I find myself lifting up my shirt more frequently when I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror to look at my unscarred belly's reflection. When I get dressed and undressed, I glance down and stare at my bare stomach. How can it appear deceivingly healthy on the outside when it is a disastrous mess on the inside? Suddenly, I have this weird fascination with constantly stealing glimpses of my gut.
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| I took this when I woke up from my nap yesterday. |
It likely won't look like this for much longer.
When I'm in bed, I place my hands on my abdomen to feel my belly. It's smooth and it doesn't hurt to touch. I don't feel foreign material, scar tissue, or tenderness. Sometime last week, I started looking at my belly whenever I wake up... envisioning and preparing for the worst case scenario when I first wake up from surgery. My eyes flutter open and then close. As I take a breath I slide the blanket off and lift my shirt to reveal my stomach. I tilt my head down and as I let the breath out I open my eyes. I cry every time I open my eyes. I imagine a lengthy incision held together with ugly staples. I picture a shit bag attached to a new asshole. I hear the sobs of my mom and Taylor only to realize the sound is coming from me, not them.
Despite the fun and distractions I have thanks to my friends, it's getting more difficult to stop thinking about the surgery, the outcome, and the recovery that awaits me. I look at the photo above and I think
that's not me, that's not the me I'm going to be in a couple of weeks at least. And so it goes, another day passes, another tear falls.
