tired old ass soak

Today Laura and I went in for the post-op appointment with the surgeon, who I guess likes to check out her work after it's all crusty and dried. It must be kind of odd to see the wounds she so expertly made and last saw bright red and angry, now two weeks old. Time has passed, glue has peeled off or curled up, bruises have yellowed, lint is back in the navel. Life and the healing process have just been puttering along doing their thing.

When you are BRCA positive, the lab picks apart your excised organs and pipes with great attention, looking for errant cancer cells that might be hiding behind a pole or a plant. I am delighted to report that there are no such cells. The report was entirely clean. Which is great. It's great. No question. But it's also sort of...gee. Sorry about that, bits. Sorry about removing you while you were enjoying being healthy.

I got the green light from the surgeon today to take my first post-op bath, and had planned to make a shallow dive into the tub tonight. When we got home, there was a care package from Loyal Blog Follower and Giver Extraordinaire, Marilyn Morrissey. In it was a jar of bath salts labeled "Tired Old Ass Soak." Tired old ass indeed. And it does need a soak. I am loving the synchronicity of it all.

Cannonball!