The husband (I got married, did you hear?) and I came home from Puerto Rico yesterday. This morning we picked little man up from Kindergarten and had a nice little relaxed day. While I was unpacking, little man looked at me and said all excited,
"Are you gonna live here all the time now?"
"Yeah. All the time. Will that be awesome or not awesome?"
Yesterday morning little mister came in while I was doing my makeup and asked me: Liz, do you want to help me make a gingerbread house? He was so excited that how could I resist? Little mister is, how do you say, very particular about things, but he told me as I was frosting the little roof: Make sure you stay in the lines, but it's okay if you don't.
Photo cred: Le Fiancé.
For lunch he pulled out a lunchable and said, "Liz, do you love pizza?" "I do love pizza." "Do you want me to make you one?" You better believe he sat right down and made me a little pizza.
See, the thing about this particular 5-year-old is that he is so open to inviting me to participate in the fun things going on in his life. He doesn't care as much what we're doing. He only cares that we're doing it together. I never realized when I met this little guy how much he would teach me about generosity and thoughtfulness. The ways he would inspire me to be less selfish, more giving, more inclusive and more open to the love of my Heavenly Father. I have a lot to be grateful for indeed.
Someday I'll write a lengthy blog post about the amazing experience it is to choose to marry someone with a five year old and the way my ability to love has been expanded and enlivened. Since I'm too busy choosing suit patterns and flower colors and being generally busy and in love, it will have to wait until a later time. Suffice it to say, I am happily engaged to this charming young man.
Which I'm pleased to inform you means a lifetime of church selfies with this little guy.
I'm not sure what exactly reminded me of this song I loved circa 2004. But I was thinking about the line that talks about brandishing. We don't ever talk about brandishing anything but weapons, but I think the word should somehow be applied to those who flaunt their authority, those who brandish, if you will, their power and thus use it as a weapon. See, that could totally work. And no, this post is not directed to a certain specific authority figure I spent 40 minutes talking to Kate about yesterday. No way, Jose.
I called the pharmacy the other day and called in a prescription for Flexeril. And said the period outloud.
I've also started saying "scratch that" as though it's a normal thing. "Let's meet at Village Inn, scratch that, the gas station."
The unexpected upside of the whole dictation situation is that I can use Dictation software to bust out an eight page paper really really fast. And yes, I just used the words "bust out" and "paper" in the same sentence. Boom.
I think you should know that one day four years from now you're going to take a job you absolutely love. You'll have to work at 6 AM, sometimes for days on end, and as a result you're going to basically stop wearing make up. You're going to love how confident you feel without it. You're going to rock air dried hair almost everyday, and you're going to love it. You're going to love it so much that on date nights and church days you'll wonder why you ever spent so much time on daily makeup. So maybe, just maybe, consider that you can relax a little about the whole "beauty" situation because, let's face it, you're a babe. Even when you don't try to be.
Sometimes I try to follow my favorite baseball teams but I can't because of all the comments. What is this, the new YouTube?! Good thing I still have Twitter, the little comment-free corner of the universe where I can always be in love with Clayton Kershaw.
Dear Liz in 2005,
Thanks so much for keeping that patho book. Little do you know that you'll still be needing it for a presentation in 2014. But on second thought, I probably shouldn't tell you that you'll still be in school in 2014 because, seriously?!
Today (post op day 29) I sent this picture to Mr. S with the caption: I can't wait til I can wear these again.
Not the purple capris but the patent red heels. I'm wearing the purple capris as I type.
See, the things about hip surgery is that wearing heels has become literally impossible for me, which is really a shame because I'm five ten, and I really need to wear heels to feel like I'm TALL enough. It's possible that most of everything I just said is a total lie, but what isn't a lie is the following. At PT yesterday I found out that my hip flexor is more inflamed than the average attractive 20-something year old female who's had this surgery, which means they put me on a steroid to kick the inflammation and stopped all my PT other than 2 days a week of pool PT, which I am so glad I get to keep because pool therapy turns out to be my current favorite activity. Walking back and forth and side to side while watching people do the butterfly is probably better than anything else ever. I know you think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I write my pool workouts in my workout log, which makes me feel ripped and awesome. They're also letting me do some stretching and bridge poses, and other than that, it's laying in bed on ice checking dozens of books (both audio and otherwise) off of my good reads list.
Needless to say if you feel like praying for my hip flexor, my gams and I and my heels probably wouldn't even mind. I might even give you some good book recommendations in exchange.
I got cleared to start biking up to 30 minutes at a time, they just said I have to ramp it up in 5 minute intervals. So today is 15 minutes. Can we just talk about how good biking is for the soul?
Yes I'm riding a Schwinn AirDyne. I've also had these shorts since a St. George trip with Ashley Adams in approximately 2004 or 2005. Also barefoot. Please don't judge. I am legitimately happy in this moment.
I took my steri strips off today. I know you're supposed to let them fall off or whatever, but it's been two weeks and I just had to see the damage. And you know what I found? Three quarter-inch, straight, well-approximated healing surgical scars. A year from now, you won't even know they're there.(!) And I thought: you know, arthroscopic is a pretty good way to go. And also, props to the surgeon or PA who closed this. You win at life.
David Freese and Josh Hamilton?! Luckily for me, I'm leashed to my ice machine, which I have to be honest, I love more than Josh Hamilton currently.
Well apparently that draft of a post never actually posted (I wrote it a couple days ago and believe me I tried) but the update is that Mr S has received a series of texts today talking about my obsession with Mr Hamilton and a series of screenshots of Instagrams (what is the world coming to?!)
Needless to say, we won't be attending, because, I can't believe I'm saying this, I couldn't get a wheelchair in time. Remember how I was climbing and biking two weeks ago? I am never taking the use of my legs for granted again. But seriously I'm sure a post will be upcoming regarding my gratitude for my health and my #RockingBody's amazing ability to heal and something about how blessed I've felt by The Lord through all of this. And since this is a post about Josh Hamilton, one of the best stories of redemption I know, I guess it's fitting to wax somewhat religious. Over and out.
It's officially postop day seven, and I'm sitting here, scratch that, lying here in bed with my hip on ice. I'm off the narcotics now, so I figured now is as good a time as any to write a blog post about this whole experience.
The good news is that my hip pain has mostly resolved following surgery, which makes me feel encouraged about my decision to go through with the surgery. If you didn't hear, I hurt my left hip Climbing only to find out that I had a congenital malformation that was only fixable with surgery. In spite of the fact that I work with surgeons, I have a bit of a severe aversion to surgery, but it seemed like the best option at the time so here I am.
I'm just a little bit sore. Which is not me using literary understatement, I'm actually quite surprised by how little pain I've had. After surgery they kept me in the hospital overnight on a Toradol drip, and I'm mildly convinced that Toradol is the best invention of all time. Staci took me to surgery, and literally five minutes after I got back to my room, I was up, had changed back into my regular clothes, I had peed (Am I allowed to say that on my blog? Urinated?) and I felt like going on a walk. I thought, well, this is no big deal. Mr Sean, who bless his heart, received nothing but completely amorous musings and my very reasonable demand that he sit by my bed and hold my hand every waking second was kind enough to keep a supply of Taco Bell coming all week long because what can I say? I'm a classy girl.
Then there was the middle of the night when I woke up in excruciating pain. It happened every night for 3 nights straight. It may have changed my views on epiduralless childbirths. Needless to say, there was a lot of crying involved.
Speaking of crying, I seriously cannot remember the last time I went more than 24 hours without bursting into tears. I hardly know what to say to people anymore. I cry if it hurts, I cry when I'm lightheaded, I cry when I look at my face in the mirror and see how pale and pasty I've become. Yesterday I woke up thinking about how great it would be to go for a swim until I remembered that that's not currently possible, and I made it through that little incident without crying, which I take as a major victory honestly.
I told one my professors I had had surgery, and he "graciously" agreed to allow me a two day extension on my homework. I literally burst into tears when Jenn walked into my house at 9 PM the day before my homework was due and made me get my laptop out and define 10 key terms related to gerontology. I don't care to mention how long it took my neurons to put together this one page assignment, I will only say that without Jenn, it wouldn't have been possible.
So now I'm headed to physical therapy where they'll hopefully take me off bedrest and maybe give me some sort of magic pill to dissolve my lightheadedness and allow me to do more than 10 minutes of biking twice a day. Although, I'm pretty sure that if they do that, I will burst into unrelenting tears, not that that's anything we haven't been exposed to daily this week.
Just a little post op day 6 picture of my mostly bedrest legs. I won't talk about how long it took me to shave my legs today and subsequently how long it took to recover the energy I lost from doing so. I stand by my statement that it was #worthit
For those who are wondering, I had surgery on my left hip. I can't say that I recommend it. I can say that I'm very grateful for everyone who has helped me through the process
I spent the afternoon packing and listening to what I dare say is the most brilliant book I've read (listened to?) in at least ages, although perhaps ever. It is literary perfection. I highly recommend the read.
Week before last I went to a conference in Dallas. The weather was perfect.
I spent an evening at the Dallas temple, which is currently rocking a spot in my top three.
I loved it so much that I went back for a little afternoon serenity.
And naturally I hit up a Rangers game. Darvish pitched. The evening was perfect. I wore a t-shirt. There was a perfect breeze. The stadium next to the water was too gorgeous to handle, and they had a rentable field for kiddos to use during the game. The sky, the wind, the ambiance. I even talked my way into free parking.
And in between it all, a conference about dying and a lot of appreciation for my life, my breath.
Do you ever go through months at a time where you don't really feel like writing in your journal and then suddenly you can't stop writing, sometimes at the rate of multiple entries per day? The other night I was having some insomnia and I remembered that line from Billy Collins
And when my heart is beating
too rapidly in the dark,
I will go downstairs in a robe,
open it up to a blank page,
and try to settle on the blue lines
whatever it is that seems to be the matter.
It probably doesn't help that I recently started reading the collected poems of Dylan Thomas. I can't help but feel a little sad that I read "Do Not Go Gentle" and thought the whole thing would be just as life-changing when it turns out that I basically can't understand anything else in the entire book. Needless to say, I'm reading it with a yellow crayon and highlighting the few phrases that impact me. What is it about reading with a writing utinsil in hand that makes me feel like a poet?
I'm heading on a trip soon and I just really need a fantastic book to read during my (get this) 2 layovers. Sometimes when you don't plan ahead and you don't want to pay $1200 in airfare, you just have to suck it up and get some really good airport literature.