustion slammed me against the wall. I hadn't been able to run after Iz on the street. I couldn't shout loud enough for her to hear me. Jack carried my things slowly home for me and I burst into tears in the elevator. After ordering pizza and cleaning up for a bit I collapsed into a sleep so deep I didn't know who or where I was when I woke up. And from there, depression lapped at my edges, pulling me hard towards the dark side.
And then, an epiphany:
Perhaps when people said walking, they didn't mean NYC walking.
On Sunday I went to Old Navy and back: 12 blocks
To the piercing place on 8th St. to have my nose screw put back in: 10 blocks
To the hair salon to complain about the sloppy job they did on Iz: 4 blocks
To Pinkberry where I almost burst into tears because the line was so long: 4 blocks
3 walks along with the dogs as they were being walked: 6 blocks
Total: 34 blocks
20 city block equals a mile. So I walked about 1 3/4, not counting the supermarket run, moving around the apartment, and the other strolls I might have taken but have since forgotten.
Oh. While that might be low level travel on a regular day, perhaps 6 days post surgery it was overkill.
This taking it easy part is not easy for me. I don't feel sick but there's so much I can't do. And, never having been in this place before, navigating is daunting.
Now as the waves of fatigue wash over me I'm not crushing them down and pretending they're not there.
I'm lying on my couch for at least 5 more minutes. Or at least I'll try to.
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