Hello again, friends. After a brief unintentional blogging hiatus (read: recovery haze, surgical drains, snack-fueled mood swings, and a short stint as a human pin cushion), I’m back—with sass, some leftover surgical tape stuck to places I can’t see, and enough opinions to fill a medical journal. Eight weeks post-DIEP flap reconstruction surgery, and while I’m still a little bruised, a lot tired, and somehow constantly hungry, I’m here to declare that I’m officially on the mend. Sort of. Mostly. Depends on the day, honestly. But hey, progress is progress – even if it’s wrapped in gauze and sprinkled with profanity. Cue the confetti and the gentle applause because this is no quick bounce back.

And yes, even now, at eight weeks, I’ve got a couple open incisions that refuse to read the room and realize we’re done here. Seriously, why are we still doing this? These overachieving wounds clearly didn’t get the memo that healing was supposed to be a limited-time offer. They’re healing (slowly, begrudgingly), but it’s like my body decided to stage its own version of “Survivor: Abdomen Edition.” Spoiler alert: my belly button did not win immunity, and the tribe has definitely not spoken.

But here I am, eight-ish weeks into recovery, and I miss running like it’s an old friend. I miss the weird clarity that comes around mile two or three. I miss sweating for reasons other than surgical hot flashes. And I miss the way my brain would shut up for just a little while, replaced by whatever random playlist I could cobble together to keep me moving. In fact, I just miss MOVING in general.  

Instead, I am horizontal. A lot. I shuffle around the house like I’m 90, pillows strategically placed under every limb like some sort of orthopedic game of Tetris. My abs? Still MIA. My sleep? A full-blown disaster. Every position hurts or pulls or pinches. I’m either wide awake at 3am or snoring like a drunken bear by 7pm. There is no in-between here at this point.

And oh, the hunger. No one warned me that recovery would come with a raging appetite that rivals my teenage daughter’s. Not even my double mastectomy prepared me for this level of HANGRY.  I feel like I’m in a constant state of pre-lunch, post-snack limbo. I eat a full meal and an hour later I’m staring at the fridge like it owes me money. What is this? Is my body rebuilding or just bored? Am I healing or hoarding calories like I’m prepping for a spring-time hibernation that I never asked for, nor wanted?

In recovery-land, let’s take a moment for the unsung assholes of post-op recovery though: surgical drains. These evil little plastic grenades hanging out of your body like horror movie props, daring you to accidentally tug them at every turn. Showering becomes a mission and getting dressed is a new nightmare. Want to sleep on your side? Cute. That’s hilarious. And don’t even get me started on the post-op drain removal process, which is somehow both a relief and a trauma flashback I’ll relive for years. If I never see another bulb full of mystery fluid again, it will be too soon. How my husband can still look at me with a straight face is beyond me. 

And while we’re handing out awards for Most Annoying Medical Accessories, let’s give an honorable mention to the compression binder. It’s that flesh-colored corset of doom that’s supposed to “support healing” but mostly supports my ongoing rage, pinched back nerves, and constant irritation. Who are these things made for? I’m 5’2″ in heels on a good day MAYBE, and wearing this binder feels like I’m being swallowed whole by a recently sentient ace bandage. It rolls, it bunches, it cuts into places I didn’t even know had nerve endings. And no matter how tight I velcro it, it somehow manages to ride up like it’s trying to give me a hug from the inside. Spoiler alert: I don’t want it.

Before we get to the emotional rollercoaster though, can we just take a moment to sing the praises of the real MVPs though? The nurses at Mercy Hospital. Those absolute rockstars of the Palace on Ballas (iykyk) who checked on me every single hour for the first 24 post-op hours like clockwork, even though I was loopy, grumpy, and covered in wires. They monitored and they managed, and they somehow managed to smile through it all. I was basically a human science project wrapped in gauze and tape, and they showed up every single time like it was the highlight of their day. I will never forget the kindness, the professionalism, or the sheer patience it must take to cheerfully say, ‘Just checking on you again!’ at 3:00 a.m. when your patient looks like a raccoon who lost a fight with a whiteboard marker.

So here’s where I am: healing, but restless. Grateful, but annoyed. Slightly unhinged, but charmingly so. Hungry, always. But also finally starting to feel like I might be crawling (okay, maybe hobbling) back to myself. I’m not sprinting toward the finish line just yet, but the fog is lifting, the surgical tape is peeling, and I no longer feel like a half-mummified potato every time I try to get out of bed. And counting down the days until I can lace up my running shoes again, even if my first run back is more of a waddle.

Because I miss her. That version of me who could run, even slowly. The one who could sleep without propping herself up like a malfunctioning Transformer. The one who didn’t have food cravings like a stoned frat boy.

She’s coming back. Eventually. And until then, I’ll be here – eating another snack, cursing at my binder, side-eyeing my still-healing belly button, and trying to find a sleep position that doesn’t require a blueprint or a support team. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.