A couple of hours ago, as I was picking Jack up at camp, I walked, fast, to avoid the rain.
Then I realized: I was walking fast. Fast. My normal NYC, going places, quick paced fast.
And I felt fine.
This past weekend I was at a wedding in Maine. Nervous beforehand that I wasn't up to the trip, I survived the endless car trip, driving hours myself. I explored new towns. Went to the beach, twice, in a bikini no less. Swam in the frigid ocean. Played football catch with Jack. Shopped with Iz in 101 degree heat. And danced for hours. And hours. All without the usual midday nap my body's been craving post-surgery.
Not to say I didn't crash. I did. There were times I was so tired I couldn't talk, could barely hold my head up. While driving I felt fatigue creeping up and had to pull over within minutes as I knew I shouldn't be behind the wheel anymore. And I've noticed that my energy for chit chat isn't back to where it usually is. It's exhausting to be up and talkative—at the wedding I spent much time sitting alone, hidden from the party. And that was ok too.
Seven weeks out I almost feel like the surgery didn't happen. Aside from the scars, which are healing very nicely, I feel fine.
My brother does too.
Life is good.